_There Are Things I Want You to Know_ About Stieg Larsson and Me - Eva Gabrielsson [53]
Friday, October 21
A DISCOURAGING and exhausting meeting with Per-Erik Nilsson. Not only are we at a standstill, but he’s suggesting that I “think over this business about the fourth manuscript.” I blew up. “They’ll never get it! It’s probably in the computer that belongs to Expo, and the contents of that laptop are protected by the Constitution: all of Stieg’s contacts, all of his informants, all of his sources for his work as a journalist must be in there! Those vital documents cannot fall into the hands of these people, because it’s none of their business!”
Then Per-Erik had to leave to go take care of his grandchildren. I was worn out. I felt more alone than ever.
Wednesday, October 26
I CAN’T think anymore, can’t organize thoughts, can’t work. I went to see the head of personnel, who sized up the situation. “Go home,” she said, “you’ll be better off there.” In the train coming back to Stockholm, I watched the autumn countryside fly past. The landscape looked heavy, almost glutted. The earth was full of colors—brown, green, ocher, black—and at the same time, tired. Like me. I was so tired, but also consumed with the desire to keep fighting. For Stieg. The way he would do. The way he would ask me to do.
When I got home, I unplugged all the phones and decided not to read any of my emails for a few days. For the first time in a year, I was going to rest, read poetry, think things over, stroll around, go look at Lake Malaren. My nid for Stieg flows in its waters. That makes me happy. Then, in the silence of our home, Stieg came back, because suddenly there was room for him. While I listened to “You Are Always on My Mind,” I wept. I began to talk to Stieg. I felt terrible and useless for not having managed to protect his life’s work. It was as if I had betrayed him.
Monday, October 31
WOKE UP at around ten this morning and went down to the Furusundsleden, the northernmost marine channel into Stockholm, to look at the water stream by. I looked for a stone to place on Stieg’s grave. What should it be like? I would certainly know it when I saw it. I did not see it in the water. I walked along, my steps taking me toward a big red rock, smooth in some places, rough and cracked in others, and streaked with black. It made me think of Stieg. Soft and tough at the same time. Solid, unshakable in its convictions. Wearing its heart on its sleeve, visible only to those who know it well. There was no way for me to break off a little piece. That’s only natural, I thought: this rock, like Stieg, is too all-of-a-piece to be broken. I’m not going to worry anymore about that stone I wanted. It’s there. Like him.
Later that day I went out again to walk in the forest, and as I entered the woods, the cold settled down on my shoulders. I gathered lingonberries, acid and refreshing. Some blueberries, too, but they were tasteless, frozen, and no good at all. The October sun beamed down through any yellow leaves still clinging to the trees. A lovely autumn for a sad woman. I climbed a rounded hill, walking on its mossy carpet, a soft path, but one that led nowhere.
I’ll go toward the light, at least, I decided.
At the top there was nothing to see. Still, I stopped a moment in the sun and thought, I’m a little human being on a big hill, an insignificant thing in this world.
I’d failed in the one thing of any importance after Stieg died: defending him. To me, this failure was a betrayal. I didn’t have the courage to go on; tears were running down my cheeks, dripping from my chin, even starting to soak through my wool coat. I kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me….”
Suddenly I heard a sound so strange I had no idea what it was. Looking up, I saw a raven: royal and nonchalant, he came closer, and began to fly over me in crescent-shaped curves. It was as if he’d gone out to do an errand and, when turning toward home, had consented to make this little detour for me, thinking, Well, all right, if it’s really important. He spoke