The Girl who played with Fire

sudden she had a vision of Appelviken. When she called she was told that he was asleep, but that she was welcome to visit him the next day.

Salander spent the evening pacing back and forth in her apartment. She was in a foul mood. She went to bed early and fell asleep almost at once. She woke at 7:00 a.m., showered, and had breakfast at the 7-Eleven. At 8:00 she walked to the car rental agency on Ringvagen. I’ve got to get my own car. She rented the same Nissan Micra she had driven to Appelviken a few weeks earlier.

She was unaccountably nervous when she parked near the rehabilitation centre, but she gathered up her courage and went inside.

The woman at the front desk consulted her papers and explained that Holger Palmgren was in the gym for therapy just then and would not be available until after 11:00. Salander was welcome to take a seat in the waiting room or come back later. She went and sat in the car and smoked three cigarettes while she waited. At 11:00 she went back to the front desk. She was told to go to the dining hall, down the corridor to the right and then to the left.

She stopped in the doorway and recognized Palmgren in the half-empty dining room. He sat facing her, but was focusing all his attention on his plate. He held his fork in an awkward grip and steered the food to his mouth with great concentration. Every third time or so he missed and the food fell off the fork.

He looked shrunken; he might be a hundred years old. His face seemed strangely immobile. He was sitting in a wheelchair. Only then did Salander take it in that he was alive, that Armansky had not just been punishing her.

Palmgren swore silently as he tried for the third time to spear a bite of macaroni and cheese onto his fork. He was resigned to being unable to walk properly, and he accepted that there was a great deal he would be unable to do. But he hated not being able to eat properly and the fact that sometimes he drooled like a baby.

He knew exactly what it was he should do: lower the fork at the right angle, push it forward, lift it, and guide it to his mouth. The problem was with the coordination. His hand had a life of its own. When he instructed it to lift, it would slide slowly to the side of the plate. If he did manage to steer it towards his mouth, it would often change direction at the last moment and land on his cheek or his chin.

But the rehabilitation was producing results. Six months earlier his hand would shake so much that he could not get a single spoonful into his mouth. His meals might still be taking a long time, but at least he was eating by himself, and he was going to go on working at it until he once again had full control over his limbs.

As he lowered his fork to collect another mouthful, a hand appeared from behind him and gently took it from him. He watched as the fork shovelled up some of the macaroni and cheese and raised it. He thought he knew the thin, doll-like hand and turned his head to meet Salander’s eyes. Her gaze was expectant. She seemed anxious.

For a long moment Palmgren stared at her face. His heart was suddenly pounding in a most unreasonable way. Then he opened his mouth and accepted the food.

She fed him one bite at a time. Normally Palmgren hated being spoon-fed, but he understood Salander’s need. It was not because he was a helpless piece of baggage. She was feeding him as a gesture of humility – in her case an extraordinarily rare occurrence. She put the right-size portions on the fork and waited until he was finished chewing. When he pointed at the glass of milk with the straw, she held it up so he could drink.

When he had swallowed the last mouthful, she put the fork down and gave him a questioning look. He shook his head. They had not said a word to each other during the entire meal.

Palmgren leaned back in his wheelchair and took a deep breath. Salander picked up the napkin and wiped around his mouth. He felt like a Mafia boss in an American movie where a capo di tutti capi was showing respect. He imagined how she would kiss his hand and smiled at the absurdity of this fantasy.

“Do you think it would be possible to get a cup of coffee in this place?” she said.

He slurred his words. His lips and tongue could not shape the sounds.

“Srvg tab rond corn.” The serving table is around the corner, she worked it out.

“You want a cup? Milk, no sugar, as always?”

He signalled yes with a hand. She carried his tray away and came back a minute later with two cups of coffee. He noticed that she drank hers black, which was unusual. He smiled when he saw that she had saved the straw from his milk for the coffee cup. Palmgren had a thousand things to say but he could not formulate a single syllable. But their eyes kept meeting, time after time. Salander looked terribly guilty. Finally she broke the silence.

“I thought you’d died,” she said. “If I’d known you were alive I would never have… I would have come to see you a long time ago. Forgive me.”

He bowed his head. He smiled, a twist of the lips.

“You were in a coma when I left you and the doctors told me you were going to die. They said you would be dead within a few days and I just walked away. I’m so sorry.”

He lifted his hand and laid it on her little fist. She took his hand in a firm grip.

“Ju dsperd.” You disappeared.

“Dragan Armansky told you?”

He nodded.

“I was off travelling. I needed to get away. I didn’t say goodbye to anybody, just left. Were you worried?”

He shook his head from side to side, slowly.

“You don’t ever have to worry about me.”

“I nv word bow ju. Ju alws get ba. Bt Armshy’s word.” I never worried about you. You always get by. But Armansky was worried.

She smiled her usual crooked smile at him and Palmgren relaxed. He studied her, comparing his memory of her with the woman he saw before him. She had changed. She was whole and clean and rather well dressed. She had taken out the ring that was in her lip and… hmm… the wasp tattoo on her neck was gone too. She looked grown up. He laughed for the first time in many weeks. It sounded like a coughing fit.

Salander’s smile grew bigger and she suddenly felt a warmth that she had not felt in a long time filling her heart.

“Ju dd gd.” You did good. He aimed a hand at her clothes. She nodded.

“I’m doing fine.”

“Howz z noo gardn?” How is the new guardian?

Palmgren noticed Salander’s face darken. Her mouth tightened. She looked at him frankly.

“He’s OK… I can handle him.”

Palmgren’s eyebrows questioned her. Salander looked around the dining room and changed the subject.

“How long have you been here?”

Palmgren may have had a stroke and he still had difficulty speaking and coordinating his movements, but his mind was intact and his radar instantly picked up a false tone in Salander’s voice. In all the years he had known her, he had come to realize that she never lied to him directly, but neither was she totally candid. Her way of not telling him the truth was to distract his attention. There was obviously some problem with her new guardian. Which did not surprise Palmgren.

He felt a deep sense of remorse. How many times had he thought about calling his colleague Nils Bjurman – a fellow lawyer after all, if not a friend – to ask how Salander was doing, but then neglected to do so? And why had he not contested her declaration of incompetence while he still had the power? He knew why – he had wanted, selfishly, to keep his contact with her alive. He loved this damned difficult child like the daughter he never had, and he wanted to have an excuse to maintain the relationship. Besides, it was physically too difficult. He had enough trouble just opening his fly when he tottered to the toilet. He felt as if he were the one who had let Lisbeth Salander down. But she’ll always survive… She’s the most competent person I’ve ever met.

“Dscrt.”

“I didn’t understand.”