The Girl who played with Fire

“Dstrc crt.”

“The district court? What do you mean?”

“Gtta cancl yr d… dc… dclrash incmp…”

Palmgren’s face turned red and he grimaced when he could not pronounce the words. Salander put a hand on his arm and pressed gently.

“Holger… don’t worry about me. I have plans to take on my declaration of incompetence soon. It’s not your worry any longer, but I may need your help eventually. Is that OK? Will you be my lawyer if I need you?”

He shook his head.

“Tu old.” He rapped his knuckle on the arm of his wheelchair. “Dum ld man.”

“Yeah, you’re a dumb old man if you have that attitude. I need a legal advisor and I want you. You may not be able to give a statement in court, but you can give me advice when the time comes. Would you?”

He shook his head again, and then he nodded.

“Wrk?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Wut ju work on? Not Armshi.” What are you working on? Not Armansky

Salander hesitated while she debated how to explain her situation. It was complicated.

“I’m not working for Armansky anymore. I don’t need to work for him to make a living. I have my own money and I’m doing fine.”

Palmgren’s eyebrows knitted together again.

“I’ll come and visit you a lot, starting today. I’ll tell you all about… but let’s not get stressed about things. Right now there’s something else I want to do.”

She bent down and lifted a bag to the table and took out a chessboard.

“I haven’t had the chance to sweep the floor with you for two whole years.”

He gave up. She was up to some mischief that she did not want to talk about. He was quite sure he would have severe reservations, but he trusted her enough still to know that whatever she was up to might be dubious in the eyes of the law but not a crime against God’s laws. Unlike most other people who knew her, Palmgren was sure that Salander was a genuinely moral person. The problem was that her notion of morality did not always coincide with that of the justice system.

She set out the chessmen in front of him and he recognized with shock that it was his own board. She must have pinched it from the apartment after he fell ill. As a keepsake? She gave him white. All of a sudden he was as happy as a child.

Salander stayed with Palmgren for two hours. She had crushed him three times before a nurse interrupted their bickering over the board, announcing that it was time for his afternoon physical therapy. Salander collected the chessmen and folded up the board.

“Can you tell me what kind of physical therapy he’s getting?” she said.

“It’s strength and coordination training. And we’re making progress, aren’t we?”

Palmgren nodded grimly.

“You can already walk several steps. By summer you’ll be able to walk by yourself in the park. Is this your daughter?”

Salander’s and Palmgren’s eyes met.

“Ster dotr.” Foster daughter.

“How nice that you came to visit.” Where the hell have you been all this time? Salander ignored the unmistakable meaning. She leaned forward and kissed Palmgren on the cheek.

“I’ll come again on Friday.”

Palmgren stood up laboriously from his wheelchair. She walked with him to an elevator. As soon as the elevator doors had closed she went to the front desk and asked to speak to whoever was responsible for the patients. She was referred to a Dr. A. Sivarnandan, whom she found in an office further down a corridor. She introduced herself, explaining that she was Palmgren’s foster daughter.

“I’d like to know how he’s doing and what’s going to happen with him.”

Dr. Sivarnandan looked up Palmgren’s casebook and read the introductory pages. His skin was pitted by smallpox and he had a thin moustache which Salander found absurd. Finally he sat back. To her surprise he spoke with a Finnish accent.

“I have no record of Herr Palmgren having a daughter or foster daughter. In fact, his nearest relative would seem to be an eighty-six-year-old cousin in Jamtland.”

“He took care of me from when I was thirteen until he had his stroke. I was twenty-four at the time.”

She dug into the inside pocket of her jacket and threw a pen on to the desk in front of the doctor.

“My name is Lisbeth Salander. Write my name in his casebook. I’m the closest relation he has in the world.”

“That may be,” replied Dr. Sivarnandan firmly. “But if you are his closest relation you certainly took a long time letting us know. As far as I know, he has only had a few visits from a person who, while not related to him, is to be notified in case the state of his health worsens or if he should pass away.”

“That would be Dragan Armansky.”

Dr. Sivarnandan raised his eyebrows.

“That’s correct. You know him?”

“You can call him and verify that I am who I say I am.”

“That won’t be necessary. I believe you. I was told that you sat and played chess with Herr Palmgren for two hours. But I cannot discuss the state of his health with you without his permission.”

“And you’ll never get it from that stubborn devil. You see, he suffers from the delusion that he shouldn’t burden me with his troubles and that he is still responsible for me, and not the other way around. This is how it is: for two years I thought he was dead. Yesterday I discovered that he was alive. If I’d known that he… it’s complicated to explain, but I’d like to know what sort of prognosis he has and whether he will recover.”

Dr. Sivarnandan picked up the pen and wrote Salander’s name neatly into Palmgren’s casebook. He asked for her social security number and telephone number.

“OK, now you’re formally his foster daughter. This may not be completely by the book, but considering that you’re the first person to visit him since last Christmas when Herr Armansky stopped by… You saw him today – you can see for yourself that he has problems with coordination and speech. He had a stroke.”

“I know. I was the one who found him and called the ambulance.”

“Aha. Then you should know that he was in intensive care for three months. He was in a coma for a long time. Most patients never wake up from a coma like that, but it does happen. Obviously he wasn’t ready to die. First he was put in the dementia ward for chronic long-term patients who are completely unable to take care of themselves. Against all the odds he showed signs of improvement and was moved here for rehabilitation nine months ago.”

“Tell me what chances he has of getting his mobility and speech back.”

Dr. Sivarnandan threw out his hands. “Have you got a crystal ball that’s better than mine? The truthful answer is that I have no idea. He could die from a cerebral haemorrhage tonight. Or he could live a relatively normal life for another twenty years. I have no way of knowing. You might say it’s God who decides.”

“And if he lives another twenty years?”

“It’s been a laborious rehabilitation for him, and it’s only in the past few months that we have been able to see improvements. Six months ago he couldn’t eat without assistance. One month ago he could hardly get out of his chair, which is partly due to muscle atrophy from being in bed for so long. Now at least he can walk by himself for short distances.”

“Can he get better?”

“Yes. Even a lot better. The first threshold was hard, but now we’re seeing progress every day. He has lost almost two years of his life. In a few months, by the summer, I hope he’ll be able to walk in the park.”

“And his speech?”

“His problem is that both his speech centre and his ability to move were knocked out. He was helpless for a long time. Since then he has been forced to learn how to control his body and talk again. He doesn’t always remember which words to use, and he has to learn some words again. But it’s not like teaching a child to talk – he knows the meaning of the word, he just can’t articulate it. Give him a couple of months and you’ll see how his