of his mind. She died at the age of fifty-six in Erland’s arms, one summer’s day in 1991, as he was combing her hair. Shortly before her death she had read Stieg’s newly published book on the Extreme Right,
No, there is no explanation for the way in which Stieg waged war on his own body. Nor would he ever be able to explain it himself. More than anything else it was like a vicious circle that could not be broken.
Yet again I come back to the contradictory nature of Stieg’s character. That overwhelming work ethic – most probably made even stronger by his working-class background – which he insisted on forcing others to adopt. And then the direct opposite: a total inability to discipline himself when it came to looking after his own body. Worst was, of course, his lack of sleep, and perhaps his complete lack of discipline in this respect was due to what the medics call insomnia. Anybody suffering from this complaint can seldom get to sleep for any reason other than utter exhaustion.
For Stieg it was a case of working until 5.00 or 6.00 in the morning, then falling asleep worn out. Only a few hours later he would start a new day by taking breakfast and reading a book and newspapers in a cafe. Then he would go first to the
The doctors I have spoken to point out that insomnia can be dangerous, especially if it persists for a long time. In Stieg’s case it probably lasted for the whole of his working life. They say it can be hereditary, but I have found nothing in Stieg’s past to suggest that this applies to his case. I asked Erland, his father, about it.
“No,” he said, “I sleep soundly at night and nobody else in the family has ever had any trouble getting to sleep.”
I met Erland on 19 March, 2001. It was in Umea and the whole town was covered in snow. Later that evening I was due to give a lecture in Mimerskolan about the integration of youngsters with an immigrant background into Swedish society.
Quite a long time had passed since Stieg and I had begun to call each other big brother and kid brother. They had become our nicknames, even though we only used them when we were alone together. That was also how I had introduced myself to Erland when I’d phoned to arrange our meeting. “Stieg said that as I am his kid brother, I must have lunch with Dad.” Erland had had a good laugh at our absurd way of addressing each other.
The first thing that struck me when I met Erland was how amazingly young he looked. So it was not difficult to work out where Stieg had got that trait from. Erland was wearing a dark cardigan and a black shirt. It was easy to infer that he came from northern Sweden, not just because of his dialect but also because of a tendency to express himself in few words without unnecessary embellishment. His eyes also seemed to wander as he talked, something I took to be linked to the Norrland shyness of which I had become so fond.
The moment we finished our salad, Erland said, “Stieg ought to visit me more often. What’s he up to in Stockholm? He always sounds so stressed. It would be good if the three of us could meet some time.”
I immediately tried to explain what kept Stieg so busy. It was a long explanation, but Erland listened intently as we sat at our window table. What I really wanted to get across was how Stieg’s work was the very breath of life for him; it wasn’t a question of stress in the usual sense of the word. When Erland and I said our goodbyes, we decided that we would definitely arrange that lunch with Stieg. “Then it will be my turn to get the bill,” I insisted.
Stieg, Erland and I never did manage to have lunch together. The fact is that we only once met, the three of us, and that was in a Stockholm hospital. In order to write about that moment, so painful and inscribed for ever in my memory, I have needed to gather my strength for four and a half years. That was how long it took before I was able to start writing this book.
As I sit thinking about this, I find myself returning again and again to one particular thing. I think about Stieg and his fight to ensure that one day he would win the peace. When that day came, we used to say, he would finally be able to get a good night’s sleep.
8
For four years in succession, on International Women’s Day – 8 March – I have handed out a thousand roses to women in Sergels Torg in Stockholm. I have frequently felt a bit ambivalent about this celebration, initiated in 1910 by the German Communist and champion of women’s rights Clara Zetkin. I think it would be preferable for every day to be imbued with a recognition of gender rights rather than just one day per year.
Then again, it is good to have a day on which to honour the millions of women who have been victims of male supremacy for thousands of years. For me personally, it is also a day to pay homage to my friend Stieg Larsson. So my thousand roses also direct my thoughts to him. He was always impressed by effective symbolic actions.
Most of the women to whom I present a rose are pleased. I am hugged by a lot of young and elderly ones. It warms the heart. But naturally, not everybody is pleased. Quite a few young women tell me, “Yes to equality, no to a rose.” In a way, I understand them. I even feel a bit embarrassed. Perhaps I ought not to continue doing this next year. After all, roses have thorns.
I am quite sure that Stieg and I hit upon this idea together. But then, maybe we should also have considered handing out roses to men, in an attempt to persuade them to behave better. To encourage them. Perhaps the thorns would have been more appropriate when roses were offered to men.
It doesn’t really matter. Like everything else, the distribution of roses has something egotistical about it. I enjoy buying them and distributing them. It turns my thoughts to the conversations Stieg and I used to have about everything under the sun. The oppression of women was something we often discussed, not least because it was a subject on which he was an expert. I don’t think there are many people who know more about how things came to be like that, and what horrific consequences this could have.
In the course of a few months at the end of 2001 and the beginning of 2002, two incidents took place that affected Stieg personally and emotionally, and were of great significance for his work. I am referring to the murders of Melissa Nordell in November 2001 in Stockholm and of Fadime Sahindal in January 2002 in Uppsala. The young photographer’s model Melissa Nordell was murdered by her Swedish boyfriend, who was older than she was, simply because he refused to respect her wish to break off their relationship. Every time Melissa’s name or fate was mentioned, Stieg’s eyes would fill with tears. There was no way he could accept that a young Swedish woman could be denied her freedom simply because she was a woman. He scrutinized all the accessible legal documents and newspaper articles about Melissa Nordell, and also contacted her family. Stieg even became a friend of Melissa’s mother and her stepfather, and invited them to a party for our employees in my office. I shall never forget my meeting with Melissa’s mother. It is an irony of fate that the last book cover Stieg was responsible for included a colour photograph of Melissa Nordell.
Alongside the picture of Melissa on that same cover was one of the young Swedish-Kurdish woman Fadime Sahindal, who was murdered by her father one cold January night in 2002. Fadime died for one reason alone: she wanted to lead her own life, go her own way. The murder of Fadime shook Stieg on many levels – personally, ideologically and as a journalist – and raised several questions: should he analyse it exclusively from the point of view of gender, or should he also take account of her ethnicity, genetic make-up, religion and culture? Stieg repeatedly told me that in his view it was the patriarchal regime that cost the lives of these young women. When I suggested that he should explain his point of view in articles for the daily newspapers, he told me that he would prefer to “write a book about the oppression of women in order to make my position clear”. In January 2004 he published the anthology
I recall a conversation Stieg and I had in January 2002. The horrific events had sparked off one of the most important debates in recent Swedish history: about honour killings and vulnerable girls in patriarchal cultures. The tone of the debate became more and more confrontational, and created two camps fighting each other on television chat shows, in radio debates and in articles in the biggest newspapers. Anti-racists were attacked for encouraging honour killings and feminists were accused of encouraging racism.
