Stieg Larsson, My Friend

captain. That wasn’t enough. So he decided to become the team’s trainer as well. That wasn’t enough either, because he was forced to accept the fact that the number of players at his disposal was becoming fewer and fewer. Having urged them to take the field for one final effort, he asked the referee for extra time.

Stieg refused to let Expo die. The idea that it was over and done for was not something that he could possibly contemplate. This despite the fact that it was clear to any objective observer that the journal was beyond help. Little did I think that I would play a leading role in the reincarnation of Expo lurking round the corner.

I knew that Stieg was under extreme pressure. It was obvious that Expo’s misfortunes were taking their toll. We had been meeting regularly for some years and regarded each other as close friends. He called me his kid brother and I called him my big brother. At first it was mainly for fun, but as time passed the names became a true reflection of our mutual trust.

One day in May 1998, we were in one of Stieg’s favourite cafes, Il Caffe in Kungsholmen, and I had barely taken my first sip of coffee before it became clear that he had something important on his mind.

“Do you realize that I have very few real friends?”

Shaking my head, I said, “Perhaps you work too hard. Friends demand time, we both know that.”

He agreed, and looked sad, almost dejected, which was very unlike him.

“Expo is in ruins,” he said, looking down at his feet.

“So I’ve gathered.”

“We haven’t been able to do any proper journalism for ages. But we do have a trump card – our archive on neo-Nazism and racism in Europe.”

Then something remarkable happened. It was as if at that very moment Stieg began to relive everything the journal had achieved, as if the solution to all its problems had suddenly dawned on him. Presumably he had already decided what he was going to do, but he gave the impression that it was happening even as he spoke, as if his words were leading him on. It was almost as if this was the moment when he regained his faith in Expo. As if an idea had just struck like a flash of lightning and taken possession of him.

“It’s time to take some decisions,” he said, leaning back in the little chair at the rear of the cafe. “I’ve been looking for a collaborator who will allow Expo to go its own way. I want to work with a journal without links to any particular political party. I’m tired of people accusing us of being a journal linked to the left.”

Then he leaned forward and looked me in the eye.

“I’ll come clean. We have about sixty kronor in the kitty. Do you think you could come to Expo’s rescue?”

I sat there in astonishment.

“How do you think that would be possible?”

“I thought you’d ask that,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. The smile I was so familiar with returned to his face, those sparkling eyes and the gesticulating hands. “I want Expo and Svartvitt to join forces. Expo will be a financial burden, but you’ll earn a lot of goodwill. Besides, I’m convinced that you will be rewarded some time in the future.”

I couldn’t help laughing at such an optimistic prophesy, but Stieg merely brushed my laughter aside and continued.

“Now to the nitty-gritty. I want you to fund the printing and distribution of Expo. I’ll take care of the editorial side. Svartvitt’s editorial staff are experienced in administering and funding a magazine. My colleagues and I are good at research and journalism, but we don’t seem to be much good at anything else.”

I leaned back in my chair and wondered what on earth to say. I had thought we were going to have a cup of coffee and chat like we usually did. Now I found myself faced with a proposal to merge our journals.

I said nothing for quite a while. I agreed totally with Stieg that our publications had a lot in common. Unfortunately the financial state of both operations was also more similar than he seemed to realize. The National Council for Cultural Affairs had just cut Svartvitt’s grant to 30,000 kronor. I had been so angry that I had called it “pin money”, or so some cultural journalists had claimed. In order to make a point I had rejected the grant altogether. To make matters worse, we had just moved into larger premises in Pilgatan. You could hardly say that Svartvitt was in a fit state to take on new costs.

“I agree with you,” I said in the end. “Expo is too important to be allowed to collapse. I’m prepared to do my bit. But how will it be done, in practical terms? Shall we have two publishers and two editors-in-chief?”

“I thought Expo’s pages should be yellow instead of white. We’ll design and produce between twelve and twenty-four pages. You’ll pay for the printing and distribution. You can be editorin-chief of both Svartvitt and Expo. Somebody from Expo can be the publisher. That way you can escape being taken to court all the time.”

We both laughed at that. Stieg continued talking. He seemed to be in an exalted state now, gesticulating more and more wildly, with increasing confidence. I had swallowed the bait, and he knew it.

“Behind closed doors I will be the editor, but I don’t want my name linked publicly with the job.”

“As usual, in other words,” I said.

“Expo and Svartvitt will be two independent and equal journals. None of us will have the right to interfere in the editorial work of the other. Is that sufficiently clear?”

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

He smiled and shrugged.

“Maybe I just thought it up.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “But I have a few questions, Stieg. How come Expo writes so much about equality, but behaves like a men’s club? How can an anti- racist journal find it so difficult to recruit staff with an immigrant background?”

“I agree. We lack credibility in that respect. We must do something about it immediately.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Those are my only objections. We can publish our journals jointly – let’s say until the next election. Then we’ll have to take stock and decide if we should continue. But before we shake hands on it, I want to propose a better deal than the one you offered me. We’ll pay for printing and distribution. Can you pay the rent? If we make a profit, which I don’t suppose we shall, we’ll share the profits. If we run at a loss, I’ll be responsible for the entire amount.”

When we shook hands Stieg smiled more broadly than I had ever seen him do before. Although in fact he seemed more relieved than happy. It was as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he wasn’t convinced that he had saved Expo, but he was pretty sure that he had bought enough time to ride out the storm.

“On Monday,” I said, raising my coffee cup as if in a toast, “I’ll arrange for a contract to be drawn up that both parties can sign. We can’t have any misunderstandings just because you and I are such good friends.”

He looked hard at me, then rolled another cigarette and lifted a yellow lighter with his left hand.

“No, Kurdo,” he said rather sternly. “We don’t need a contract. If I didn’t trust you I would never have contacted you in the first place. I know you won’t let me down. An oral promise and a handshake will be sufficient. From January onwards we’ll publish Svartvitt together with Expo. We’ll take care of the rent.”

“O.K.”

“What do you say to announcing the merger of Sweden’s two most important anti-racist journals on 30 November?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said, realizing that this was something he’d been thinking about in order to attract maximum publicity. It was also practical to supply our combined subscribers with the news about Svartvitt and Expo on the day when nationalists celebrate the exploits of the Swedish warriorking Charles XII. (Why they should want to do that is a bit of a mystery, as his defeat in the Great Northern War effectively brought the Swedish Empire to an end.)