Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

“I’m moving in this weekend, unless you’re going to change your mind.”

“I don’t need the apartment.”

“But it’s a great apartment. I mean, there are bigger and better apartments, but it’s slap in the middle of Söder and the rent is nothing. Lisbeth, you’re passing up a fortune by not selling it.”

“I have enough to get by.”

Mimmi shut up, not sure how to interpret Salander’s brusque dismissal.

“Where are you living now?”

Salander did not reply.

“Could a person come and visit you?”

“Not right now.”

Salander opened her shoulder bag, took out some papers, and passed them over to Mimmi.

“I’ve fixed the agreement with the housing association. The simplest thing is to register you as my roommate and say I’m selling half of the apartment to you. The price is one krona. You have to sign the contract.”

Mimmi took the pen and signed the contract, adding her date of birth.

“Is that all?”

“That’s it.”

“Lisbeth, I’ve always thought that you were a little weird. Do you realize that you just gave away half of this apartment to me? I’d love to have the apartment, but I don’t want to end up in a situation where you suddenly regret it or it causes bad feelings between us.”

“There will never be any bad feelings. I want you to live here. It feels right to me.”

“But with nothing in return? You’re nuts.”

“You’re taking care of my mail. That’s the deal.”

“That’ll take me an average of four seconds a week. Do you intend to come over once in a while to have sex?”

Salander fixed her eyes on Mimmi. She was quiet for a moment.

“I’d like to very much, but it’s not part of the contract. You can say no whenever you want.”

Mimmi sighed. “And here I was just beginning to enjoy being a kept woman. You know, having somebody who gives me an apartment and pays my rent and comes over now and then to wrestle around in bed.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Mimmi stood up resolutely and went into the living room to turn off the bare bulb in the ceiling fixture.

“Come here.”

Salander followed her.

“I’ve never had sex on the floor of a newly painted apartment with almost no furniture. I saw a movie with Marlon Brando once about a couple in Paris who did it.”

Salander glanced at the floor.

“I feel like playing. Are you up for it?” Mimmi said.

“I’m almost always up for it.”

“Tonight I think I’ll be a dominating bitch. I get to make the decisions. Take off your clothes.”

Salander smiled a crooked smile. She took off her clothes. It took at least ten seconds.

“Lie down on the floor. On your stomach.”

Salander did as Mimmi commanded. The parquet floor was cool and her skin got goose bumps immediately. Mimmi used Salander’s T-shirt with the slogan YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT to tie her hands behind her back.

Salander could not help thinking that this was similar to the way Nils Fucking Slimebag Bjurman had tied her up two years ago.

The similarities ended there.

With Mimmi, Salander felt only lustful anticipation. She was compliant when Mimmi rolled her over on her back and spread her legs. Salander watched her in the dim room as she pulled off her own T-shirt, and was fascinated by her soft breasts. Then Mimmi tied her T-shirt as a blindfold over Salander’s eyes. She could hear the rustle of clothes. A few seconds later she felt Mimmi’s tongue on her belly and her fingers on the inside of her thighs. She was more excited than she had been in a long time. She shut her eyes tight beneath the blindfold and let Mimmi set the pace.

Armansky looked up when he heard the light knock on the doorjamb and saw Salander in the doorway. She was balancing two cups from the espresso machine. He put down his pen and pushed the report away.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“This is a social call,” she said. “May I come in?”

Armansky closed his eyes for a second. Then he pointed at the visitor’s chair. He glanced at the clock. It was 6:30 in the evening. Salander gave him one of the cups and sat down. They took stock of each other for a moment.

“More than a year,” Armansky said.

Salander nodded.

“Are you mad?”

“Should I be?”

“I didn’t say goodbye.”

Armansky pursed his lips. He was shocked to see her, but at the same time relieved to discover that at least she wasn’t dead. He suddenly felt a strong sense of irritation and weariness.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “You don’t have any obligation to tell me what you’re working on. What do you want?”

His voice sounded cooler than he had intended.

“I’m not sure. I mostly just wanted to say hello.”

“Do you need a job? I’m not going to employ you again.”

She shook her head.

“Are you working somewhere else?”

She shook her head again. She seemed to be trying to formulate her words. Armansky waited.

“I’ve been travelling,” she said at last. “I’m only recently back.”

Armansky studied her. There was a new kind of… maturity in her choice of clothes and her bearing. And she had stuffed her bra with something.

“You’ve changed. Where have you been?”

“Here and there…” she said, but when she saw his annoyance she added, “I went to Italy and kept going, to the Middle East, to Hong Kong via Bangkok. I was in Australia for a while and New Zealand, and I island-hopped my way across the Pacific. I was in Tahiti for a month. Then I travelled through the U.S. and I spent the last few months in the Caribbean. I don’t know why I didn’t say goodbye.”

“I’ll tell you why: because you don’t give a shit about other people,” Armansky said matter-of-factly.

Salander bit her lower lip. “Usually it’s other people who don’t give a shit about me.”

“Bullshit,” Armansky said. “You’ve got an attitude problem and you treat people like dirt when they’re trying to be your friends. It’s that simple.”

Silence.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“You do as you like. You always have. But if you leave now I never want to see you again.”

Salander was suddenly afraid. Someone she respected was about to reject her. She did not know what to say.

“It’s been two years since Holger Palmgren had his stroke. You haven’t once visited him,” Armansky went on relentlessly.

Salander stared at Armansky, shocked. “Palmgren is alive?”

“You don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.”

“The doctors said that he –”

“The doctors said a lot about him,” Armansky interrupted. “He was in a very bad way and couldn’t communicate with anyone. But in the last year he’s recovered quite a bit. He doesn’t articulate too well – you have to listen carefully to understand what he’s saying. He needs help with a lot of things, but he can go to the toilet by himself. People who care about him call in to spend time with him.”

Salander sat dumbfounded. She was the one who had found Palmgren after he had his stroke two years earlier. She had called the ambulance and the doctors had shaken their heads and said that the prognosis was not encouraging. She had lived at the hospital for three days until a doctor told her that Palmgren was in a coma and it was extremely unlikely that he would come out of it. She had stood up and left the hospital without looking back. And obviously without checking to find out what had happened.

She frowned. She had had Nils Bjurman foisted on her at the same time, and he had absorbed a lot of her attention. But nobody, not even Armansky, had told her that Palmgren was still alive, or that he was getting better. She had never considered that possibility.