Free The Girl Who Lived Twice by David Lagercrantz
Authors: David Lagercrantz
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Holiday was maybe putting it a bit strongly. But Salander’s idea of happiness had to do with relief from pain, and as she knocked back her beer at the bar of the Hôtel d’Angleterre, that is precisely what she felt: a form of release, as if she were only just beginning to register how tense she had been all summer long—how the hunt for her sister had driven her to the edge of madness. Not that she really unwound; her childhood memories still went round and round in her brain. But her field of vision seemed to broaden and she even began to feel a yearning, not necessarily for anything in particular, but simply to get away from everything. It was enough to give her a sense of freedom.
“Are you OK?”
She heard the question again above the noise of the bar, and she turned to find herself looking straight at a young woman standing next to her.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
The woman was perhaps thirty years old, dark and intense, with slanting eyes and long, curly black hair. She wore jeans with a dark-blue blouse and high-heeled boots. There was something both hard and probing about her. Her right arm was bandaged.
“I’m not sure,” the woman said. “It’s just the sort of thing one says.”
“I guess it is.”
“But if you don’t mind my saying, you looked pretty fucked up.”
Salander had heard this many times in her life. People had come up to her and said that she seemed surly, or angry, or precisely that—fucked up—and she always hated it. But for some reason she accepted it now.
“I suppose I have been.”
“But it’s better now?”
“Well, it’s different, in any case.”
“I’m Paulina, by the way, and I’m not in great shape myself.”
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Paulina Müller waited for the young woman to introduce herself. But she said nothing, she didn’t even nod. But nor did she tell her to get lost. Paulina had noticed her because of the way she walked, as if she didn’t give a damn about the world and would never bother to ingratiate herself to anyone. There was something strangely appealing about that, and Paulina thought that maybe she had once walked like that too, before Thomas took those strides away from her.
Her life had been destroyed so slowly, so gradually, that she had hardly noticed it. Even though the move to Copenhagen had brought home to her the extent of the damage, the presence of this woman made her feel it even more keenly. The mere fact of standing next to her made Paulina aware of her own lack of freedom. She was drawn to the aura of total independence the woman projected.
“Are you local?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” the woman said.
“We’ve just moved here from Munich. My husband’s been made head of Scandinavia for Angler, the pharmaceutical company,” she continued, and saying it made her feel almost respectable.
“I see.”
“But this evening I ran away from him.”
“OK,” the woman said.
“I was a journalist at Geo, you know, the science magazine, but I quit when we moved here.”
“I see,” the woman said.
“I wrote about medicine and biology, mostly.”
“OK.”
“I really enjoyed it,” she said. “But then my husband got this job, and things turned out the way they did. I’ve freelanced a bit.”
She kept answering questions which had never been asked, and the woman just said “I see,” or “OK,” until finally she asked what Paulina was drinking. “Anything, whatever,” Paulina replied, and she got a whisky, a Tullamore Dew with ice, and a smile, or at least the hint of a smile. The woman was wearing a black suit which could have done with some cleaning and a pressing, and a black shirt, and she wore no make-up at all. She looked haggard, as if she had not slept properly for a long time, and there was a dark, unsettling force in her eyes. Paulina tried to make her laugh.
It was not a great success. Except that the woman came
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