Martin Vanger’s villa was furnished in black, white, and chrome. There were
expensive designer pieces that would have delighted the connoisseur Christer
Malm. The kitchen was equipped to a professional chef’s standard. In the living
room there was a high-end stereo with an impressive collection of jazz records
from Tommy Dorsey to John Coltrane. Martin Vanger had money, and his home
was both luxurious and functional. It was also impersonal. The artwork on the walls
was reproductions and posters, of the sort found in IKEA. The bookshelves, at least
in the part of the house that Blomkvist saw, housed a Swedish encyclopedia and
some coffee table books that people might have given him as Christmas presents,
for want of a better idea. All in all, he could discern only two personal aspects of
Martin Vanger’s life: music and cooking. His 3,000 or so LPs spoke for the one and
the other could be deduced from the fact of Martin’s stomach bulging over his belt.
The man himself was a mixture of simplicity, shrewdness, and amiability. It took no
great analytical skill to conclude that the corporate CEO was a man with problems.
As they listened to “Night in Tunisia,” the conversation was devoted to the Vanger
Corporation, and Martin made no secret of the fact that the company was fighting
for survival. He was certainly aware that his guest was a financial reporter whom he
hardly knew, yet he discussed the internal problems of his company so openly that
it seemed reckless. Perhaps he assumed that Blomkvist was one of the family since
he was working for his great-uncle; and like the former CEO, Martin took the view
that the family members only had themselves to blame for the situation in which
the company found itself. On the other hand, he seemed almost amused by his
family’s incorrigible folly. Eva nodded but passed no judgement of her own. They
had obviously been over the same ground before.
Martin accepted the story that Blomkvist had been hired to write a family chronicle,
and he inquired how the work was going. Blomkvist said with a smile that he was
having the most trouble remembering the names of all the relatives. He asked if he
might come back to do an interview in due course. Twice he considered turning
the conversation to the old man’s obsession with Harriet’s disappearance. Vanger
must have pestered her brother with his theories, and Martin must realise that if
Blomkvist was going to write about the Vangers, he could not ignore the fact that
one family member had vanished in dramatic circumstances. But Martin showed no
sign of wanting to discuss the subject.
The evening ended, after several rounds of vodka, at 2:00 in the morning. Blomkvist
was fairly drunk as he skidded the three hundred yards to the guest house. It had
been a pleasant evening.