“That’s just how it is. I know computers. I’ve never had a problem with reading a
text and absorbing what it said.”
“Your photographic memory,” he said softly.
“I admit it. I just have no idea how it works. It’s not only computers and telephone
networks, but the motor in my bike and TV sets and vacuum cleaners and chemical
processes and formulae in astrophysics. I’m a nut case, I admit it: a freak.”
Blomkvist frowned. He sat quietly for a long time.
Asperger’s syndrome, he thought. Or something like that. A talent for seeing patterns
and understanding abstract reasoning where other people perceive only white noise.
Salander was staring down at the table.
“Most people would give an eye tooth to have such a gift.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“We’ll drop it. Are you glad you came back?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was a mistake.”
“Lisbeth, can you define the word friendship for me?”
“It’s when you like somebody.”
“Sure, but what is it that makes you like somebody?”
She shrugged.
“Friendship—my definition—is built on two things,” he said. “Respect and trust.
Both elements have to be there. And it has to be mutual. You can have respect for
someone, but if you don’t have trust, the friendship will crumble.”
She was still silent.
“I understand that you don’t want to discuss yourself with me, but someday you’re
going to have to decide whether you trust me or not. I want us to be friends, but I
can’t do it all by myself.”