A Man Called Ove

by Fredrik Backman

thought about keeping the money,” Ove whispered at long last, and took his father’s hand in a firmer grip, as if he was afraid of letting go. “I know,” said his father, and squeezed his hand a little harder. “But I knew you would hand it in, and I knew a person like Tom wouldn’t,” said Ove. His father nodded. And not another word was said about it.

He skeptically peruses this grammatically challenged little natural disaster. She looks up and her whole face smiles at him.

The old landlady was quite overwhelmed when she looked at the beautiful young woman walking up the stairs with self-confident steps. Later she tapped Ove’s back and whispered that those flowers were probably a very good investment. Ove couldn’t help but agree.

Ove, who, in turn, had become very interested in Scania when they merged with Saab, looked thoughtfully out of the window while chewing his potato. “Does it run well?” he asked. “No,” muttered the old man irascibly and went back to his plate. “None of their models run well. None of ’em are built right. Mechanics want half a fortune to fix anything on it,” he added, as if he were actually explaining it to someone sitting under the table. “I can have a look at it if you’ll let me,” said Ove and looked enthusiastic all of a sudden. It was the first time Sonja could ever remember him actually sounding enthusiastic about anything. The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then Sonja’s father nodded. And Ove nodded curtly back. And then they rose to their feet, objective and determined, in the way two men might behave if they had just agreed to go and kill a third man.

Ove sighs. The cat sits in the backseat and looks as if it wished, with intensity, that cats knew how to strap on safety belts.