Admittedly he doesn’t like the fact that the Saab will be left in neutral and use up a lot of expensive gas for no good reason afterwards,
but it’s simply a factor that he’ll have to accept in order to get it done.
He puts the snow shovel back in the shed and goes into the house.
Puts on his good navy suit again. It will get stained and foul-smelling by the end of all this,
but Ove has decided that his wife just has to go along with it, at least when he gets there.
He has his breakfast and listens to the radio. Washes up and wipes down the counter.
Then goes around the house checking the radiators. Turns off all lights. Checks that the coffee percolator is unplugged.
Puts on the blue jacket over his suit, then the clogs, and goes back into the shed; he returns with a long, rolled-up plastic tube.
Locks the shed and the front door, tugs three times at each door handle. Then goes down the little pathway between the houses.
The white Škoda comes from the left and takes him by such surprise that he almost collapses in a snowdrift by the shed.
Ove runs down the pathway in pursuit, shaking his fist. “Can’t you read, you bloody idiot!” he roars.
The driver, a slim man with a cigarette in his hand, seems to have heard him.
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