Ove has never experienced a worse woman when it comes to listening to what decent people tell her.
He feels out of breath again. He fights the impulse to clutch his breast. She keeps going. He gives way. She strides past.
The small icicle-decorated package in her arms obstinately brings up a flow of memories in Ove’s head before he can put a stop to them:
memories of Ernest, fat, stupid old Ernest, so beloved of Sonja that you could have bounced five-kronor coins on her heart whenever she saw him.
“OPEN THE DOOR THEN!” Parvaneh roars and looks round at Ove so abruptly that there’s a danger of whiplash.
Ove hauls out the keys from his pocket. As if someone else has taken control of his arm.
He’s having a hard time accepting what he’s actually doing.
One part of him in his head is yelling “NO” while the rest of his body is busy with some sort of teenage rebellion.
“Get me some blankets!” Parvaneh orders and runs across the threshold with her shoes still on.
Ove stands there for a few moments, catching his breath;
he furtively scoops up the envelope with his final instructions from the mat before he ambles off after her.
“It’s bloody freezing in here. Turn up the radiators!” Parvaneh tosses out the words as if this is something quite obvious,
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