Then when Sonja came out at last and got back inside, closing the Saab’s door with a soft squeeze,
which she knew was required to avoid a wounded glance from him as if she had kicked a living creature, she gently took his hand.
“I think we need to buy a house of our own,” she said softly.
“What’s the point of that?” Ove wondered. “I think our child has to grow up in a house,” she said and carefully moved his hand down to her belly.
Ove was quiet for a long time; a long time even by Ove’s standards.
He looked thoughtfully at her stomach, as if expecting it to raise some sort of flag.
Then he straightened up, twisted the tuning button half a turn forward and half a turn back.
Adjusted his wing mirrors. And nodded sensibly. “We’ll have to get a Saab station wagon, then.”
A MAN CALLED OVE AND A CAT THAT WAS BROKEN WHEN HE CAME
Ove spent most of yesterday shouting at Parvaneh that this damned cat would live in Ove’s house over his dead body.
And now here he stands, looking at the cat. And the cat looks back. And Ove remains strikingly nondead.
It’s all incredibly irritating. A half-dozen times Ove woke up in the night
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