that’s turned in by the parking area and started driving down towards the houses.
The bespectacled woman is caught off guard when Ove charges forward and bangs on the window and she throws the file of documents into her own face.
The man in the white shirt, on the other hand, is quite unmoved. He rolls down the window.
“Yes?” he asks. “Vehicle traffic is prohibited in the residential area,” Ove hisses
and points at each of the houses, at the Škoda, at the man in the white shirt, and at the parking area.
“In this Residents’ Association we park in the parking area!” The man in the white shirt looks at the houses.
Then at the parking area. Then at Ove. “I have permission from the council to drive up to the houses. So I have to ask you to get out of the way.”
Ove is so agitated by his answer that it takes him many seconds just to formulate some swear words by way of an answer.
Meanwhile, the man in the white shirt has picked up a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, which he taps against his trouser leg.
“Would you be kind enough to get out of the way?” he asks Ove. “What are you doing here?” Ove blurts out.
“That’s nothing for you to worry yourself about,” says the man in the white shirt in a monotone voice,
as if he’s a computer-generated voice mail message letting Ove know that he’s been placed in a telephone line.
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