as if articulating the beginnings of a thought. She looked at the garage door, then looked at Ove.
“I can’t hear what you’re saying! Talk louder!” yelled the garage door. Ove immediately took two steps away from it.
At once, Parvaneh smiled confidently at him. As if she had just worked out the solution to a crossword.
“Hey, Ove! How about this: if you give us a lift to the hospital, I’ll help you get rid of this journalist! Okay?”
Ove looked up. He didn’t look a bit convinced. Parvaneh threw out her arms.
“Or I’ll tell the journalist that I can tell a story or two about you, Ove,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“Story? What story?” the garage door called out and started banging in an excitable manner.
Ove looked dejectedly at the garage door. “This is blackmail,” he said desperately to Parvaneh.
Parvaneh nodded cheerfully. “Ove ackatted de clauwn!” said the three-year-old and nodded in an initiated way at the cat,
clearly because she felt that Ove’s aversion to the hospital needed further explanation to whoever was not there the last time they went.
The cat seemed not to know what this meant. But if the clown had been anywhere near as tiresome as this three-year-old,
the cat didn’t take an entirely negative view of Ove hitting someone. And so this is the reason why Ove is sitting here now.
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