“There’s no hope for these boys and girls,” the headmaster soberly explained in the interview.
“This is not education, this is storage.” Maybe Sonja understood how it felt to be described as such.
The vacant position attracted only one applicant, and she got those boys and girls to read Shakespeare.
In the meantime Ove was so weighed down with anger that Sonja sometimes had to ask him to go outside so he didn’t demolish the furniture.
It pained her infinitely to see his shoulders so loaded down with the will to destroy.
Destroy that bus driver. The travel agency. The crash barrier of that highway. The wine producer. Everything and everyone.
Punch and keep punching until every bastard had been obliterated. That was all he wanted to do.
He put that anger in his shed. He put it in the garage. He spread it over the ground during his inspection rounds.
But that wasn’t all. In the end he also started putting it in letters.
He wrote to the Spanish government. To the Swedish authorities. To the police. To the court.
But no one took responsibility. No one cared. They answered by reference to legal texts or other authorities. Made excuses.
When the council refused to build a ramp at the stairs of the school where Sonja worked, Ove wrote letters and complaints for months.
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