Rune gives him a concentrated stare for a second or two, as if his brain is fighting desperately to produce a memory.
“Corrugated iron?” he says to himself, as if tasting the word,
like someone who’s just woken up and is intensely trying to remember what he’s been dreaming.
“Corrugated iron; that’s it,” says Ove with a nod.
Rune looks at him, or rather he looks straight through him. His eyes have the gleam of a newly waxed car hood.
He’s emaciated and hunchbacked; his beard is gray, bordering on white.
This used to be a solid bloke commanding a bit of respect, but now his clothes hang on his body in rags.
He’s grown old: very, very old, Ove realizes, and it hits him with a force he hadn’t quite counted on.
Rune’s gaze flickers for a moment. Then his mouth starts twitching.
“Ove?” he exclaims. “Yeah, well... one thing’s for sure, I’m not the pope,” Ove replies.
The baggy skin on Rune’s face cracks into a sleepy smile.
Both men, once as close as men of that sort could be, stare at each other.
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