One of them a man who refuses to forget the past, and one who can’t remember it at all. “You look old,” says Ove. Rune grins.
Then Anita’s anxious voice makes itself heard and in the next moment her small, drumming feet are bearing her at speed towards the door.
“Is there someone at the door, Rune? What are you doing there?” she calls out, terrified, as she appears in the doorway.
Then she sees Ove. “Oh... hello, Ove,” she says and stops abruptly.
Ove stands there with his hands in his pockets. The cat beside him looks as if it would do the same, if it had pockets. Or hands.
Anita is small and colorless in her gray trousers, gray knitted cardigan, gray hair, and gray skin.
But Ove notices that her face is slightly red-eyed and swollen. Quickly she wipes her eyes and blinks away the pain. As women of that generation do.
As if they stood in the doorway every morning, determinedly driving sorrow out of the house with a broom.
Tenderly she takes Rune by the shoulders and leads him to his wheelchair by the window in the living room.
“Hello, Ove,” she repeats in a friendly, also surprised, voice when she comes back to the door.
“What can I do for you?” “Do you have any corrugated iron?” he asks back.
She looks puzzled. “Corrected iron?” she mumbles, as if the iron has somehow been wrong and now someone has to put it right.
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