“Press the clutch pedal,” says Ove, slightly grim.
Parvaneh looks around her seat as if searching for something. Then she looks at Ove and smiles ingratiatingly.
“Which one’s the clutch?” Ove’s face fills with disbelief.
She looks around the seat again, turns toward the seat belt fixture in the back rest, as if she may find the clutch there.
Ove holds his forehead. Parvaneh’s facial expression immediately sours.
“I told you I want a driver’s license for an automatic! Why did you make me use your car?”
“Because you’re getting a proper license!” Ove cuts her short, emphasizing “proper” in a way that makes it plain
that a license for an automatic is as much a “proper driver’s license” as a car with an automatic gearbox is a “proper car.”
“Stop shouting at me!” shouts Parvaneh. “I’m not shouting!” Ove shouts back.
The cat curls up in the backseat, clearly anxious not to end up in the middle of this, whatever it is.
Parvaneh crosses her arms and glares out of the side window. Ove strikes his paper baton rhythmically into the palm of his hand.
“The pedal on the far left is the clutch,” he grunts in the end.
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