Of course, he was supposed to have died today. He had been planning to calmly and peacefully shoot himself in the head just after breakfast.
He’d tidied the kitchen and let the cat out and made himself comfortable in his favorite armchair.
He’d planned it this way because the cat routinely asked to be let out at this time.
One of the few traits of the cat that Ove was highly appreciative of was its reluctance to crap in other people’s homes.
Ove was a man of the same ilk. But then of course Parvaneh came banging on his door
as if it were the last functioning toilet in the civilized world.
As if that woman had nowhere to wee at home. Ove put the rifle away behind the radiator so she wouldn’t see it and start interfering.
He opened the door and she more or less had to press her telephone into his hand by violent means before he accepted it.
“What is this?” Ove wanted to know, the telephone held between his index finger and his thumb, as if it smelled bad.
“It’s for you,” groaned Parvaneh, holding her stomach and mopping sweat from her forehead even though it was below freezing outside.
“That journalist.” “What do I want with her telephone?”
“God. It’s not her telephone, it’s my telephone. She’s on the line!” Parvaneh said impatiently.
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