because it has the smallest surface area. He’s assuming that there’s a good deal of splattering when one shoots oneself in the head,
and he’s loath to leave more of a mess behind than he has to. Sonja always hated it when he made a mess.
He’s wearing his going-out shoes and suit again. It’s dirty and still smells of car exhaust, but it’ll have to do.
He weighs the rifle in his hands, as if checking its center of gravity. As if this will play a decisive role in the future of the venture.
He turns and twists it, tries to angle the barrel almost as if intending to fold the weapon double.
Not that Ove knows very much about weapons, but one wants to know if it’s a decent piece of equipment one’s got, more or less.
And because Ove supposes one can’t test the quality of a rifle by kicking it, he decides it can be done by bending and pulling at it, to see what happens.
While he’s doing this, it strikes him that it was probably a fairly bad idea to put on his best gear.
Will be an awful lot of blood on the suit, Ove imagines. Seems silly.
So he puts down the rifle, goes into the living room, gets undressed, carefully folds up the suit, and puts it neatly beside his going-out shoes.
Then he gets out the letter with all the instructions for Parvaneh and writes “Bury me in my suit” under the heading “Funeral Arrangements”
and puts the letter on top of the pile of clothes. He has already stated clearly and unmistakably that there should not be any fuss in other respects.
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