Well, yes, I told them one might like a bit of peace and quiet like a normal human being.
But they don’t listen, they don’t,” he moans, waving his arms tiredly towards the gravestone.
“Hi, Sonja,” says Parvaneh behind him, with a cheerful wave so that her big mittens slip off her hands.
“Hajj!” the three-year-old hollers happily. “‘Hi,’ you’re supposed to say ‘hi,’” the seven-year-old corrects.
“Hi, Sonja,” say Patrick, Jimmy, Adrian, and Mirsad, all nodding in turn.
Ove stamps the snow off his shoes and nods, with a grunt, at the cat beside him. “Yeah. And the cat you already know.”
Parvaneh’s belly is now so big that she looks like a giant tortoise when she heaves herself down into a squatting position,
one hand on the gravestone and the other hooked around Patrick’s arm.
Not that Ove dares bring up the giant tortoise metaphor, of course.
There are more pleasant ways of killing oneself, he feels.
And that’s speaking as someone who’s already tried quite a few of them.
“This flower is from Patrick and the children and me,” says Parvaneh with a friendly smile at the stone.
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