when confronted by people who do not even have the common bloody decency to attend medical school before they come to the hospital.
“His heart is too big,” the doctor states crassly. Parvaneh stares blankly at him for a very long time.
And then she looks at Ove in the bed, in a very searching way.
And then she looks at the doctor again as if she’s waiting for him to throw out his arms
and start making jazzy movements with his fingers and crying out: “Only joking!” And when he doesn’t do this she starts to laugh.
First it’s more like a cough, then as if she’s holding back a sneeze, and before long it’s a long, sustained, raucous bout of giggling.
She holds on to the side of the bed, waves her hand in front of her face as if to fan herself into stopping, but it doesn’t help.
And then at last it turns into one loud, long-drawn belly laugh that bursts out of the room
and makes the nurses in the corridor stick their heads through the door and ask in wonder, “What’s going on in here?”
“You see what I have to put up with?” Ove hisses wearily at the doctor,
rolling his eyes while Parvaneh, overwhelmed with hysterics, buries her face in one of the pillows.
The doctor looks as if there was never a seminar on how to deal with this type of situation,
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