It was important, Ove understood, that it had to be every other day. He didn’t know why, but that didn’t matter.
In the evenings they had sausages and potatoes. Then they played cards. They never had much, but they always had enough.
His father’s only remaining words were about engines (apparently his mother was content to leave these behind).
He could spend any amount of time talking about them. “Engines give you what you deserve,” he used to explain.
“If you treat them with respect they’ll give you freedom; if you behave like an ass they’ll take it from you.”
For a long time he did not own a car of his own, but in the 1940s and ’50s,
when the bosses and directors at the railway started buying their own vehicles,
a rumor soon spread in the office that the quiet man working on the track was a person well worth knowing.
Ove’s father had never finished school, and didn’t understand much about the sums in Ove’s schoolbooks.
But he understood engines. When the daughter of the director was getting married and the wedding car broke down
rather than ceremoniously transporting the bride to the church, Ove’s father was sent for.
He came cycling with a toolbox on his shoulder so heavy that it took two men to lift it when he got off the bicycle.
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