Whatever the problem was when he arrived, it was no longer a problem when he cycled back.
The director’s wife invited him to the wedding reception,
but he told her that it was probably not the done thing to sit with elegant people
when one was the sort of man whose forearms were so stained with oil that it seemed a natural part of his pigmentation.
But he’d gladly accept a bag of bread and meat for the lad at home, he said.
Ove had just turned eight. When his father laid out the supper that evening, Ove felt like he was at a royal banquet.
A few months later the director sent for Ove’s father again.
In the parking area outside the office stood an extremely old and worse-for-wear Saab 92.
It was the first motorcar Saab had ever manufactured,
although it had not been in production since the significantly upgraded Saab 93 had come onto the market.
Ove’s dad recognized it very well. Front-wheel-driven and a side- mounted engine that sounded like a coffee percolator.
It had been in an accident, the director explained, sticking his thumbs into his suspenders under his jacket.
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