How would it look if people stopped coming to work all over the place because they’d killed themselves?
Ove’s wife died on a Friday, was buried on Sunday, and then Ove went to work on Monday. Because that’s how one handles things.
And then six months went by and out of the blue the managers came in on Monday
and said they hadn’t wanted to deal with it on Friday because “they didn’t want to ruin his weekend.”
And on Tuesday he stood there oiling his kitchen worktops.
So he’s prepared everything. He’s paid the undertakers and arranged his place in the churchyard next to her.
He’s called the lawyers and written a letter with clear instructions and put it in an envelope
with all his important receipts and the deeds of the house and the service history of the Saab.
He’s put this envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He’s paid all the bills. He has no loans and no debts, so no one will have to clear up anything after him.
He’s even washed up his coffee cup and canceled the newspaper subscription.
He is ready. And all he wants is to die in peace, he thinks, as he sits in the Saab and looks out of the open garage door.
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