A Man Called Ove: A Novel

“Very unfortunate, this,” said the other, with a curt nod at what used to be Ove’s house.

Ove nodded.

“The fire brigade says it was caused by a harmless electrical fault,” continued the first white shirt robotically, pointing at a paper in his hand.

Ove felt a spontaneous objection to his use of the word “harmless.”

“We’ve sent you letters,” the second man repeated, waving his pad. “The municipal boundaries are being redrawn.”

“The land where your house stands will be developed for a number of new constructions.”

“The land where your house stood,” corrected his partner.

“The council is willing to purchase your land at the market price,” said the first man.

“Well . . . a market price now that there’s no longer a house on the land,” clarified the other.

Ove took the papers. Started reading.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” said the first.

“This is not so much your choice as the council’s,” said the other.

The first man tapped his pen impatiently against the papers, pointing at a line at the bottom where it said “signature.”

Ove stood at his gate and read their document in silence. He became aware of an ache in his breast; it took a long, long time before he understood what it was.

Hate.

He hated those men in white shirts. He couldn’t remember having hated anyone before, but now it was like a ball of fire inside. Ove’s parents had bought this house. Ove had grown up here. Learned to walk. His father had taught him everything there was to know about a Saab engine here. And after all that, someone at a municipal authority decided something else should be built here. And a man with a round face sold insurance that was not insurance. A man in a white shirt prevented Ove from putting out a fire and now two other white shirts stood here talking about a “market price.”

But Ove really did not have a choice. He could have stood there until the sun had completely risen, but he could not change the situation.

So he signed their document. While keeping his fist clenched in his pocket.

He left the plot where once his parental home had stood, and he never looked back. Rented a little room from an old lady in town. Sat and stared desolately at the wall all day. In the evening he went to work. Cleaned the train compartments. In the morning, he and the other workers were told not to go to their usual changing rooms; they had to go back to the head office to pick up new sets of work clothes.

As Ove was walking down the corridor he met Tom. It was the first time they had seen each other since Ove got blamed for the theft from the carriage. A more sensible man than Tom would probably have avoided eye contact. Or tried to pretend that the incident had never happened. But Tom was not a more sensible sort of man.

“Well, if it isn’t the little thief!” he exclaimed with a combative smile.

Ove didn’t answer. Tried to get past but got a hard elbow from one of the younger colleagues Tom surrounded himself with. Ove looked up. The younger colleague was smiling disdainfully at him.

“Hold on to your wallets, the thief’s here!” Tom called out so loudly that his voice echoed through the corridors.

With one hand, Ove took a firmer grip on the pile of clothes in his arm. But he clenched his fist in his pocket. Went into an empty changing room. Took off his dirty old work clothes, unclipped his father’s dented wristwatch and put it on the bench. When he turned around to go into the shower, Tom was standing in the doorway.

“We heard about the fire,” he said. Ove could see that Tom was hoping he’d answer.

“That father of yours would have been proud of you! Not even he was useless enough to burn down his own bloody house!” Tom called out to him as he was stepping into the shower.

Ove heard his younger colleagues all laughing together. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the wall, and let the hot water flow over him. Stood there for more than twenty minutes. The longest shower he’d ever had.

When he came out, his father’s watch was gone. Ove rooted among the clothes on the bench, searched the floor, fine-combed all the lockers.

A time comes in every man’s life when he decides what sort of man he is are going to be. Whether he is the kind who lets other people tread on him, or not.

Maybe it was because Tom had put the blame on him for the theft in the carriage. Maybe it was the fire. Maybe it was the bogus insurance agent. Or the white shirts. Or maybe it was just enough now. There and then, it was as if someone had removed a fuse in Ove’s mind. Everything in his eyes grew a shade darker. He walked out of the changing room, still naked and with water dripping from his flexing muscles. Walked to the end of the corridor to the foremen’s changing room, kicked the door open, and cleared a way through the astonished press of men inside. Tom was standing in front of a mirror at the far end, trimming his bushy beard. Ove gripped him by the shoulder and roared so loudly that the sheet-metal-covered walls echoed.

“Give me back my watch!”