A Man Called Ove: A Novel

Ove walks behind, dragging his steps. He doesn’t care that she thinks “it’s easier just to pay up and stop arguing.” Because it’s actually about the principle. Why is that parking attendant entitled to give Ove a ticket for questioning why one has to pay for hospital parking? Ove is not the sort of man who’ll stop himself from roaring: “You’re just a fake policeman!” at a parking attendant. That’s all there is to say about it.

You go to the hospital to die, Ove knows that. It’s enough that the state wants to be paid for everything you do while you’re alive. When it also wants to be paid for the parking when you go to die, Ove thinks that’s about far enough. He explained this in so many words to the parking attendant. And that’s when the parking attendant started waving his book at him. And that’s when Parvaneh started raging about how she’d be quite happy to pay up. As if that was the important part of the discussion.

Women don’t seem to get principles.

He hears the seven-year-old complaining in front of him that her clothes are smelling of exhaust. Even though they kept the Saab’s windows rolled down all the way, it wasn’t possible to get rid of the stench. Their mother had asked Ove what he’d really been doing in the garage, but Ove had just answered with a sound more or less like when you try to move a bathtub by dragging it across some tiles. Of course, for the three-year-old it was the greatest adventure of her life to be able to drive along in a car with all its windows down although it was below freezing outside. The seven-year-old, on the other hand, had burrowed her face into her scarf and vented a good deal more skepticism. She’d been irritated about slipping around with her bottom on the sheets of newspaper Ove had spread across the seat to stop them “filthifying things.” Ove had also spread newspaper on the front seat, but her mother snatched it away before she sat down. Ove had looked more than advisably displeased about this, but managed not to say anything. Instead he constantly glanced at her stomach all the way to the hospital, as if anxious that she might suddenly start leaking on the upholstery.

“Stand still here now,” she says to the girls when they are in the hospital reception.

They’re surrounded by glass walls and benches smelling of disinfectant. There are nurses in white clothes and colorful plastic slippers and old people dragging themselves back and forth in the corridors, leaning on rickety walkers. On the floor is a sign announcing that Elevator 2 in Entrance A is out of order, and that visitors to Ward 114 are therefore asked to go to Elevator 1 in Entrance C. Beneath that is another message, announcing that Elevator 1 in Entrance C is out of order and visitors to Ward 114 are asked to go to Elevator 2 in Entrance A. Under that message is a third message, announcing that Ward 114 is closed this month because of repairs. Under that message is a picture of a clown, informing people that Beppo the hospital clown is visiting sick children today.

“Where did Ove get to now?” Parvaneh bursts out.

“He went to the bathroom, I think,” mumbles the seven-year-old.

“Clauwn!” says the three-year-old, pointing happily at the sign.

“Do you know you have to pay them here to go to the bathroom?” Ove exclaims incredulously.

Parvaneh spins around and gives Ove a harassed look.

“Do you need change?”

Ove looks offended.

“Why would I need change?”

“For the bathroom?”

“I don’t need to go to the bathroom.”

“But you said—” she begins, then stops herself and shakes her head. “Forget it, just forget it. . . . When does the parking meter run out?” she asks instead.

“Ten minutes.”

She groans.

“Don’t you understand it’ll take longer than ten minutes?”

“In that case I’ll go out and feed the meter in ten minutes,” says Ove, as if this was quite obvious.

“Why don’t you just pay for longer and save yourself the bother?” she asks and looks like she wishes she hadn’t as soon as the question crosses her lips.

“Because that’s exactly what they want! They’re not getting a load of money for time we might not even use!”

“Oh, I don’t have the strength for this. . . .” sighs Parvaneh and holds her forehead.

She looks at her daughters.

“Will you sit here nicely with Uncle Ove while Mum goes to see how Dad is? Please?”

“Yeah, yeah,” agrees the seven-year-old grumpily.

“Yeeeees!” the three-year-old shrieks with excitement.

“What?” whispers Ove.

Parvaneh stands up.

“What do you mean, ‘with Ove’? Where do you think you’re going?” To his great consternation, the Pregnant One seems not to register the level of upset in his voice.

“You have to sit here and keep an eye on them,” she states curtly and disappears down the corridor before Ove can raise further objections.