A Man Called Ove: A Novel

Maybe Ove never forgave Rune for having a son who he could not even get along with. Maybe Rune never forgave Ove for not being able to forgive him for it. Maybe neither of them forgave themselves for not being able to give the women they loved more than anything what they wanted more than anything. Rune and Anita’s lad grew up and cleared out of home as soon as he got the chance. And Rune went and bought a sporty BMW, one of those cars that only has space for two people and a handbag. Because now it was only him and Anita, as he told Sonja when they met in the parking area. “And one can’t drive a Volvo all of one’s life,” he said with an attempt at a halfhearted smile. She could hear that he was trying to swallow his tears. And that was the moment when Ove realized that a part of Rune had given up forever. And for that maybe neither Ove nor Rune forgave him.

So there were certainly people who thought that feelings could not be judged by looking at cars. But they were wrong.

29

A MAN CALLED OVE AND A BENDER

Seriously, where are we going?!” Parvaneh wonders, out of breath.

“To fix something,” Ove answers curtly, three steps ahead of her, with the cat half jogging at his side.

“What thing?”

“A thing!”

Parvaneh stops and catches her breath.

“Here!” Ove calls out and stops abruptly in front of a little café.

A scent of fresh-baked croissants comes through the glass door. Parvaneh looks at the parking area on the other side of the street where they left the Saab. In the end they could not have parked closer to the café. At first Ove had been absolutely convinced that the café was at the other end of the block. That was when Parvaneh had suggested they could possibly park on that side, but the notion was abandoned once they found that parking cost one kronor more per hour.

Instead they had parked here and walked all around the block looking for the café. Because Ove, as Parvaneh had soon realized, was the sort of man who, when he was not quite certain where he was going, just carried on walking straight ahead, convinced that the road would eventually fall into line. And now when they find that the café is directly opposite the spot where they parked, Ove looks as if this was his plan all along. Parvaneh mops some sweat off her cheek.

A man with a ragged, dirty beard is leaning against a wall halfway down the street. He has a paper cup in front of him. Outside the café Ove, Parvaneh, and the cat meet a slim boy aged about twenty who has what looks very much like black soot around his eyes. It takes Ove a moment to realize it’s the boy who was standing behind the lad with the bicycle when Ove met him the first time. He looks a little cautious; although he smiles at Ove, Ove can’t think of anything to do but nod back. As if wanting to clarify that while he has no intention of returning the smile, he is prepared to acknowledge receipt of it.

“Why didn’t you let me park next to the red car?” Parvaneh wants to know as they open the glass door and step inside.

Ove doesn’t answer.

“I would have managed it!” she says self-confidently.

Ove shakes his head wearily. Two hours ago she didn’t know where the clutch was; now she’s irritated because he won’t let her squeeze into a narrow parking space.

Once they’re inside the café, Ove sees from the corner of his eye how the slim soot-eyed boy offers the sandwiches he’s hiding to the vagrant.

“Hi there, Ove!” a voice calls out so eagerly that it cracks into falsetto in the high notes.

Ove turns around and sees the lad from the bike shed. He’s standing behind a long, polished counter at the front of the premises, wearing a baseball cap, Ove notes. Indoors.

The cat and Parvaneh make themselves at home, the latter mopping sweat from her forehead although it’s ice-cold in there. Colder than outside in the street, actually. She pours herself some water from a pitcher on the counter. The cat unconcernedly laps up some of it from her glass when she isn’t looking.

“Do you know each other?” Parvaneh asks with surprise, looking at the youth.

“Me and Ove are sort of friends.” The youth nods.

“Are you? Me and Ove are sort of friends too!” Parvaneh grins, tenderly imitating his enthusiasm.

Ove stops at a safe distance from the counter. As if someone might give him a hug if he gets too close.

“My name’s Adrian,” says the youth.

“Parvaneh,” says Parvaneh.

“You want something to drink?” he asks them.

“A latte for me, please,” says Parvaneh, in a tone of voice as if she’s suddenly having her shoulders massaged. She dabs her forehead with a napkin. “Preferably an iced latte if you have it!”

Ove shifts his weight from his left foot to his right and peers around the premises. He’s never liked cafés. Sonja, of course, loved them. Could sit in them for an entire Sunday “just looking at people,” as she put it. Ove used to sit there with her, reading a newspaper. Every Sunday they did it. He hasn’t put his foot in a café since she died. He looks up and realizes that Adrian, Parvaneh, and the cat are waiting for his answer.