A Man Called Ove: A Novel Read Free Page B

on backing up to the LEFT! You don’t listen! You NEVER listen!”
    After that, she immerses herself in half a minute’s worth of haranguing in what Ove can only assume to be a display of the complex vocabulary of Arabic cursing.
    The husband just nods back at her with an indescribably harmonious smile. The very sort of smile that makes decent folk want to slap Buddhist monks in the face, Ove thinks to himself.
    “Oh, come on. I’m sorry,” he says cheerfully, hauling out a tin of chewing tobacco from his pocket and packing it in a ball the size of a walnut. “It was only a little accident, we’ll sort it out!”
    Ove looks at the Lanky One as if the Lanky One has just squatted over the hood of Ove’s car and left a turd on it.
    “Sort it out? You’re in my flowerbed!”
    The Lanky One looks ponderously at the trailer wheels.
    “That’s hardly a flowerbed, is it?” He smiles, undaunted, and adjusts his tobacco with the tip of his tongue. “Naah, come on, that’s just soil,” he persists, as if Ove is having a joke with him.
    Ove’s forehead compresses itself into one large, threatening wrinkle.
    “It. Is. A. Flowerbed.”
    The Lanky One scratches his head, as if he’s got some tobacco caught in his tangled hair.
    “But you’re not growing anything in it—”
    “Never you bloody mind what I do with my own flowerbed!”
    The Lanky One nods quickly, clearly keen to avoid further provocation of this unknown man. He turns to his wife as if he’s expecting her to come to his aid. She doesn’t look at all likely to do so. The Lanky One looks at Ove again.
    “Pregnant, you know. Hormones and all that . . .” he tries, with a grin.
    The Pregnant One does not grin. Nor does Ove. She crosses her arms. Ove tucks his hands into his belt. The Lanky One clearly doesn’t know what to do with his massive hands, so he swings them back and forth across his body, slightly shamefully, as if they’re made of cloth, fluttering in the breeze.
    “I’ll move it and have another go,” he finally says and smiles disarmingly at Ove again.
    Ove does not reciprocate.
    “Motor vehicles are not allowed in the area. There’s a sign.”
    The Lanky One steps back and nods eagerly. Jogs back and once again contorts his body into the under-dimensioned Japanese car. “Christ,” Ove and the pregnant woman mutter wearily in unison. Which actually makes Ove dislike her slightly less.
    The Lanky One pulls forward a few yards; Ove can see very clearly that he does not straighten up the trailer properly. Then he starts backing up again. Right into Ove’s mailbox, buckling the green sheet metal.
    Ove storms forward and throws the car door open.
    The Lanky One starts flapping his arms again.
    “My fault, my fault! Sorry about that, didn’t see the mailbox in the rearview mirror, you know. It’s difficult, this trailer thing, just can’t figure out which way to turn the wheel . . .”
    Ove thumps his fist on the roof of the car so hard that the Lanky One jumps and bangs his head on the doorframe. “Out of the car!”
    “What?”
    “Get out of the car, I said!”
    The Lanky One gives Ove a slightly startled glance, but he doesn’t quite seem to have the nerve to reply. Instead he gets out of his car and stands beside it like a schoolboy in the dunce’s corner. Ove points down the footpath between the row houses, towards the bicycle shed and the parking area.
    “Go and stand where you’re not in the way.”
    The Lanky One nods, slightly puzzled.
    “Holy Christ. A lower-arm amputee with cataracts could have backed this trailer more accurately than you,” Ove mutters as he gets into the car.
    How can anyone be incapable of reversing with a trailer? he asks himself. How? How difficult is it to establish the basics of right and left and then do the opposite? How do these people make their way through life at all?
    Of course it’s an automatic, Ove notes. Might have known. These morons would rather not have to drive their