A grandchild of his, Ove realized. He watched them surreptitiously through the bedroom window.
The way the older man and the boy spoke in low voices with each other, as if they were sharing some great secret.
It reminded him of something. That night he had his supper in the Saab.
A few weeks later, Ove drove home the last nail in his house, and when the sun rose over the horizon he stood in the garden
with his hands shoved into the pockets of his navy trousers, proudly surveying his work.
He’d discovered that he liked houses. Maybe mostly because they were understandable.
They could be calculated and drawn on paper. They did not leak if they were made watertight; they did not collapse if they were properly supported.
Houses were fair, they gave you what you deserved. Which, unfortunately, was more than one could say about people.
And so the days went by. Ove went to work and came home and had sausages and spuds. He never felt alone despite his lack of company.
Then one Sunday, as Ove was moving some planks, a jovial man with a round face and an ill-fitting suit turned up at his gate.
The sweat ran from his forehead and he asked Ove if there might be a glass of water of the cold variety going spare.
Ove saw no reason to deny him this, and while the man drank it by his gate, some small talk passed between them.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색