At long last Ove’s gaze fell on the truck, visible through the old man’s kitchen window.
“That’s an L10, isn’t it?” he said, pointing with his fork. “Yup,” said the old man, looking down at his plate.
“Saab is making them now,” Ove stated with a short nod. “Scania!” the old man roared, glaring at Ove.
And the room was once again overwhelmed by that silence which can only arise between a woman’s beloved and her father.
Ove looked down grimly at his plate. Sonja kicked her father on his shin. Her father looked back at her grumpily.
Until he saw those twitches around her eyes. He was not so stupid a man that he had not learned to avoid what tended to happen after them.
So he cleared his throat irately and picked at his food.
Just because some suit at Saab waved his wallet around and bought the factory it don’t stop being a Scania,
he grunted in a low voice, which was slightly less accusing, and then moved his shinbones a little farther from his daughter’s shoe.
Sonja’s father had always driven Scania trucks. He couldn’t understand why anyone would have anything else.
Then, after years of consumer loyalty, they merged with Saab. It was a treachery he never quite forgave them for.
Ove, who, in turn, had become very interested in Scania when they merged with Saab, looked thoughtfully out of the window while chewing his potato.
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