“Does it run well?” he asked. “No,” muttered the old man irascibly and went back to his plate.
None of their models run well. None of ’em are built right.”
“Mechanics want half a fortune to fix anything on it,” he added, as if he were actually explaining it to someone sitting under the table.
“I can have a look at it if you’ll let me,” said Ove and looked enthusiastic all of a sudden.
It was the first time Sonja could ever remember him actually sounding enthusiastic about anything.
The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then Sonja’s father nodded. And Ove nodded curtly back.
And then they rose to their feet, objective and determined, in the way two men might behave if they had just agreed to go and kill a third man.
A few minutes later Sonja’s father came back into the kitchen, leaning on his stick,
and sank into his chair with his chronically dissatisfied mumbling.
He sat there for a good while stuffing his pipe with care, then at last nodded at the saucepans and managed to say: “Nice.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She smiled. “You cooked it. Not me,” he said.
“The thanks was not for the food,” she answered and took away the plates,
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