But to his own surprise he could not bring himself to use any of them.
“I know who you are, Ove. I know everything about all the letters you’ve written about your wife’s accident and your wife’s illness.
You’re something of a legend in our offices, you should know,” said the man in the white shirt, his voice quite unwavering.
Ove’s mouth opened into a crack. The man in the white shirt nodded at him.
“I know who you are. And I’m only doing my job. A decision is a decision.
You can’t do anything about it, you should have learned that by now.”
Ove took a step towards him but the man put up a hand against his chest and pressed him back.
Not violently. Not aggressively. Just softly and firmly,
as if the hand did not belong to him but was directly controlled by some robot at the computer center of a municipal authority.
“Go and watch some TV instead. Before you have more problems with that heart of yours.”
On the passenger side of the Škoda the determined woman, wearing an identical white shirt, stepped out with a pile of paper in her arms.
The man locked the car with a loud bleep. Then he turned his back on Ove as if Ove had never stood there talking to him.
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