Read Online A Man Called Ove: A Novel by Fredrik Backman - Free Book Online Page A

face with some reluctance, as if to check that every protuberance is still where it should be.
    “This is for you,” she says in a friendly sort of voice, and then shoves a blue plastic box into Ove’s arms.
    Ove looks skeptical.
    “Cookies,” she explains encouragingly.
    Ove nods slowly, as if to confirm this.
    “You’ve really dressed up,” she says with a smile.
    Ove nods again.
    And then they stand there, all three of them, waiting for someone to say something. In the end she looks at the Lanky One and shakes her head with resignation.
    “Oh, please, will you stop fidgeting with your face, darling?” she whispers and gives him a push in the side.
    The Lanky One raises his eyes, meets her gaze, and nods. Looks at Ove. Ove looks at the Pregnant One. The Lanky One points at the box and his face lights up.
    “She’s Iranian, you know. They bring food with them wherever they go.”
    Ove gives him a blank stare. The Lanky One looks even more hesitant.
    “You know . . . that’s why I go so well with Iranians. They like to cook food and I like to . . .” he begins, with an over-the-top smile.
    Then he goes silent. Ove looks spectacularly uninterested.
    “. . . eat,” the Lanky One finishes.
    He looks as if he’s about to make a drumroll in the air with his fingers. But then he looks at the Pregnant Foreign Woman and decides that it would probably be a bad idea.
    “And?” Ove offers, wearily.
    She stretches, puts her hands on her stomach.
    “We just wanted to introduce ourselves, now that we’re going to be neighbors. . . .”
    Ove nods tersely and concisely.
    “Okay. Bye.”
    He tries to close the door. She stops him with her arm.
    “And then we wanted to thank you for backing up our trailer. That was very kind of you!”
    Ove grunts. Reluctantly he keeps the door open.
    “That’s not something to thank me for.”
    “Yeah, it was really nice,” she protests.
    “No, I mean it shouldn’t be something to thank me for, because a grown man should be able to back up with a trailer,” he replies, casting a somewhat unimpressed gaze on the Lanky One, who looks at him as if unsure whether or not this is an insult. Ove decides not to help him out of his quandary. He backs away and tries to close the door again.
    “My name is Parvaneh!” she says, putting her foot across his threshold.
    Ove stares at the foot, then at the face it’s attached to.
    As if he’s having difficulties understanding what she just did.
    “I’m Patrick!” says the Lanky One.
    Neither Ove nor Parvaneh takes the slightest notice of him.
    “Are you always this unfriendly?” Parvaneh wonders, with genuine curiosity.
    Ove looks insulted.
    “I’m not bloody unfriendly.”
    “You are a bit unfriendly.”
    “No I’m not!”
    “No, no, no, your every word is a cuddle, it really is,” she replies in a way that makes Ove feel she doesn’t mean it at all.
    He releases his grip on the door handle for a moment or two. Inspects the box of cookies in his hand.
    “Right. Arabian cookies. Worth having, are they?” he mutters.
    “Persian,” she corrects.
    “What?”
    “Persian, not Arabian. I’m from Iran—you know, where they speak Farsi?” she explains.
    “Farcical? That’s the least you could say,” Ove agrees.
    Her laughter catches him off guard. As if it’s carbonated and someone has poured it too fast and it’s bubbling over in all directions. It doesn’t fit at all with the gray cement and right-angled garden paving stones. It’s an untidy, mischievous laugh that refuses to go along with rules and prescriptions.
    Ove takes a step backwards. His foot sticks to some tape by the threshold. As he tries to shake it off, with some irritation, he tears up the corner of the plastic. When he tries to shake off both the tape and the plastic sheeting, he stumbles backwards and pulls up even more of it. Angrily, he regains his balance. Remains there on the threshold, trying to summon some calm. Grabs hold of the door