Read Online Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fredrik Backman
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who takes snuff and thinks it’s absolutely in order to let dead animals die in the walls and stink the place out?”
“I was only trying to help,” says the girl.
“Ha. A fine lot of help that was. Some of us actually have other things to do than hanging about dealing with pest control women all day long,” says Britt-Marie well-meaningly.
“I couldn’t agree more,” says the girl.
There’s a queue in the corner shop. Or the pizzeria. Or the post office. Or the car workshop. Or whatever it is. Either way, there’s a queue. In the middle of the afternoon. As if people here don’t have anything better to do at this time.
The men with beards and caps are drinking coffee and reading the newspapers at one of the tables. Karl is standing at the front of the queue. He’s picking up a parcel. How very nice for him, thinks Britt-Marie, having all this leisure time on his hands. A cuboid woman in her thirties stands in front of Britt-Marie, wearing her sunglasses. Indoors. Very modern, muses Britt-Marie.
She has a white dog with her. Britt-Marie can’t think it’s very hygienic. The woman buys a pack of butter and six beers with foreign lettering on the cans, which Somebody produces from behind the counter. Also four packs of bacon and more chocolate cookies than Britt-Marie believes any civilized person could possibly need. Somebody asks if she’d like to have it on credit. The woman nods grumpily and throws it all in a bag. Britt-Marie would obviouslynever consider the woman to be “fat,” because Britt-Marie is absolutely not the kind of person who pigeonholes people like that, but it does strike her how wonderful it must be for the woman to go through life so untroubled by her cholesterol levels.
“Are you blind, or what?” the woman roars as she turns around and charges directly into Britt-Marie.
Britt-Marie opens her eyes wide in surprise. Adjusts her hair.
“I most certainly am not. I have quite perfect vision. I’ve spoken to my optometrist about it. ‘You have quite perfect vision,’ he said!”
“In that case could you possibly get out of the way?” grunts the woman and waves a stick at her.
Britt-Marie looks at the stick. Looks at the dog and the sunglasses.
She mumbles, “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” and nods apologetically before she realizes that nodding won’t make any difference. The blind woman and the dog walk through her more than they walk past her. The door tinkles cheerfully behind them. It doesn’t have the sense to do anything else.
Somebody rolls past Britt-Marie and waves encouragingly at her.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s like Karl. Lemon up her arse, you know.”
She makes a gesture with her arm, which Britt-Marie feels is supposed to indicate how far up the latter the former is stuck, and then piles up a stack of empty pizza boxes on the counter.
Britt-Marie adjusts her hair and adjusts her skirt and instinctively adjusts the topmost pizza box, which isn’t quite straight, and then tries to adjust her dignity as well and say in a tone that is absolutely considerate:
“I should like to know how the repair of my car is progressing.”
Somebody scratches her hair.
“Sure, sure, sure, that car, yeah. You know, I have something to ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie?”
“Door? Why . . . what in the world do you mean?”
“You know, only asking. Color: important for Britt-Marie, I understand. Yellow door: not okay. So I ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie? If not important then Britt-Marie’s car is, what’s-it-called? Finish repaired! If a door is important . . . you know. Maybe, what’s-it-called? Longer delivery time!”
She looks pleased. Britt-Marie does not look pleased.
“For goodness sake, I must have a door on the car!” she fumes.
Somebody waves the palms of her hands defensively.
“Sure, sure, sure, no get angry. Just ask. Door: a little longer!” She measures out a few
“I was only trying to help,” says the girl.
“Ha. A fine lot of help that was. Some of us actually have other things to do than hanging about dealing with pest control women all day long,” says Britt-Marie well-meaningly.
“I couldn’t agree more,” says the girl.
There’s a queue in the corner shop. Or the pizzeria. Or the post office. Or the car workshop. Or whatever it is. Either way, there’s a queue. In the middle of the afternoon. As if people here don’t have anything better to do at this time.
The men with beards and caps are drinking coffee and reading the newspapers at one of the tables. Karl is standing at the front of the queue. He’s picking up a parcel. How very nice for him, thinks Britt-Marie, having all this leisure time on his hands. A cuboid woman in her thirties stands in front of Britt-Marie, wearing her sunglasses. Indoors. Very modern, muses Britt-Marie.
She has a white dog with her. Britt-Marie can’t think it’s very hygienic. The woman buys a pack of butter and six beers with foreign lettering on the cans, which Somebody produces from behind the counter. Also four packs of bacon and more chocolate cookies than Britt-Marie believes any civilized person could possibly need. Somebody asks if she’d like to have it on credit. The woman nods grumpily and throws it all in a bag. Britt-Marie would obviouslynever consider the woman to be “fat,” because Britt-Marie is absolutely not the kind of person who pigeonholes people like that, but it does strike her how wonderful it must be for the woman to go through life so untroubled by her cholesterol levels.
“Are you blind, or what?” the woman roars as she turns around and charges directly into Britt-Marie.
Britt-Marie opens her eyes wide in surprise. Adjusts her hair.
“I most certainly am not. I have quite perfect vision. I’ve spoken to my optometrist about it. ‘You have quite perfect vision,’ he said!”
“In that case could you possibly get out of the way?” grunts the woman and waves a stick at her.
Britt-Marie looks at the stick. Looks at the dog and the sunglasses.
She mumbles, “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” and nods apologetically before she realizes that nodding won’t make any difference. The blind woman and the dog walk through her more than they walk past her. The door tinkles cheerfully behind them. It doesn’t have the sense to do anything else.
Somebody rolls past Britt-Marie and waves encouragingly at her.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s like Karl. Lemon up her arse, you know.”
She makes a gesture with her arm, which Britt-Marie feels is supposed to indicate how far up the latter the former is stuck, and then piles up a stack of empty pizza boxes on the counter.
Britt-Marie adjusts her hair and adjusts her skirt and instinctively adjusts the topmost pizza box, which isn’t quite straight, and then tries to adjust her dignity as well and say in a tone that is absolutely considerate:
“I should like to know how the repair of my car is progressing.”
Somebody scratches her hair.
“Sure, sure, sure, that car, yeah. You know, I have something to ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie?”
“Door? Why . . . what in the world do you mean?”
“You know, only asking. Color: important for Britt-Marie, I understand. Yellow door: not okay. So I ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie? If not important then Britt-Marie’s car is, what’s-it-called? Finish repaired! If a door is important . . . you know. Maybe, what’s-it-called? Longer delivery time!”
She looks pleased. Britt-Marie does not look pleased.
“For goodness sake, I must have a door on the car!” she fumes.
Somebody waves the palms of her hands defensively.
“Sure, sure, sure, no get angry. Just ask. Door: a little longer!” She measures out a few
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