Blue view of death dawn part two. Lost in the maze

Fredrik Backman

Uwe's second life

En Man Som Heter Ove

* * *

Dedicated to Ned. As always, to make you laugh. As always

1. Uwe buys a computer that is not a computer

Ove is fifty-nine years old. He drives his native Swedish Saab. There is such a breed of people: if you happen to not please them, they will certainly poke a finger at you, like you are a thief prowling in the night, and their finger is a police lantern. Ove of these. IN currently he stands at the counter in the salon and looks searchingly at the seller, waving a small white box:

- So this, therefore, is the very “trash”?

The salesman, a youth with a clear underweight, is nervous. Apparently, he is struggling with the desire to take the box away from Uwe.

- Quite right. iPad. Only what is it you, you shouldn’t shake it like that ...

Ove looks at the box as if it were a highly questionable item. How he would have looked at a dumbass in sweatpants who rolled up to him in an Italian Vespa and with the words “Hey, bratella!” I would try to sell him a fake watch.

- So-so. Is it a computer or what?

The salesperson nods. But then, doubtfully, he vigorously shakes his head:

- Yeah ... Although, in fact, not quite a computer. This is an iPad. Someone calls them tablets, someone - tablets. How to see…

Ove looks at the seller as if he suddenly spoke in gibberish:

The salesperson nods uncertainly.

- Well, yes…

Uwe shakes the box again:

- And how is he, nothing?

The seller scratches the top of his head:

- Nothing like. What about you... What do you mean?

Ove, sighing, begins slowly, carefully pronouncing each word. As if the only obstacle to the conversation is the deafness of the seller:

- How. He. Nothing? This. Computer. Good?

The salesperson scratches his chin:

- Well, actually ... how to say ... Very much nothing ... It all depends on what you need.

Ove, looking him over:

- I need a computer. What else?

Short silent scene. Then the seller, coughing, decides:

“It's not like an ordinary computer. You probably need something like...

The salesperson pauses, obviously choosing a word that would evoke the desired association in the interlocutor. Coughs again. Finally located:

- ... like a laptop?

Ove, shaking his head vigorously, looms menacingly over the counter.

- Yes, in FIG, your laptop surrendered to me? I need a computer!

The seller nods condescendingly:

A laptop is also a computer.

Ove, glaring at the salesman in an insulted manner, pokes his lantern finger at the counter instructively:

- I know this without you!

“OK,” the salesman nods.

Another hitch. It is as if two duelists, having converged, suddenly discovered that they had not taken their pistols with them. Ove stares at the box for a long time, as if seeking a confession from it.

- Well, where is the keyboard hidden here? he finally chimes.

The young man begins to scratch his hands on the edge of the counter and shifts nervously, as is typical of novice retailers who realize that serving a customer will take significantly longer than originally expected.

You see, there is no keyboard.

Ove (raising his eyebrows):

- Well, of course! She needs to be bought, right? Who the hell knows what kind of money, right?

The salesman scratches his palms again:

- No ... Well ... In general, this is a computer without a keyboard. All operations are performed directly from the display.

Ove shakes his head reproachfully, as if the seller tried to lick the ice cream through the window glass:

- So why is he without a keyboard? Think by yourself!

The salesman sighs heavily, as if counting to ten to himself.

- OK. I understand. Then you should not take this computer. Take some other, macbook for example.

Ove's face shows sudden uncertainty.

– And not a Big Mac, for an hour?

The seller comes to life, as if he has achieved a decisive success in the negotiations:

- No. MacBook! Exactly.

Ove furrows his brow in disbelief.

"Isn't that the fucking reading room everyone's talking about these days?"

The salesman let out an epic sigh that your professional reciter:

- No. Macbook is ... that ... such a laptop. With keyboard.

– Really? Uwe scoffs.

The salesperson nods. It scratches the palms.

Ove looks around the store. Shakes the box again.

- And how is he? Nothing?

The salesman stares at the counter, clearly fighting the urge to scratch his nose. And suddenly breaks into a cheerful smile:

– Do you know what? Maybe my partner has already served the buyer, so he'd better show and tell you everything!

Ove looks at his watch. Shakes his head:

“Of course, we don’t have anything else to do. Hang around here all day, wait for you.

The salesman nods hastily. He leaves and soon brings a partner. He smiles kindly. Like any newcomer who did not have time to become more skilled behind the counter.

- Hello! I can help you?

Ove imperiously pokes his lantern finger at the counter:

- I need a computer.

The smile begins to fade from his partner's face. He looks over at the first salesman. This look unambiguously says: well, brother, you will get in trouble with me.

- Ah, that's it! Yes Yes. Let's take a look at the section of portable computers first, - his partner says without the same enthusiasm, turning to Uwe.

Ove frowns:

- Damn it! Like I don't know what a laptop is! Is it necessary to say "portable"?

The companion nods helpfully. The first salesman behind him mutters, "That's it, I've had enough, I'm out for lunch."

- Well, the worker has gone now. Only lunch is on my mind,” Ove chuckles.

- What? The second salesman looks around.

“O-b-e-d,” Ove spells out.

2. (Three weeks earlier). Uwe inspects the area

At five minutes to six Uwe's first meeting with the cat took place. Ove the cat didn't like it right away. Needless to say, the hostility was highly mutual.

Ove woke up as usual - ten minutes before the tour. He did not understand at all those who, having overslept, blame the alarm clock. He never kept alarm clocks. I just woke up at a quarter to six and got up.

Uwe brewed coffee, pouring exactly as much coffee into the coffee maker as he and his wife fell asleep during the forty years they lived in this village. At the rate of one spoon per cup, plus one more per coffee pot. No more, no less. And now they have forgotten how to make normal coffee. As well as forgot how to write beautifully. Now more and more computers and espresso machines. And where does it fit, such a society in which they can’t really write or brew coffee, Uwe lamented.

Current page: 1 (total book has 19 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 13 pages]

Fredrik Backman
Uwe's second life

En Man Som Heter Ove

* * *

Dedicated to Ned. As always, to make you laugh. As always

1. Uwe buys a computer that is not a computer

Ove is fifty-nine years old. He drives his native Swedish Saab. There is such a breed of people: if you happen to not please them, they will certainly poke a finger at you, like you are a thief prowling in the night, and their finger is a police lantern. Ove of these. At the moment, he is standing at the counter in the salon and looking at the seller searchingly, waving a small white box:

- So this, therefore, is the very “trash”?

The salesman, a youth with a clear underweight, is nervous. Apparently, he is struggling with the desire to take the box away from Uwe.

- Quite right. iPad. Only what is it you, you shouldn’t shake it like that ...

- So-so. Is it a computer or what?

The salesperson nods. But then, doubtfully, he vigorously shakes his head:

- Yeah ... Although, in fact, not quite a computer. This is an iPad. Someone calls them tablets, someone - tablets. How to see…

Ove looks at the seller as if he suddenly spoke in gibberish:

The salesperson nods uncertainly.

- Well, yes…

Uwe shakes the box again:

- And how is he, nothing?

The seller scratches the top of his head:

- Nothing like. What about you... What do you mean?

Ove, sighing, begins slowly, carefully pronouncing each word. As if the only obstacle to the conversation is the deafness of the seller:

- How. He. Nothing? This. Computer. Good?

The salesperson scratches his chin:

- Well, actually ... how to say ... Very much nothing ... It all depends on what you need.

Ove, looking him over:

- I need a computer. What else?

Short silent scene. Then the seller, coughing, decides:

“It's not like an ordinary computer. You probably need something like...

The salesperson pauses, obviously choosing a word that would evoke the desired association in the interlocutor. Coughs again. Finally located:

- ... like a laptop?

Ove, shaking his head vigorously, looms menacingly over the counter.

- Yes, in FIG, your laptop surrendered to me? I need a computer!

The seller nods condescendingly:

A laptop is also a computer.

Ove, glaring at the salesman in an insulted manner, pokes his lantern finger at the counter instructively:

- I know this without you!

“OK,” the salesman nods.

- Well, where is the keyboard hidden here? he finally chimes.

You see, there is no keyboard.

Ove (raising his eyebrows):

- Well, of course! She needs to be bought, right? Who the hell knows what kind of money, right?

The salesman scratches his palms again:

- No ... Well ... In general, this is a computer without a keyboard. All operations are performed directly from the display.

Ove shakes his head reproachfully, as if the seller tried to lick the ice cream through the window glass:

- So why is he without a keyboard? Think by yourself!

The salesman sighs heavily, as if counting to ten to himself.

- OK. I understand. Then you should not take this computer. Take some other, macbook for example.

Ove's face shows sudden uncertainty.

– And not a Big Mac, for an hour?

The seller comes to life, as if he has achieved a decisive success in the negotiations:

- No. MacBook! Exactly.

Ove furrows his brow in disbelief.

"Isn't that the fucking reading room everyone's talking about these days?"

The salesman let out an epic sigh that your professional reciter:

- No. Macbook is ... that ... such a laptop. With keyboard.

– Really? Uwe scoffs.

The salesperson nods. It scratches the palms.

Ove looks around the store. Shakes the box again.

- And how is he? Nothing?

The salesman stares at the counter, clearly fighting the urge to scratch his nose. And suddenly breaks into a cheerful smile:

– Do you know what? Maybe my partner has already served the buyer, so he'd better show and tell you everything!

Ove looks at his watch. Shakes his head:

“Of course, we don’t have anything else to do. Hang around here all day, wait for you.

The salesman nods hastily. He leaves and soon brings a partner. He smiles kindly. Like any newcomer who did not have time to become more skilled behind the counter.

- Hello! I can help you?

Ove imperiously pokes his lantern finger at the counter:

- I need a computer.

The smile begins to fade from his partner's face. He looks over at the first salesman. This look unambiguously says: well, brother, you will get in trouble with me.

- Ah, that's it! Yes Yes. Let's take a look at the section of portable computers first, - his partner says without the same enthusiasm, turning to Uwe.

Ove frowns:

- Damn it! Like I don't know what a laptop is! Is it necessary to say "portable"?

The companion nods helpfully. The first salesman behind him mutters, "That's it, I've had enough, I'm out for lunch."

- Well, the worker has gone now. Only lunch is on my mind,” Ove chuckles.

- What? The second salesman looks around.

“O-b-e-d,” Ove spells out.

2. (Three weeks earlier). Uwe inspects the area

At five minutes to six Uwe's first meeting with the cat took place. Ove the cat didn't like it right away. Needless to say, the hostility was highly mutual.

And before pouring himself a cup of good coffee, Uwe put on blue pants, a blue jacket, put on slippers with wooden soles and, putting his hands in his pockets, as befits a middle-aged man who no longer expects anything from this stupid world but disappointments, went to inspect the surroundings. Like I did every morning.

When he stepped outside the door, it was still dark and quiet in the neighboring houses. By itself. Who here will strain and get up earlier than expected? After all, the current neighbors of Uwe are entirely individual entrepreneurs and other useless people.

Koshak sat on the path between the houses with the most imperturbable look. But what kind of cat? Yes, one name. Half tail and one ear. The skin is bald, as if a furrier had cut it into pieces the size of a fist. Not a cat, but a complete misunderstanding, and even then not a continuous one, but just like that, in tatters, Ove thought.

He started towards the cat, stomping for warning. He got up. Ove stopped. So they stood, assessing each other, like two bullies in the evening in a village pub. Uwe was trying to figure out how to more accurately throw a slipper at the scoundrel. The cat, with all his appearance, showed clear annoyance that he had nothing to throw at the enemy.

- Kush! Ove barked so that the cat started.

Stepped back a little. He looked at a fifty-nine-year-old half-wit in flip flops with wooden soles. Then he turned lazily and trotted away. Ove even imagined that before that the cat had managed to roll his eyes contemptuously.

That's cholera, Ove swore to himself and looked at his watch. Two to six. We must hurry, otherwise, because of the lousy animal, I almost missed the round. Thankfully he got out on time.

And Uwe walked resolutely between the houses along the path towards the parking lot, which he inspected every morning. I stopped at a sign prohibiting the parking of unauthorized vehicles on the territory of the HOA. He lightly kicked a pole with a sign nailed to it. It’s not that the pillar squinted, nothing like that, just once again it won’t hurt to check for strength. And Uwe is just one of those men for whom to test a thing for strength means to kick it well.

Then he surveyed the parking lot, walked around the garages, made sure that during the night they had not been broken into by thieves and not set on fire by a gang of vandals. Frankly, nothing like this has ever happened to local garages. But, on the other hand, even Uwe did not miss a single morning round. He pulled the handle of the door behind which stood his own Saab. Three times, as usual in the morning.

Then he looked into the guest car park, where parking was limited to twenty-four hours. He carefully copied the numbers into a notebook that was in his jacket pocket. I compared them with the numbers recorded the day before. If any of the cars got into the notebook for several days in a row, Uwe usually went home and called the transport department. Having received the phone number of the car owner, he contacted the named person and brought to his attention that he considered him a fucking woodpecker without brains, unable to read the sign on mother tongue. It wasn't that Ove cared too much about which of the guests parked in the parking lot. But it's a matter of principle. They gave you twenty-four hours to park - please be kind. Well, how will everyone start parking as much as they want and where they want - what then? A complete mess, Ove thought. I won't get a breather from their cars.

Today, however, there were no other cars in the parking lot, so Uwe proceeded further with a notepad to the trash can. He inspected her daily. Not because he needs it the most (at first, Ove himself objected most loudly to the stupid idea of \u200b\u200bthese new come in large subs - to sort the garbage to numbness). But since we decided to sort, it is necessary for someone to keep an eye on this matter. It's not like someone was instructing Uwe to see if the tenants were sorting the garbage. But let Uwe and people like him take their own course, anarchy will come to the world. Ove knew this. There will be no breath from their garbage.

He lightly kicked one tank, then another. Vyudiv glass jar from the tank for glass containers, mentioned an unkind word to some "stooges" and removed the tin lid from the can. I returned the jar to the glass container, and threw the lid into the scrap bin.

When Uwe presided over the housing association, he pushed through the installation of video cameras on the garbage yard: to see which of the tenants was throwing "inappropriate garbage." To Uwe's great annoyance, the assembly voted against it: according to the rest of the neighbors, the cameras would give them "some discomfort"; besides, it would be troublesome to mess around with the video archive. Ove used his eloquence for nothing, convincing them that the "truth" is only terrible for those who "have a stigma in the cannon."

Two years later, after the coup (as Uwe himself called the story of his overthrow from the chairmanship), the issue was raised again. There appeared, they say, a kind of ultra-modern camera with touch sensors, which reacts to movement and uploads the recording to the Internet, the board reported in a letter sent to all residents. Such cameras can be placed not only in the trash, but also in the parking lot - from burglars and hooligans. In addition, the video recording will be deleted automatically after twenty-four hours - "to avoid intrusion into the privacy of residents." A unanimous decision was required to install the cameras. One member of the meeting voted against.

The fact is that Uwe did not trust the Internet. He wrote it with a lowercase letter and generally called it “internet”, despite the grumblings of his wife, who taught him how to do it right. So there was only one way to watch Uwe throwing out the garbage on this very “internet” – through Uwe’s corpse, about which he promptly informed the board. And they gave up the cameras. We'll probably manage, Ove thought. His morning rounds are much more efficient. You can immediately see who threw what where, you won’t spoil it. Eating is understandable.

After inspecting the trash cans, he habitually locked the door behind him, pulling the handle three times to make sure. Turning around, I noticed a bicycle leaning against the bike shed. Even though a hefty sign flaunts above it, clearly and clearly warning: “Parking of bicycles is prohibited!” Ove muttered something about "idiots," opened the shed, and put the bike back in line with the others. Locking the barn door, he pulled the handle three times.

Then he tore someone's angry message off the wall. It would be a good idea to send a proposal to the board to place a sign prohibiting posting ads on this wall. And then they took the fashion to hang all sorts of pieces of paper here for how much in vain. Here you have a wall, you understand, not a bulletin board.

Further Uwe passed a narrow passage between the houses. He stood in front of his house on a path paved with tiles. He leaned down to the ground and sniffed the air noisily. Urine. It stinks of urine. Noticing this circumstance, he returned to the house, locked the door and began to drink coffee.

Having finished his coffee, he began to call - he refused the services of the telephone company and the subscription to the morning newspaper. Repaired a faucet in a small bathroom. Changed the screws on the handle of the door leading from the kitchen to the terrace. He rearranged the drawers in the attic. Put the tools in place in the shed. I moved the winter tires from the Saab to another corner. And here it stands.

November Tuesday, four o'clock in the afternoon, Uwe had already turned off all the lights. Disconnected batteries and coffee maker. Treated the kitchen worktop with impregnation. Let those Ikea donkeys tell their uncle that their countertops don't need any impregnation. Whether they need it, or not - in THIS house, the countertop is smeared with impregnation every six months. Some snot from the warehouse, painted and in a yellow T-shirt, will tell him!

Uwe is standing in the living room of a two-story townhouse with an attic, looking out the window into the courtyard. A forty-year-old type is cowardly past - the one with foppish bristles, from the house obliquely. Anders, it seems. A week here without a year, only five years since I settled. And already crawled into the board of tenants. Creeping bastard. He thinks he's the owner now. After the divorce, you see, he moved here, tripled the price. These devils will always be priprutsya, and decent people Then the property tax goes up. It’s like they have an elite quarter here! He drives an Audi, be it! “Uve saw it myself. Yes, and so you could guess. Cretins and individual entrepreneurs only on the "Audi" and ride. For the best, the mind is not enough.

Ove shoves his hands into the pockets of his blue trousers. He lightly taps his foot on the plinth. Yes, he is ready to admit: for him and his wife, this housing is too big. Well, he paid for it in full. All debt, to the last crown. Probably not cheaper than this dude. And now everyone in mortgages is like in silks, a well-known case. Uve paid everything on time. Worked hard. I have never taken sick leave in my life. He made a significant contribution. Took responsibility. Now there is no one to take, everyone is afraid. Nowadays, everyone has gone to the programmers, and to the IT specialists, and to the local bosses - they go to porn clubs and rent apartments illegally. Offshore and investment portfolios. And no work. A country where everyone would just dine from morning to evening.

“Isn’t it time for a well-deserved rest?” - yesterday with such words he was expelled from work. Like, lack of jobs, so we have to part with our veterans. For a third of a century he served in one place, and here he rose to the rank. Veteran, edren root. It is, of course, now everyone is thirty-one years old, everyone wears tight-fitting trousers and does not drink normal coffee. And no one is responsible for anything. Sluts with sleek beards. They change jobs, wives, cars. Like there's nothing to do. At the first opportunity.

Ove stares angrily out the window. The dude is jogging. But it's not his lazy jogging that infuriates Ove, no. Ove, all these promenades are generally up to the light bulb. But why run around with a look like you're doing business? Smiling smugly, as if, at least, you are treating emphysema? Either he walks fast, or he runs slowly - that's all his jogging. And in general, when a forty-year-old man crawls out for a run, he seems to inform the whole world: he is no longer fit for anything. At the same time, she will definitely dress up like a twelve-year-old Romanian gymnast. Like an Olympic marathon, not a forty-five minute run.

He got himself a blonde, dude. Ten years younger. Pale sickness, as Uwe called it. Waddling around the yard, like a drunken panda, heels like your cardan key, his face is all painted, pure clown, in addition sunglasses such hefty ones - not glasses, but a whole motorcycle helmet. And in her reticule she has a small, malicious mongrel. And if not in a reticule, then he rushes about without a leash, barks indiscriminately and pisses on the tiles in front of Uwe's house. Think Ove can't see? No matter how!

“Isn’t it time for a well-deserved rest?” - told him yesterday at work. And now Uwe is standing in the middle of his kitchen and does not know how to kill Tuesday.

He looks out the window at the identical neighboring houses. A family with many children settled in that one of these days. Immigrants, Uwe understood. What kind of car they have is not yet clear. Okay, so long as it's not an Audi. Or, God forbid, not a Japanese.

Ove nods approvingly, as if he had just said something very true and warmly agreed with himself. He looks up at the living room ceiling. Today he was going to screw a hook into it. But not anyhow what a hook. Anyhow, at the very least, any IT specialist with a psychiatric certificate and in a knitted sweater, either male or female, will screw in a hook now. We need one that sits tightly like a rock. So that the house collapsed, and the hook remained in place.

And in a few days, an overdressed broker will appear, a knot on a tie the size of a child’s head, and will hang noodles about European-style renovations and usable space, and even, perhaps, spread about Uwe himself, but he won’t say a word about the hook, you bastard. It's clear.

On the floor in the living room is a small box for useful little things. That's the way it is in their house. Everything bought by the wife is “elegant” or “beautiful”. And if Uwe buys, then things are useful. Practical. Which are laid out in his two boxes - large and small - for all occasions. Here is a small tool box. It contains nails, screws, car keys and other tools. Now they do not keep useful things in the houses. Only rubbish. Twenty pairs of shoes and not a single horn. Mountains of microwaves and plasmas, and you won’t find a dowel that falls over, as if they were all scared away with a plastic cutter.

Uwe's drawer has a whole compartment for dowels. He bent down, studying them like a chess player's pieces. Uwe is in no hurry to make a choice. Hurry with dowels - make people laugh. Each dowel has its own application, its own method. People today do not think about technology at all, if only it would look more fashionable. But Uwe, if he has already taken up something, he does everything as it should be.

“For a well-deserved rest…” they told him at work. We went to his office on Monday and said that they decided not to wait until Friday, so as not to "gloom over his weekend." "A well-deserved rest," oh! You yourself should wake up on Tuesday and understand that you have been written off as scrap. You just have to surf the internet and suck on espresso, and you don't know the sense of duty.

Ove studies the ceiling. Squints. It is necessary to put the hook exactly in the center, he decides.

Uwe had already begun to solve the problem in essence, when suddenly there was a shameless, drawn-out rattle. As if some hefty lout on a Japanese chaise with a trailer, trying to back out, scratched the wall of a townhouse.

3. Uwe pulls back on a Japanese with a trailer

Uwe pulls back the green-flowered curtains (his wife threatened to change them a long time ago). And he sees a stocky dark-haired woman of about thirty years old, clearly non-Swedish bottling. She is waving frantically at the driver, her weather, a hefty blond bumpkin squeezed behind the wheel of a miniature Japanese car, which at that very moment is scraping the trailer against the wall of Uwe's townhouse.

The goof with gestures and signs is trying to delicately hint to the woman: they say that the task is not as simple as it might seem. Dark-haired, by no means so delicately, but rather, on the contrary, semaphores something in response to him: in all likelihood, she reports that she sees a dumbass driving.

- Your mother! roars Ove, watching the trailer plow through his flowerbed with one wheel.

He drops the toolbox. Clenches his fists. Two seconds, and he is already flying out onto the porch. The door swings open by itself, as if fearing that otherwise Ove will simply break it through.

– What are you doing? - he attacks the dark-haired one.

- That's what I'm asking! she shouts back.

For a moment, Ove is taken aback. Ashes her gaze. The woman responds in kind.

- It is written: travel through the territory is prohibited. Can't you read Swedish?

The dark-skinned girl comes forward, and only then does Uwe notice: she is either at a long pregnancy, or, according to Uwe's own definition, suffers from point obesity.

Is it me, or what, at the wheel?

Ove stares at her silently for a few seconds. Then he turns to the blond bumpkin: he somehow got out of the cramped Japanese box and is now standing, guiltily spreading his arms. In a knitted sweater, with a posture that indicates a long-standing calcium deficiency in the body.

- And who are you? Uwe asks.

“I was the one driving the car,” the bumpkin smiles carelessly.

Height under two meters. Uwe has always been intuitively skeptical about people above 185 meters. Experience suggested: with such growth, blood simply does not reach the brain.

- Yeah, how! Who else led whom! Maybe she is you? - A pot-bellied dark-skinned girl, about half a meter shorter than the bumpkin, furiously jumps on him, trying to slap on the arm with both palms.

- And who is she? Uwe asks.

“My little wife,” the bumpkin nods friendly in her direction.

“Not for long, don’t hope,” the “wife” snaps energetically, already bouncing her belly.

“Do you think it’s so simple ...” the husband begins to justify himself, but she interrupts:

- I said: RIGHT! And you're going LEFT! Why are not you listening to me? NEVER listen!

Here she delivers a tirade for half a minute, which, as Uwe guesses, is a selection of sophisticated Arabic curses, which this language is so rich in.

The white-haired bumpkin only nods blissfully - his smile indescribably harmonizes with his wife's scolding. Buddhist monks walk around with such a smile that makes any normal person want to punch them in the face, Ove thought.

- We apologize, in general. We messed up a little, now we’ll fix everything, - the bumpkin cheerfully reports, waiting until his half finally falls silent.

And with the most nonchalant air, he fishes out a round tin from his pocket and sends a tobacco ball the size of a handball under his lip. And, apparently, he is already going to slap Uwe on the back in a friendly way.

Ove gives the bum a look like he just piled a heap on the hood of his car.

- Can we fix it? Yes, you stood in my flower bed!

The goon looks at the wheels of the trailer.

- Heh, is this, or what, a flower bed? - he grins good-naturedly, correcting the tobacco lump with the tip of his tongue.

- EXACTLY! cuts Uwe.

The goon nods. Look at the ground first. Then - on Ove, deciding that he was joking.

“Yeah, come on, man, it’s just land.

Uwe's brow gathers into one huge and menacing wrinkle in anger.

- It's been said. You. This. Flowerbed.

The bumpkin scratches his head in puzzlement: tobacco crumbs remain on his tousled forelock.

So nothing seems to grow here...

- Aren't you one hell? My flower bed: I want - I plant, I want - no!

The bumpkin nods hastily, obviously not wanting to further piss off the stranger. He turns to his wife, as if seeking her support. She, however, is not in a hurry to help him. The bumpkin turns to Ove again:

“Pregnant, you know. Hormones and all…” he tries to joke.

For some reason, the pregnant woman is not laughing. Uwe too. She folds her arms across her chest. Ove puts his hands on his hips. The bumpkin, not knowing what to do with his fists, lowered his arms along his body and swayed them a little embarrassedly: it seems as if they are rag and dangle by themselves in the wind.

“I’ll sit down right now and try again,” the guy smiles conciliatoryly again.

But in Uwe's eyes there is no hint of the world.

The goon backs away and nods vigorously. Then he trots over to the Japanese car and squeezes his oversized body into the small interior. "God!" Uwe and the woman mutter in unison. After that, she already annoys Ove, as if a little less.

The bumpkin rides a few meters ahead. Ove clearly sees: this idiot has not really turned the steering wheel. The car pulls back. The side of the trailer hits Uwe's mailbox, crushing it in half.

“Well, this is already ...” Ove hisses, rushes to the car and jerks open the door.

The goon claps his hands guiltily:

- Mahu gave! Sorry! Sorry! You can't see the box in the mirror! These trailers are always bullshit - you never know where they will turn out.

Boom! Ove's fist slams against the roof of the car - the bumpkin jumps up and down, hitting his head on the frame.

Ove bends down so low that the scream, before it has time to fly out of his mouth, is already directly in the ear canal of the bumpkin:

- Get out of the car!

Get out, they tell you!

The bumpkin looks at Ove warily, not daring to ask the reason for this request. He just gets out of the car and stands next to him, like a delinquent schoolboy. Uwe points him to the passage between the houses, to where you can see the bike shed and the parking lot:

- Move away, do not get under the wheels!

The goon nods in slight confusion.

“Fine-paly, any armless person with glaucoma in both eyes can handle the trailer faster than you,” Ove gets annoyed, getting into the car.

Do not cope with the trailer, it's necessary, Ove is perplexed. Where is this seen? Is it really difficult to learn that in the mirror, right is left? How do they even live in the world, such boobies?

Automatic transmission, well, of course, he states. You could guess. Uwe gets angry at these dudes, as long as they don’t drive themselves, leaning forward. If only she rolled them herself. Like a robot. Survived: they didn’t even manage to learn how to park. Is it possible to give such rights? A? Ove disagrees. Categorically. It’s not like they’re right, they can’t let such people go to the polls, who can’t manage with their own trailer.

The car drives forward, Uwe slowly turns the steering wheel (as all more or less civilized citizens do before backing off in a car with a trailer) and backs up. The Japanese squeaks indignantly. Ove looks around in annoyance.

- What the hell are you doing? he leans on the dashboard, drumming on the steering wheel. Stop, they tell you! he shouts menacingly at the red light, which is flashing especially insistently.

Then a bumpkin appears from the side and insinuatingly knocks on the glass. Ove lowers the window and looks sourly at the bumpkin.

“It’s the reverse signal yelling,” he explains.

Don't teach a scientist! Uwe grumbles.

“This car has an unusual device, I could show you where to turn something,” says the bumpkin, coughing.

“I don’t think I’m a fool, I’ll figure it out myself,” Ove chuckles.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the bumpkin readily agrees.

Ove looks angrily at the instruments.

“Now what is she up to?”

The goon readily explains:

“Now it detects if the battery is dead. If it sits down, it will switch from power supply to gasoline. It's a hybrid, like...

Ove does not dignify him with an answer. Raises glass. The goof remains standing with his mouth open. Uwe looks in the left mirror. Then - to the right. Then he backs up, the foreign car squeaks heart-rendingly, the trailer passes with sniper accuracy between Uwe's house and the house of the bumpkin with his pregnant wife.

Stepping out of the car, Ove casually tosses the keys to the bumpkin.

“Reversing signal, parking attendant, video recorder… If you need so much crap to park with a trailer, why did you even take a trailer for yourself?”

But the goon only nods rather contentedly.

- Thank you - helped out! he rejoices, as if it wasn't Ove who has been scolding him for the last ten minutes.

“Yes, I wouldn’t even trust you to rewind a tape recorder,” Ove replies, proudly walking away.

The pregnant arriving woman is still standing with her arms crossed over her chest. Looks, however, not so angry.

- Thank you! she thanks loudly and smiles crookedly – Ove guesses, suppressing laughter.

The brown eyes are huge, the likes of which Uwe had never seen before.

- Travel is prohibited in our yard. Whether you like it or not, do it.

She looks at him as if she noticed that he said "want" instead of "want." With a chuckle, Ove walks around her and heads home.

Halfway through, he stops at a paved path that leads from the house to his barn. Wrinkles the way only men of his generation know how to wrinkle - not only the nose, but the whole torso seems to be going like an accordion. Kneeling down, he puts his face to the tile, which he carefully and rigorously repositions every two years, even if it is not required. Sniffing. Nods affirmatively. Rises.

A pregnant dark-skinned girl and a goof are watching.

- Pissed off. All as is pissed! – in hearts mutters Ove.

He shakes his hand, pointing at the tile.

- Well, okay ... - the dark-skinned girl answers.

- It's not fucking okay! Ove scolds.

And with these words he enters the house and closes the door.

Ove sits down on a stool in the hallway, sits for a long time, unable to think of anything else. "Damn babenziya" - spinning in my head. Well, what did she forget here with her family, when she can’t even read the sign normally? You can not drive around the yard in cars. Well this is a no brainer.

Finally Ove gets up, hangs the blue jacket on his hook, which sticks out like a lonely rock in the ocean of his wife's coats. He mumbles something about "half-wits", turning to the closed window to be sure. Then he stands in the middle of the living room and begins to examine the ceiling. How long, how short Uwe stood like that - he does not know. It dissolves into thoughts. Wanders in them, as in a fog. In fact, he is not of this breed: he was never a dreamer, just lately his head has definitely gone haywire. It's getting harder for him to concentrate. Nothing good.

The doorbell knocks Ove out of his warm slumber. He rubs his eyes frantically and looks around, as if afraid that someone is watching him.

The doorbell rings again. Ove turns and looks at her reproachfully. He takes a few steps towards the hallway, but then he feels that his body has turned to stone, like hardened plaster. The knocking, either from the floorboards or from the heart, Ove does not know where it comes from.

- Well, what else the hell? he asks the door, not yet opening it, as if she should answer him. - What the hell? he repeats, throwing open the door with such force that the resulting draft blows a three-year-old girl off the porch. Having flown away, she flops on her ass in amazement.

Next to her is an older girl, about seven years old, horror is written on her face. Both are black. Both of them had huge brown eyes the likes of which Uwe had never seen before.

Fredrik Backman

Uwe's second life

He lightly kicked one tank, then another. Having fished out a glass jar from a container for glass containers, he mentioned some "stooges" with an unkind word and removed the tin lid from the jar. I returned the jar to the glass container, and threw the lid into the scrap bin.

Uwe is standing in the living room of a two-story townhouse with an attic, looking out the window into the courtyard. A forty-year-old type is cowardly past - the one with foppish bristles, from the house obliquely. Anders, it seems. A week here without a year, only five years since I settled. And already crawled into the board of tenants. Creeping bastard. He thinks he's the owner now. After the divorce, you see, he moved here, tripled the price. These devils will always be priprutsya, and then the property tax is raised for decent people. It’s like they have an elite quarter here! He drives an Audi, be it! “Uve saw it myself. Yes, and so you could guess. Cretins and individual entrepreneurs only on the "Audi" and ride. For the best, the mind is not enough.

He got himself a blonde, dude. Ten years younger. Pale sickness, as Uwe called it. Waddling around the yard, like a drunken panda, heels like your cardan key, his face is all painted, pure clown, in addition, dark glasses are so hefty - not glasses, but a whole motorcycle helmet. And in her reticule she has a small, malicious mongrel. And if not in a reticule, then he rushes about without a leash, barks indiscriminately and pisses on the tiles in front of Uwe's house. Think Ove can't see? No matter how!

“Isn’t it time for a well-deserved rest?” - told him yesterday at work. And now Uwe is standing in the middle of his kitchen and does not know how to kill Tuesday.

Ove studies the ceiling. Squints. It is necessary to put the hook exactly in the center, he decides.

3. Uwe pulls back on a Japanese with a trailer

- Your mother! roars Ove, watching the trailer plow through his flowerbed with one wheel.

He drops the toolbox. Clenches his fists. Two seconds, and he is already flying out onto the porch. The door swings open by itself, as if fearing that otherwise Ove will simply break it through.

– What are you doing? - he attacks the dark-haired one.

- That's what I'm asking! she shouts back.

For a moment, Ove is taken aback. Ashes her gaze. The woman responds in kind.

- It is written: travel through the territory is prohibited. Can't you read Swedish?

The dark-skinned girl comes forward, and only then does Uwe notice: she is either at a long pregnancy, or, according to Uwe's own definition, suffers from point obesity.

Is it me, or what, at the wheel?

- And who are you? Uwe asks.

“I was the one driving the car,” the bumpkin smiles carelessly.

Height under two meters. Uwe has always been intuitively skeptical about people above 185 meters. Experience suggested: with such growth, blood simply does not reach the brain.

- Yeah, how! Who else led whom! Maybe she is you? - A pot-bellied dark-skinned girl, about half a meter shorter than the bumpkin, furiously jumps on him, trying to slap on the arm with both palms.

- And who is she? Uwe asks.

“My little wife,” the bumpkin nods friendly in her direction.

“Not for long, don’t hope,” the “wife” snaps energetically, already bouncing her belly.

“Do you think it’s so simple ...” the husband begins to justify himself, but she interrupts:

- I said: RIGHT! And you're going LEFT! Why are not you listening to me? NEVER listen!

Here she delivers a tirade for half a minute, which, as Uwe guesses, is a selection of sophisticated Arabic curses, which this language is so rich in.

- We apologize, in general. We messed up a little, now we’ll fix everything, - the bumpkin cheerfully reports, waiting until his half finally falls silent.

Fredrik Backman

Uwe's second life

En Man Som Heter Ove

Dedicated to Ned. As always, to make you laugh. As always

1. Uwe buys a computer that is not a computer

Ove is fifty-nine years old. He drives his native Swedish Saab. There is such a breed of people: if you happen to not please them, they will certainly poke a finger at you, like you are a thief prowling in the night, and their finger is a police lantern. Ove of these. At the moment, he is standing at the counter in the salon and looking at the seller searchingly, waving a small white box:

- So this, therefore, is the very “trash”?

The salesman, a youth with a clear underweight, is nervous. Apparently, he is struggling with the desire to take the box away from Uwe.

- Quite right. iPad. Only what is it you, you shouldn’t shake it like that ...

- So-so. Is it a computer or what?

The salesperson nods. But then, doubtfully, he vigorously shakes his head:

- Yeah ... Although, in fact, not quite a computer. This is an iPad. Someone calls them tablets, someone - tablets. How to see…

Ove looks at the seller as if he suddenly spoke in gibberish:

The salesperson nods uncertainly.

- Well, yes…

Uwe shakes the box again:

- And how is he, nothing?

The seller scratches the top of his head:

- Nothing like. What about you... What do you mean?

Ove, sighing, begins slowly, carefully pronouncing each word. As if the only obstacle to the conversation is the deafness of the seller:

- How. He. Nothing? This. Computer. Good?

The salesperson scratches his chin:

- Well, actually ... how to say ... Very much nothing ... It all depends on what you need.

Ove, looking him over:

- I need a computer. What else?

Short silent scene. Then the seller, coughing, decides:

“It's not like an ordinary computer. You probably need something like...

The salesperson pauses, obviously choosing a word that would evoke the desired association in the interlocutor. Coughs again. Finally located:

- ... like a laptop?

Ove, shaking his head vigorously, looms menacingly over the counter.

- Yes, in FIG, your laptop surrendered to me? I need a computer!

The seller nods condescendingly:

A laptop is also a computer.

Ove, glaring at the salesman in an insulted manner, pokes his lantern finger at the counter instructively:

- I know this without you!

“OK,” the salesman nods.

- Well, where is the keyboard hidden here? he finally chimes.

You see, there is no keyboard.

Ove (raising his eyebrows):

- Well, of course! She needs to be bought, right? Who the hell knows what kind of money, right?

The salesman scratches his palms again:

- No ... Well ... In general, this is a computer without a keyboard. All operations are performed directly from the display.

Ove shakes his head reproachfully, as if the seller tried to lick the ice cream through the window glass:

- So why is he without a keyboard? Think by yourself!

The salesman sighs heavily, as if counting to ten to himself.

- OK. I understand. Then you should not take this computer. Take some other, macbook for example.

Ove's face shows sudden uncertainty.

– And not a Big Mac, for an hour?

The seller comes to life, as if he has achieved a decisive success in the negotiations:

- No. MacBook! Exactly.

Ove furrows his brow in disbelief.

"Isn't that the fucking reading room everyone's talking about these days?"

The salesman let out an epic sigh that your professional reciter:

- No. Macbook is ... that ... such a laptop. With keyboard.

– Really? Uwe scoffs.

The salesperson nods. It scratches the palms.

Ove looks around the store. Shakes the box again.

- And how is he? Nothing?

The salesman stares at the counter, clearly fighting the urge to scratch his nose. And suddenly breaks into a cheerful smile:

– Do you know what? Maybe my partner has already served the buyer, so he'd better show and tell you everything!

Ove looks at his watch. Shakes his head:

“Of course, we don’t have anything else to do. Hang around here all day, wait for you.

The salesman nods hastily. He leaves and soon brings a partner. He smiles kindly. Like any newcomer who did not have time to become more skilled behind the counter.

- Hello! I can help you?

Ove imperiously pokes his lantern finger at the counter:

- I need a computer.

The smile begins to fade from his partner's face. He looks over at the first salesman. This look unambiguously says: well, brother, you will get in trouble with me.

- Ah, that's it! Yes Yes. Let's take a look at the section of portable computers first, - his partner says without the same enthusiasm, turning to Uwe.

Ove frowns:

- Damn it! Like I don't know what a laptop is! Is it necessary to say "portable"?

The companion nods helpfully. The first salesman behind him mutters, "That's it, I've had enough, I'm out for lunch."

- Well, the worker has gone now. Only lunch is on my mind,” Ove chuckles.

- What? The second salesman looks around.

“O-b-e-d,” Ove spells out.

2. (Three weeks earlier). Uwe inspects the area

At five minutes to six Uwe's first meeting with the cat took place. Ove the cat didn't like it right away. Needless to say, the hostility was highly mutual.

Women's Portal Flero

Fredrik Backman Uwe's second life

* * *

1. Uwe buys a computer that is not a computer

2. (Three weeks earlier). Uwe inspects the area

3. Uwe pulls back on a Japanese with a trailer

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