My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry (46 page)

So that’s what she does. One day at a time. One dream at a time. And one could say it’s right and one could say it’s wrong. And probably both would be right. Because life is both complicated and simple.

Which is why there are cookies.

Wolfheart comes back to the house on New Year’s Eve. The police have decided it was self-defense even though everyone knows it wasn’t himself he was protecting. That could also be right or wrong, possibly.

He stays on in his flat. The woman in jeans stays on in hers. And they do what they can. Try to learn to live with themselves, try to live rather than just existing. They go to meetings. They tell their stories. No one knows if this is the way they are going to mend everything that’s broken inside them, but at least it’s a way towards something. It helps them breathe. They have dinner with Elsa and Harry and Mum and George every Sunday. Everyone in the house does. Sometimes Green-eyes also comes. She’s surprisingly good at telling stories. And the boy with a syndrome still doesn’t talk, but he teaches them all how to dance beautifully.

Alf wakes up one morning because he’s thirsty. He gets up and has some coffee and is just on his way back to bed when there’s a knock on the door. He opens it, taking a deep slug of coffee. Looks at his brother for a long time. Kent is supporting himself on a crutch and looking back at him.

“I’ve been a bloody idiot,” mutters Kent.

“Yes,” mutters Alf.

Kent’s fingers grip the crutch even harder.

“The company went bankrupt six months ago.”

They stand there in craggy silence, with a whole life of conflict between them. As brothers do.

“You want some coffee, or what?” grunts Alf.

“If you have some ready,” grunts Kent.

And then they drink coffee. As brothers do. Sit in Alf’s kitchen and compare postcards from Britt-Marie. Because she writes to them both every week. As women like Britt-Marie do.

They all still have a residents’ meeting once every month in the room on the bottom floor. They all argue, as ever. Because it’s a normal house. By and large. And neither Granny nor Elsa would have wanted it any other way.

The Christmas holidays come to an end and Elsa goes back to school. She knots her gym shoes tightly and carefully tightens the straps of her backpack as children like Elsa do after the Christmas holidays. But Alex starts in her class that day and she is also different. They become best friends immediately, as you only can when you’ve just turned eight, and they never have to run away again. When they’re called into the headmaster’s office the first time that term, Elsa has a black eye and Alex has scratch marks on her face. When the headmaster sighs and tells Alex’s mum that she “has to try to fit in,” Alex’s mum tries to throw the globe at him. But Elsa’s mum gets there first.

Elsa will always love her for that.

A few days go by. Maybe a few weeks. But after that, one by one, other different children start tagging along with Alex and Elsa in the playground and corridors. Until there are so many of them that no one dares to chase them anymore. Until they’re an army in themselves. Because if a sufficient number of people are different, no one has to be normal.

In the autumn, the boy with a syndrome starts in the first year. When there’s a costume party, he comes dressed up as a princess. A group of older boys laugh and make fun of him, until he starts crying. Elsa and Alex notice this and take him outside into the parking area and Elsa calls her dad. He arrives with a bag of new clothes.

When they go back in, Elsa and Alex are also dressed up as princesses. Spider-Man princesses.

And after that, they’re the boy’s superheroes.

Because all seven-year-olds deserve superheroes.

And whoever disagrees with that needs their head examined.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Neda. Everything is still to make you laugh. Never forget that. (Sorry about the wet towels on the bathroom floor.) Asheghetam.

My maternal grandmother, who is not the least bit crazy, but has always baked some of the best cookies a seven-year-old could ever ask for.

My paternal grandmother. Who has always believed in me most of all.

My sister. Who is stronger than a lion.

My mother. Who taught me to read.

Astrid Lindgren. Who taught me to love it.

All the librarians of my childhood. Who saw that a boy was afraid of heights and lent him wings.

Thanks also to:

My Obi-Wan, Niklas Natt och Dag. My editor, John Häggblom.

My agent, Jonas Axelsson. The language attack force, Vanja Vinter. Fredrik Söderlund (for letting me borrow the Noween).

Johan Zillén (who got it before all others). Kersti Forsberg (for giving a kid a chance once). Nils Olsson (for two amazing covers). All who have been involved in both this book and
A Man Called Ove
at Forum, Månpocket, Bonnier Audio, Bonnier Agency, Tre Vänner, and Partners in Stories. An extra thanks in advance to the linguistic “besserwissers” who will no doubt locate the grammatical failings in the names of the seven kingdoms (tense high-five).

Most of all thanks to you who read. Without whose highly dubious judgment I would very likely have to go out and find myself a proper job.

If you liked Elsa and her grandmother, just wait 'til you meet Ove.

In this delightful debut novel, a grumpy yet loveable man finds his solitary world turned on its head when a boisterous young family moves in next door.

Man Called Ove

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!

FREDRIK BACKMAN’S
first novel,
A Man Called Ove
, was a #1 bestseller in his native Sweden and is being published in more than twenty-five languages all over the world. He lives outside Stockholm with his wife and two children.

MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

SimonandSchuster.com

authors.simonandschuster.com/Fredrik-Backman

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.