He fetches the drill, takes the hook, stands up on the stool, and starts drilling. The first time the doorbell goes he assumes he’s made a mistake and ignores the sound for that very reason. The second time he realizes that there’s actually someone ringing the bell, and he ignores it for that very reason.

The third time Ove stops drilling and glares at the door. As if he may be able to convince whoever is standing outside to disappear by his mental powers alone. It doesn’t work. The person in question obviously thinks the only rational explanation for his not opening the door the first time around was that he did not hear the doorbell.

Ove steps off the stool, strides across the plastic sheets through the living room and into the hall. Does it really have to be so difficult to kill yourself without constantly being disturbed?

“What?” fumes Ove as he flings the door open.

The Lanky One only manages by a whisker to pull his big head back and avoid an impact with his face.

“Hi!” the Pregnant One exclaims cheerfully beside him, though a foot and a half lower down.

Ove looks down at her, then up at him. The Lanky One is busy touching every part of his 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.