A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER

Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He's the kind of man who points at people he doesn't like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman's flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

"So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?" he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove's hands.

"Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that . . . ?"

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it's a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove "my friend" before offering to sell him a watch.

"I see. So it's a computer, yes?"

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

"Yes . . . or, what I mean is, it's an iPad. Some people call it a 'tablet' and others call it a 'surfing device.' There are different ways of looking at it. . . ."

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

"But is it good, this thing?"

The assistant nods confusedly. "Yes. Or . . . How do you mean?"

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary's impaired hearing.

"Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?"

The assistant scratches his chin.

"I mean . . . yeah . . . it's really good . . . but it depends what sort of computer you want."

Ove glares at him.

"I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!"

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

"Well . . . it isn't really a normal computer. Maybe you'd rather have a . . ."

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

". . . a laptop?"

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

"No, I don't want a 'laptop.' I want a computer."

The assistant nods pedagogically.

"A laptop is a computer."

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

"You think I don't know that!"

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he's waiting for it to make a confession.

"Where does the keyboard pull out?" he mutters eventually.