The Last Days of My Mother. Sölvi Björn Sigur

she said, throwing back a shot of Bols, which was on the house as the bartender had failed to come up with a special. “This is just bad enough to prevent you from drinking too fast and yet it’s good. God is in the tempo, as they say. I don’t understand how you can go on drinking beer like this. Just like Willy—he’d never have a drink before noon and even then he’d always stick to beer. I suppose its like when I went to Sweden and they always had that Mellanöl. Disgusting drink. I can’t say I’ve been hung over very often, but this was like drinking a hangover, it took forever to get a buzz.”

      Mother didn’t really get drunk that often despite her considerably diligent intake of strong spirits. She often became what she referred to as “being pompette,” slightly lightheaded. If the pom-petting advanced to another level it was simply due to weariness from travel, and she did not enjoy going from one place to another so she drank to withstand it. But becoming inebriated, as a rule . . . that was over and done with. That sort of behavior flirted with forgetfulness and evoked a sense of loss and longing, for Germany, for instance. She’d learned this at AA meetings. She’d also learned that it was better to drink moderately every day than to sporadically gulp down gallons of liquor and lose all control. So each time I had a drink with her she smirked. I was obviously as inept at holding my liquor as Willy Nellyson. It was remarkable with the two of us, and yet neither of us were any good at sports. Both just as devoid of physical grace. She claimed that there had to be something seriously wrong with our composition, for she believed that golfing and tennis were at the core of the world of those who managed to live with a constant lack of alcohol. She was sure that all teetotalers were half-mad with energy and drive. These same individuals tended, however, to be rather boring, but they had that authority, like Ólafur Ragnar. He would never have become president if he’d been drunk all day.

      “You’re projecting,” I said, finishing my beer. “You eat an entire apple in under a minute.”

      “That’s only if I need vitamins.”

      “Nope, it’s in your character.”

      “Oh?”

      “You eat an apple in a minute and fast-forward through Nikolaj and Julie because you’re so eager to get to the next bit. You’re exactly the type who ends up in office.”

      “I suppose I’d be a very good president,” she said dreamily. “And I’d bring about some change, I can tell you. For instance: I’d ban these self-jets that drive me up the wall back home. What is wrong with those people? People who never take the bus, but whiz by in taxcabs, waking you up in the middle of the night with all that noise, flying off to go shopping in Italy. I hate these people, just hate them.” She slammed her fist on the table, quaking with anger. “Have you heard anything as idiotic? Flying to Italy to go to a shop? In a self-jet?”

      “How do you think your precious banker friends got here? With a commercial airline?”

      “Of course, they were generous gentlemen—I’m not talking about them. The people I’m referring to, Hermann, are all these self-jetting people smiling at you from the cover of gossip magazines. Who the hell do they think they are? Oprah Winfred?”

      “Winfrey.”

      “What?”

      I explained to her that the woman’s name was Oprah Winfrey, but she had little interest in discussing her peculiar contribution to the language—self-jet, taxcab, Winfred; her creativity in this field seemed heightened when it came to foreigners.

      “Do you see what I see?” She finally said and stood up, moving towards the window and pointing like mad. “Isn’t that, what’s her name . . . Helgamom? And Ramji! Yes, it’s my Ramji! Ramjiminn!”

      She ran out into the street and was out of sight before I knew it. I had no choice but to pay for our drinks and follow her.

Chapter 5

      The Ambassador was parked farther up the street. HelgaMam and Ramji stood next to a beautiful girl who introduced herself as Helena, proprietor of The Pleasure Fountain, the shop the doctor had mentioned to us. We said hello, and a man in his thirties stepped out of the car to greet us. He was the spitting image of the doctor; for a second I actually though it was him after a night of Botox treatments. Steven Turtleman was, in fact, a unique testimony to the resolve of the sperm cell and its devotion to the genetic compound of mankind. He had come to the Netherlands a couple years ago looking for his biological father, Dr. Frederik, whom he had found with the help of newly public documents on sperm donors in the USA. Now he managed the Cannabis Museum in Amsterdam and was the center’s supplier of quality weed. His life story churned out through his vocal cords like an unstoppable printing press until Mother tapped his shoulder and interrupted him.

      “It was so wonderful to see Ramji here that I just had to run,” she said, breathless after the short sprint. “Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence, Miss . . . ?”

      “Helena,” the girl answered with a smile and said that Amsterdam was quite small; chance meetings like this weren’t really that unusual.

      “I actually met some Icelanders this morning,” Mother said. “Wonderful, generous men. But if you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Helgamom—is that your friend in the car?”

      I’d noticed her wandering around the car randomly and realized that she’d been spying on the mystery man sleeping in the backseat.

      “Duncan, our friend, yes. Have you met him?”

      “No, I was just curious, he looks like a man I know. Well, I think it’s best that Trooper and I let you go for now. We’re going for a drink. Can you recommend a place?”

      It turned out that the little party had just come from lunch at Shakespeare Fried Chicken, a branch of the restaurant at Lowland. They gave us directions to the place and we said good-bye.

      “Did you see that man?” Mother asked when the car had disappeared around the corner. “The resemblance was striking.”

      “To whom?”

      “Well, Milan Kundera, of course! Nicht mehr und nicht weniger. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who looks as similar to him as this Doonka does.”

      “Duncan.”

      “We’ll see. But first we should get something to eat.”

      We stopped in front of a hand-painted sign and went into the restaurant. Shakespeare Fried Chicken was decorated in Medieval style: spears, shields, and coats of armor hung on the walls, next to which stood dark, hardwood tables with glossy, built-in benches. Aside from a few tourists, the clientele mainly consisted of two groups of men drinking beer, eating, and generally being loud.