Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

“I’m not sure we should do this,” I stuttered, shying away from the knife. “Maybe we should let Black Beauty stay in his natural environment?”

“You won’t feel a thing and the cut will heal in a couple of days or so,” Dr. Frederik said, ignoring my protests. “There we go! Here he is.”

The mole fell from the blade onto the petri dish, where it disappeared under the lid.

“This calls for a toast,” Mother said and poured us drinks. “To my health and to Trooper’s love life, which should now take a turn for the better. I must say, you’re a fine doctor, Doctor. I know a lot of old timers who’re bound to fall ill any day now, and when they do I’ll tell them to come to you. This has been such an experience.”

When the doctor was gone I left it to Mother to prepare for the Museum of Torture. I had a date with Helena the homeopath, who had put together a potent mix of herbal remedies, by order of the good doctor, to maximize Mother’s love of life. The store was in Warmoesstraat, in the very heart of the Red Light District, and was famous for being the first Smart-Shop in Amsterdam, selling a weird blend of sex toys and alternative medicine. I finally found the store after wandering through a maze of canals and tall, narrow buildings leaning curiously over the streets. The space was tight and cut in half by a long table around which the customers stood, examining the merchandise. I was growing quite curious about an electrical cervix when a blind German lady bumped into me and apologized in her native tongue. I can’t say I was surprised that the first person I met in the sex shop was German. I had learned of Germany’s extensive interest in sex from watching the TV series Liebe Sünde , available on Mother’s tattered VHS tapes back home. An old friend of hers in Mainz sent her the tapes in return for flatbread. Over time the collection of Liebe Sünde grew rather impressive, and on occasion I had ended up watching the shows with her and finding out the latest developments in sex gadgets. Mother leaned toward the unabashed German way of discussing latex and insisted it would do me good to follow the series.

“ Guten tag .” The shopkeeper had no doubt heard my exchange with the blind woman and figured that I was German, too. She pointed to an egg, a Spitzen-Ei that I had picked up from the floor, and encouraged me to speak my own language.

Overwhelmed by my lack of linguistic cunning, I backed out into the street and right into the arms of a madam. “I give you everything, good hands, good tongue, nice ass.” Terrified of being rude I felt I should accept at least some minimal service, but to my relief she turned to the next passerby when I hesitated. I was bathed in the glowing red lights from the whorehouses all around me; it suddenly felt like Amsterdam was nothing but a pit of hookers, trannies, and packs of Italian men. A gigantic African man with a street organ offered me a piece of hashish in exchange for my jacket, and the hooker turned her attention back to me. The city was so overrun with price-tagged sex that I wanted to teleport to Ikea. People on their way to work squeezed past teenaged girls who choreographed the mundane reality with pornographic moves on their smoke break. Someone had procured them from Brno, Bangkok, or Budapest, dragged them out of their parents’ tiled kitchens, smelling of porridge and sweat, shown them their Mercedes and fucked them all the way into the red booths. Like most people, my mind strayed regularly toward sex, but now in the middle of the orgy where everything was for sale, I just wanted to get out of there. Then I realized that I still held the Spitzen-Ei in my hand, so I stormed back into the shop, setting of the alarm that for some strange reason had not sounded when I had stumbled out with the thing. I forced a smile and waved the object in the air. “ Nur meine Ei .” Finally I managed to tell the shopkeeper that I was looking for Helena.

“Through there,” she said, pointing to a beaded curtain. Behind it was a small space where the alternative medicine was kept. Helena sat on a high stool in heated discussion with a short man in a white suit. She was pointing to the curtain and seemed to be ordering him to leave. He turned away quite calmly, greeted me with a smile, and walked out.

“What was that?” I asked and handed her back the book she’d hurled during the argument.

“I can’t talk about it,” she said and snatched the book out of my hand. “He has a prescription from Fred, because he treats everyone the same, and then the little shit uses the opportunity to insult me with his preaching. I’m going to close up for a bit. Let’s go for a coffee somewhere.”

She grabbed a bag from under the counter and led me past a sales stand on the floor, where I managed to knock over a display of vitamin drops.

“How big is that space?” I asked when we were safe and sound out in the street.

“Forty-three square feet. I rent my little nook from the owners of the store. All modern commodities for 600 euros.”

“For forty-three square feet?”

“That’s Amsterdam for you. All space is infinitely expensive. There’s a reason for perversions like fisting. Everyone is trying to save space by holing up in someone else’s ass.”

I found fisting a farfetched result of extortionate real estate prices, but Helena continued ranting and pointed to the next street corner where two small businesses — Asian Sexy Fetish and Dental Surgery 4U — shared a space. Above the business was a low window with a sign that read “Te huur”: For Rent.

“The height of the ceiling in there is just over five feet and yet that dump can be rented out. In fact, it’s the perfect place for toothless dwarf-whores.”

“Doesn’t it bother people that there’s porn everywhere they look?”

“People can get used to anything and everything. I know a lot of people who find porn quite mundane and think of sex shows as a form of theater. The human race is just a species of ape in fancy clothes. We don’t need Darwin to tell us that.”

We went around the corner and then back into a vibrant shopping street where shopkeepers and fast food vendors nodded to us as we passed. Helena greeted everyone like a street kid and I got the feeling, as we talked more and walked farther, that she belonged both everywhere and nowhere. She had a room in Lowland, had a little space in a shed at Highland, slept on the couch in three different places in Amsterdam — depending on which friend could accommodate her at each given time — and camped out at the shop when she had nowhere else to go. She claimed to be between decisions, under the influence of indistinct periods of time that she wasn’t sure were beginning or ending.

“Pleasure Fountain is busier than many other Smart-Shops because of the people Fred sends to me. I’ve managed to make a living from this even though I don’t make enough to rent an apartment. Things tend to take time with me. I’m half done with medical school, but I’m not sure I’ll ever finish.”

“But you’re just in your early twenties, right?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Halfway to becoming a doctor and you claim to take your time. Compared to you I’m a fetus.”

“No. I’m gradually fucking things up for myself. Maybe I need several years to reach a conclusion.”

“You’re way too young to worry about this stuff.”

“You’re never too young to worry. Only the sublimely spoiled don’t worry. When I was twelve I was put into foster care in Highland and on my thirteenth birthday I decided to take over from Fred when I grew up. I was going to run the center and change the world, do all the stuff he only dreamt about doing. But life is complicated. You start to worry.”