Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

Daylight was surrendering to dusk when Ramji arrived to pick us up in the Ambassador. The hubbub outside the conference hall indicated that there was even more going on than a Nazi ball and an Icelandic bankers’ party. Ramji, with his uncanny ability to find parking where there was none, managed to squeeze the car between a hotdog stand and a garbage can. Suddenly he went chalk white.

“Mam BriemMam, I must hurry. I must say good-bye now.”

“Is everything okay, Ramjiminn?”

“Everything is okay, EvaMam, but now I must go.”

It was evident that something had upset the driver even though he seemed intent on hiding it. The mystery was solved in the next instant when a big man with a turban came rambling over and banged on the car window.

“Ramji,” he bellowed, pushing down the window with strength fit for the circus. “If you want a proper job you come and talk to us Rotandaris. We can use more drivers. It is me, Bubi, you know me.”

“Yes, sir,” Ramji said. “But no thank you. I have a job.”

“How about you?” the big man said, pointing to Mother and me. “Can you drive cars? Choppers?”

“Mister Bubi, sir,” Ramji said and seemed to edge ever closer to the precipice of life as the man refused to leave. “Mam Briem needs to go to a ball, sir, and Mr. Willyson must join her. You have to let them go now.”

“Who was that clown?” Mother asked when the man ambled off. “What on earth was that all about?”

“Mr. Bubi, Mam. My old boss. He is very determined.”

“So am I, Ramjminn. I’m determined to go to the ball.”

“You just go, Ramji. We’ll catch a cab later.”

He drove off and I ran to catch up with Eva, who had managed to mow down the people waiting in line to get into the Nazi ball. I only just managed to grab her sleeve before she disappeared inside with both our tickets. Heading over to the bar, I came across a brutishly ugly, mustachioed male exchanging bad breath with a female of the same species, an ambiguous cross between human and hippopotamus. The male had inked something vague but slightly familiar on his forehead. . Could it really be? The hope of confirming the truth raced through my soul. I greeted the couple and could not take my eyes off the tattoo on the man’s forehead. The opportunity was too good to resist.

“This is Hans, our brother in Christ,” I said, introducing the creature to Mother. “I’m not going to detain you from your friends for too long, Hans, but it is always a pleasure to meet a brother in Christ and I wanted you to meet my mother.”

“Eva Briem,” Mother said, oblivious to where I was going with this until she noticed the tattoo and shot me a look.

“My pleasure,” Hans replied. “It truly is my pleasure to meet a brother and sister in Christ. May the Lord be with you and bring us together again. Hallelujah!”

“Did you see that?” I roared with laughter when the bull was out of earshot. “Did you see the fucking swastika tattooed on his forehead? ”

“It was obviously old. Very, very faint.”

“As if that changes anything. These creeps don’t change overnight just because they join a cult. They’re hateful people and always will be. I told you this was a racist gathering. I. TOLD. YOU. SO.”

To make up for my little victory I promised to get Mother another Campari. She agreed to forgive me only if I promised to be wholeheartedly entertaining for the rest of the evening, which I did. But then my worst fears came true: there was an exodus from the bankers’ party over to the Nazi ball. The Klambra boys had taken over a leather couch a short distance from our table. Benni was cackling at his own jokes and Daniel sat stone-faced with his featherbrain engaged in some inner dimensions of kinky sex and insider trading. They sat there with their coke-fueled laughter, their tumblers of century-old single malt whiskey mixed with cola, and Cuban cigars, having the time of their lives at the Nazi ball with Mother and me. All the dark and repressed memories that I’d buried in the graveyard of my brain now clawed their way back to the surface. Benni stared at me, with no apparent recollection of owing me a thing, because he shot out of his seat and shouted across the room: “Hermann! Fucking hell! It’s the fucking Herminator!”

“Good evening, Benni.”

“What the hell, man! You in the loop?”

“No, Benni. I’m not in the loop ,” I answered and was suddenly thrilled to be with my mother at a Nazi ball. “I’m here with my mother, just having a good time. Brain Damage and herbs, it’s da bomb .”

“Weren’t you at the meeting with Sjonni? Here for the greens? The Ice Baron takes care of his peeps, man. Fixrenta is taking over the buy-to-travel market. It’s genius, Hermann. Pure genius!”

“Now you listen to me,” Mother said. She found Benni revolting and hated him intensely after my tale of the two million. “We’re here to have a good time, or are at least trying to, but you’re not making it easy. I have cancer and Trooper and I are here so I can kill myself. But first I just wanted to have a bit of fun, so please crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.”

Benni took a few steps backward. “See you around, Hermann, my man. Peace out.”

“What happened to that cash you owe me?” I called, because my hatred was back from the dead, putrid and vengeful.

“Sorry?”

“My salary that you held back, the two million?”

“What? You’re still on about that shit? It’s in the past, Hermann, let it be. Danni and I are really onto something in Bulgaria these days, you should come too. It’s got everything — huge bonuses. . you should check it out. We’re not talking millions, my man, we’re talking billions .” I got the feeling this phrase was being used a lot at Klambra office these days. “So is the Herminator hot for some greens?”

“What are these greens you’re going on about?” Mother interjected. “Is the idiocy in Iceland now at such a level that even businessmen can’t speak Icelandic anymore?”

“No, Benni,” I said, wanting to put an end to this. “I don’t think I’ll buy into Bulgaria. Illness and all. It’s taxing.”

“Yes, of course,” Benni said, as if Mother’s madness was suddenly understandable in light of her cancer. I remembered that his father, the don of the Klambra boys, had kicked it because of a tumor a few years back, and how Benni and Daniel had needed several strippers to help them mourn. “Hang on, Hermann, I’ll have a word with Danni. Maybe he can find a solution to this. We have a nice apartment here in the ‘burbs.”

“Shit,” I said and looked at Mother, who shook her head and then her glass, indicating that she needed a refill on her Campari to survive. But surviving would have to wait because Daniel was on his feet in his tight suit, sunglasses and a shit-eating grin that suggested a life of extreme dental care; a deluxe, updated model of Benni.

“Ach,” Mother said, recoiling. “Is that the son?”

“Huuur-MAN!” he said and squeezed between us. “Waaassaaap? Douwn widdah mon-nay?” The phrases sounded like Japanese to me, waa-saap, wid-dah, mon-nay . As it turned out, after a few more phrases, I had been right: the boys were in Amsterdam to beg. The Icelandic holding company, Fixrenta, formerly known as Klambra Group, had secured a loan for a few billion from the bankers with the champagne. The boys really were in the loop, had hit the jackpot so to speak, and were going to use the money to build golf condos in Bulgaria. They had also bought a four-story building in Herengracht, which was to house Fixrenta’s HQ in Europe and a couple apartments. I should drop in for some Veuve Clic —the place was always full of honeys .