Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

Once out in the street I was gripped by a pure desire to fulfill my ideas from that morning: find a sleazy dive and start a marathon session of special drinks. Ramji seemed to sense the self-destructive impulse in me and refused to leave me alone. We sat for a good half hour at Blue Blue Jay Jay, a soft-core topless joint where I downed margaritas and Ramji sipped on his mineral water until he insisted on leaving, appalled by his client’s taste in watering holes. I tried to explain to him that we were equals and that I was very fond of him, and if something offended him he should say so.

“Yes, sir,” he said and drove me to Nieuwenmarkt, the very heart of prostitution and drug dealing in the city. “I don’t think you should go there, Mr. Trooper.”

I had hardly gotten out of the car when I was back in trouble, entranced by Steven’s super-joint. A stout man on a motorbike with the words “Rent your own Taxi from Rotandari Taxi” plastered on the side rolled menacingly toward me. I automatically grabbed a piece of patio furniture leaning against a nearby wall and hit him with it. The big man hardly flinched, got off his bike, took off his helmet, and sunk his powerful fist into my left jaw.

“Racist!” he yelled, pulling back his arm, ready to strike again. “I saw you at that racist gathering! Colonial cunt!”

He put me in a headlock, twisted my arms behind my back and ground my face into the sidewalk. I saw broken glass and gobs of gum, and the lowest parts of passersby: tights and shoes that whisked past without stopping, without any interference, because people were used to violence and fighting, endless hate and abuse. I screamed that it hurt.

“And for the Indians who live in little rooms far away from the city to wake up and drive Dutch Daisies to restaurants, and then just get spit on, you think it doesn’t hurt?”

“I’m not Dutch!” I almost cried. The pain was starting to cut through the numbness of the weed and I was beaten up and humiliated by Bubi Rotandari the taxi driver. “I’m from Iceland!”

Of all the things I could have said, but didn’t get to say to Bubi Rotandari at that moment, about my political correctness, my love for the multicultural and orgies with whites, Indians, and Masai — with all due respect for the cultural uniqueness of peoples such as the Sikhs — this declaration of my nationality seemed to be my get-out-of-jail card this time.

“Iceland? So you know Binu Singh Fagandi, my uncle. Hmm. Come with me.”

According to information related by Binu Singh Fagandi, Icelanders were a remarkable exception in the world of the White West, which had royally fucked up with Mr. Bush at the helm. President Bush had made money for his war by selling luxury apartments in Hollywood, but now there were no buyers so Mr. President Bush was poor. Icelanders, however, were not poor because they owned a bank in the Netherlands. Bubi had seen the bankers himself at a party next to a racist gathering. Icelanders were world champions in money making.

How all this tied in with his plans for me, I had no idea, but I was by no means a free man yet. My half-hearted attempt to get up reawakened his fist.

“Mr. Bubi, sir,” Ramji called out, having parked the car to try and talk sense into his old boss. “I saw what happened, sir. I think that even though Mr. Willyson was careless, sir, I don’t think he hit you on purpose. It was an accident, Mr. Bubi, that’s all.”

“You swear it, Ramji? Can you swear it on our Punjabi ancestors?”

“I swear it, Mr. Bubi, this is the truth. Mr. Hermann Willyson made an accident.”

“Ok. I do this for my father, Ramji, I do this because you are family and because my father is a good man who takes care of his people. As do I. You can go. But when I want to collect my debt from Mr. Willyson — it is dishonorable to hit someone with garden furniture — I will call you, Ramji. This will do for now. Mr. Willyson is free to go.” He was about to stand up when he suddenly turned around, stared at me intently and said: “One more thing, Mr. Hermann Willyson. Does your name mean ‘brother,’ like in Spanish?”

“No, it doesn’t mean brother. I suppose it means soldier. I think so: soldier.”

“Mr. Soldier? Mr. Soldier, very good. Mr. Soldier is dismissed.”

We walked back to the Ambassador and got in. I stared vacantly out of the window at the endless, red-eyed traffic slithering by. I felt a steady beat at my temples and a growing sense of nausea punctuated by bursts of needing to drown it in liquor and junk food. When I finally made it back to the hotel I was in no mood to face what had happened sober, so I ambushed the minibar with inspired grandeur, took two painkillers and barreled down to the restaurant to order a Bloody Mary and a large helping of French fries with mayo. My friend Dmitri watched bemused as I wolfed down my food and drink, and topped up my glass on the house. The relief over not feeling horrible swept away what little remained of any common sense in my being. I walked out of the lobby, light as a feather, knowing the only way I’d go to sleep was if I passed out. It’s hard to accurately assess the time, but I vaguely recall the growing gray light when I crawled out at dawn from some doomed hash dive in the Red Light District, a good twenty hours after I’d walked with great expectations down Spuistraat in search of the perfect he-male.

“Trooper, my lovely boy!” Mother sat at the hotel bar with the latest issue of Bild . “Now, you go lie down and get a good, long rest, like a babe in a cradle. Mutti will take care of her little super trooper, and everything will be just the way it used to be.”

I dozed off with childhood lullabies ringing in my ears, drifting off into fits of dreamless sleep.

After my run-in with Bubi I mostly kept to myself. I slept until noon, had a latté on the balcony, read, called Helena, and checked in on Mother every now and again. In the evenings we took the elevator down to the restaurant or found a small pub nearby where we could have a bite and something to drink. I spiked her gin with calamus — a wonder drug from the Smart-Shop in Warmoesstrat that obviously did what it said on the label. Two glasses of Gordon’s with calamus set Mother on fire. She laughed and sang sappy songs about the student life and drinking wine, like a slushed recording of her thirty-years-younger self. Her face lit up with exaggerated delight and she threw her head back in laughter, whipped her high-heeled feet up on the table and shouted for more jenever — let’s drink! I kept them coming like a factory worker, either helplessly inebriated, or shattered by a hangover. If I suggested that we’d leave early she accused me of being Hrafn Gunnlaugsson, an Icelandic filmmaker she abhorred. “It’s only one o’clock, Trooper! More jenever!” Then she’d launch into a repertoire of socialist songs from days of yore. The music poured into my soul like a melancholy porridge of stress and happiness. The rhythm reminded me of the heavy rains in the Reykjavik of my youth, a deep drumming of incoming low pressure from the Atlantic. I didn’t sing along, but let my mind drift into the din and song, until Mother realized I was dozing off and sent me to the bar for more.

This was one of the things I’d completely forgotten to take into account when we set sail for the Netherlands: the daily, almost incessant partying was conjuring up a potent alcoholism in me. Like many others, I enjoyed babbling nonsense and drowning the world’s sorrows in drink, but despite having earned my stripes in sherry marathons on Spítala Street I had never possessed Mother’s stamina for the merciless binges she dragged me on during our stay at Hotel Europa. I was sucked into a world where the laws were alien and stronger than I was, and all I could do was go with the flow and try to contain the rising anxiety looming behind the conviction that I wasn’t in control of anything at all. Mid-day took me out on the balcony with a glass of red and a bong while the hubbub of the day evaporated into the stillness. I spent several days doing nothing but wandering around the hotel room in my underwear, reading books, doing crosswords, and having the only sex available for free: masturbation. The only time I ventured into daylight was when I needed provisions — Campari, cannabis, or new records for the gramophone.