Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

I had known for a while that I needed a change of lifestyle, though not by depriving Mother of her parties or giving up on our adventure — we had come too far for that. The proof was in my morning breath, this green odor that answered if I huffed into my palm and sniffed. It was in my shapeless muscles, deteriorating posture, fatigue, memory loss, and the unpleasant fact that my face was completely androgynous after a close shave. Mother was becoming less and less dependent on her lifesaver and stuck mostly to her chai, which released her from the pressures of drinking wine; the opportunity to not consume 3,000 extra calories a day in the form of alcohol was simply too good to miss. For the first time ever, I decided with rock-solid determination to lose weight. I would cry over my fate until the corpse rose out of the haze; life would fill my body and I would become aware each waking hour that I was among the living. Without gulping down sherry-cola, without wanting to throw up after heartfelt canoodling with a leg of ham.

The effort started as expected with hunger pains and torment in the hotel gym. For the first three days I was convinced I was about to die. When I woke up on the fourth morning I was sure I had moved up a level of existence, had obtained new karma after a sad demise on a squat machine in Hotel Europa. But due to the mercilessness of the higher powers I had woken up in my room as if nothing had happened. Mother didn’t know how to take these antics of mine. On one hand, nothing was quite as pathetic as a man on a diet, but on the other hand there was the upside, the possibility that I might snag a girlfriend. Over time she’d gotten used to me going on the occasional fat-burning stint, eating vegetables to wean my stomach off fatty foods and ordering white wine in restaurants instead of my beloved lager. Mother would use the opportunity to ask for a pint and a schnapps, laughing hysterically when the waiters got it wrong and switched the drinks in front of us. It was always funny when I was the girl. It did me no good to point indignantly to her potbelly. Unlike me, she was simply a woman who filled out her dresses, her feminine curves healthy for her age; quite a few people would call them erotic. “You, Trooper, however, are fat.”

But when she took a peek into the hotel gym and saw I was serious, she seemed to have a change of heart. Maybe all this running would bring out the long-awaited correction to my physique that was owed to us by the creator? She had always been astounded by how unfortunately one genetic pool could line up. Despite sincere efforts of the parents to create a healthy child, everything had gone topsy-turvy in this conception. The slightness that characterized Willy’s bulk had been passed on to me, but lengthwise; I grew outward, so my size was all horizontal. In fact, everything about me but my build should have made me petite.

“But now you’ll fix that, Trooper,” she said as she got ready to leave the gym. “I think it’s heroic of you to do this now, while you’re still almost young. Some people never get rid of the blubber. Just carry all that weight through marriages and divorces, all the way to the grave. Like old Edda. We had to have a custom-made coffin for her.”

She said good-bye and left me to struggle with the bench press. In the roughly three weeks leading up to the party I lost 16 and a half pounds so fast that I looked slightly hollow. The bathroom mirror could hardly keep up with my dwindling body. My facial expressions became more apparent, my nose declared independence from my cheeks, and my body took on human form.

My diet was not without sacrifice. One day, as I was jogging down the hotel stairs with All Time Power Ballads channeling from my iPod into my ears, I had, without noticing (at first very quietly, or so I was told, but then steadily increasing in volume until it resonated throughout the entire gym), started singing along, soaring up to the high notes with Nilsson as he sang beautifully:

I can’t li-iii-iii-ve

If living is without you . .

It wasn’t until the gym’s supervisor snatched the headphones from my ears that I heard how clear and sincere my singing was.

On a bright Saturday toward the end of August, Ramji picked us up at Hotel Europa to drive us to the party. The Ambassador snaked through the streets and we left the city at the pace of the settling dusk, under a half-clouded rural sky that floated huge shadows across the land.

“This is wonderful!” Mother said. “What a country we’re in, Trooper. The town we just passed was almost like Koeningsdorf in Germany.”

“I know, it’s great.”

“Is India this lovely, Ramji, or maybe even more beautiful?”

“Very beautiful, Mam,” Ramji replied absentmindedly. He had been unusually shifty and had hardly uttered a word as we passed through one village after the other.

“Is everything ok, Ramjiminn?”

“Yes. Ok, Mam BriemMam. Except. . no, it’s nothing.”

Mother and I exchanged surprised looks.

“You don’t have to be shy about it, Ramji, if there is something bothering you, my dear,” she said and adopted a very saintly expression. “But you know this, of course, coming from the birthplace of Buddha himself. One needs to flow with the life force. Not allow the troubles of our everyday life to create obstacles.”

“Yes, Mam.”

“Philosophy aside, Ramji,” I inserted. “Is there something bothering you?”

“Yes, maybe a bit. I was thinking, Mr. Trooper, whether you remember Mr. Bubi, sir? Bubi Rotandari?”

“The taxi guy? Is he on your case again?”

“Don’t be so negative, Trooper,” Mother said. “Perhaps there is good news.”

“Right. Ramji?”

“He said, sir. . He said that he wanted to meet Mr. Hermann and speak to him. He said that it’s important, sir. Business. I think he means you, sir.”

“Of course he means me. He’s insane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Isn’t it enough that he pinned me to the a sidewalk?” I asked, but Ramji was not to keen to recall the conflict in Nieuwenmarkt.

“Mr. Bubi says that Mr. Hermann, that is you, Mr. Trooper, he says that you can find him a place to keep the cars.”

“What?”

“Yes, Mr. Trooper, that is what he said. That you can find a place to keep the cars.”

I told Ramji to tell Mr. Bubi that I had nothing to say to him. The panic in the driver’s eyes intensified.

“Did he threaten to do something to you, Ramji, if you didn’t get me to talk to him?”

“Mr. Bubi does not make threats, Mr. Trooper, but I know him. He is not like other men. He is very determined.”

“Determined, hah! This guy, a crazy Indian who beat the shit out of me for being a racist, now wants me to find him a garage.”

“Are you a racist now?” Mother asked.

“No, I. . oh, forget it.”

“Do you know anything about this, Ramji?” Mother asked again and leaned over the front seat. “Trooper is upset because I don’t ask the right questions. But do you know anything? Who is this man he’s talking about?”

“Mr. Bubi, Mam, my old boss. He owns the largest taxi company in Amsterdam.”

“Oh, you hear that, Trooper? Your new friend is a great man.”

I told her that this man, who attacked me at the racist ball and then wiped the sidewalk with my face, was not at all great, but she felt I was being petty.

“Weren’t you just being offensive? Without noticing? Isn’t that what you’re always saying to me? That I’m a racist and god knows what without realizing it? Well, who’s to say that you’re not guilty of the very same thing yourself?”

I didn’t bother answering her. Mother had clearly decided whose side she was on and was just getting started.