Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

“If there is some wrong there,” she continued, “something you’ve done to him, you’ll get it fixed, Trooper. The largest taxi company! I think this is something for you to consider, with all those bills at the hotel.”

She took a little sip of her lifesaver to mark the end of her speech and then continued talking to Ramji. We drew closer to Lowland. As we passed a motorcycle parked at the side of the driveway with “Rent your own taxi from Rotandari Taxi” plastered on the side, Mother expressed her delight. “Look at that, Trooper. It’s a self-taxi. I don’t think I’ve seen anything as brilliant.”

Mr. Bubi Rotandari stood in the middle of the courtyard, a sapphire blue turban on his head and the soft breeze in his impressive beard.

“Mr. Hermann!” he shouted when we got out of the car. “You’ve come to do business. Good.” He smiled, walked over and embraced me, lifting me a good five inches off the ground before introducing himself to Mother. “I am Bubi Rotandari. Hermann and I are great friends. He is going to help me find a place in Iceland for my taxis.”

“In Iceland?” I was taken aback. “What are you going to do there?”

“We’ll see, Mr. Hermann. First we should go to the back where people are waiting. When everyone has a full belly we can talk business. Never talk business when hungry.”

He led us across the parking lot in front of the guesthouse and into an enclosed garden behind the restaurant, where Gloria and Steven seemed to be having trouble with a gas heater. I almost didn’t recognize the doctor’s son; he’d put on so much weight over the summer. Helena sat in the middle of the garden, basking in the sun with Dr. Frederik and a stout man who had to be Duncan: a cheerful type with a friendly aura, gray hair, and a dark tan. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and a blue and green tartan kilt.

“MacKenzie tartan,” he said when we walked over to the round table and he caught Mother staring. “I like to dress up for special occasions. If there’s anything I miss from the old Highlands it’s being allowed to dress like a lady.” He stood up and kissed Mother’s hand. “Duncan MacKenzie, pleased to meet you.”

“Eva Briem,” Mother replied. “And if I may say so — you don’t look the slightest bit ladylike.”

“I should hope not,” Duncan laughed. “There’s nothing quite as comfortable as a kilt.” His grin highlighted his handsome face. A bit more heavyset than Milan Kundera, he was a he-male nonetheless. “Now, I have to ask you to excuse me while I go and get Monica to bring us more ale.”

“Who is this Monica person?” Mother asked, leaning up against me when the lord was gone.

“Monica runs the restaurant,” Helena explained. “It’s not a very rewarding job, I think. It’s never really busy.”

“I try to look in on Monica as often as I can,” the doctor said and greeted us with a handshake. “It’s good to have a little walk and refreshment once in a while.”

Helena insisted that the place would have gone under without him and Duncan. The doctor agreed, explaining that he was now legally a Dutchman. “And Duncan’s a Scot. Both great beer nations.”

“At least while you hang in there,” Helena said.

“Have you met everyone, Mr. Hermann?” Bubi asked, pointing to each and everyone present. “The woman in the corner is Gloria. She is a matchmaker. Next to her is a puffy man with a gas heater.” Bubi described everything to me as if I were blind. “That man is Steven. I will not tell you his business because Nanak Dev does not approve. But are they not your friends, Mr. Hermann? It should be you introducing us.”

Bubi Rotandari roared with laughter at his lame joke. I downed my beer in one gulp to calm my nerves, relieved by the immediate effects of the alcohol. Mother felt I was being vulgar and asked them to excuse my behavior; I was just like my father, getting drunk off a thimbleful of wine. We were headed for an interesting evening.

“She’s a piece of work, my Monica,” Duncan said as he returned, splashing beer out of the jugs he was carrying. “She refuses to speak to me.”

“Do you think that might have something to do with you leaving her at the altar?” Helena asked.

“It’s not that I don’t like her,” Duncan replied. “Monica’s a wonderful cook. But as I stood there in that church, it just dawned on me that it’s not healthy for a man of my size to marry for food.”

“Very wise,” Mother said. “One should always marry for love.”

I was expecting a speech on Willy Nellyson to follow that statement, but fortunately Duncan took the floor, bellowing a few words on love and friendship in his thick Scottish accent. It sounded as if his mouth were full of mashed potatoes. Gloria and the doctor’s son joined us. He brought the gas heater and complained about the cold, saying he’d read that half the globe would soon be covered in ice.

“Then I will open IceTaxi in India,” Bubi said.

“Even scientific invention has its downside,” the doctor replied. “We tame the natural forces and cultivate this land of ours that is below sea level, but where will it end? I’m afraid it will all go under water.”

“Listen to you lot!” Helena said, pointing to the men. “You’re chauffeured everywhere you go, burping beer, while my generation gets to deal with the shit.”

“Your generation is infertile,” Bubi Rotandari said. “Here, those men who are not homos have useless genitals. The Netherlands have the smallest population growth since the war.”

“Are there no homosexuals in India?” Mother asked.

“Only in Mumbai. But we have too many people there, anyway.”

“I worried for a while that my Trooper would turn out that way,” Mother said, patting the back of my hand. “But my Trooper is safe now, aren’t you? You wouldn’t start letting someone tap your keg at this age, right?”

“It should not be allowed,” Bubi Rotandari said, taking a swig of his beer. “It is against God and the nation.”

“God is a fickle fellow,” Duncan said with a vague smile, hoping to loosen things up a bit. “I’m sure, though, that he would agree with us asking Monica to top us up again.”

“You go, Trooper,” Mother said and placed her hand lightly on the lord’s shoulder to stop him. “It’s not right to have Duncan running back and forth all the time.”

She smiled and crossed her leg over the other so it pointed toward him. Compared to the long-range weapons I pretended to possess in my arsenal for communicating with women, her military strategies were blitzkrieg. Duncan flattered Mother and she accepted his compliments with the ease of someone who has mastered the warfare of love. The tarot cards didn’t lie. The knight in the kilt leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

“I need a doctor,” Mother said, laughing at his joke. “Your tricks will kill me!”

In that instance Monica walked in to announce that dinner was ready and that she needed a few good men to carry the feast out. Helena and Ramji stood up to make room for the cook. She took two bowls of pheasant crackling from a basket and placed them on the table.

“A gift from Nanak Dev,” Bubi said, munching on the rind. “Most excellent, Mrs. Monica, you are a servant of life to bring us such a delicacy.” The cook nodded, stood up, and disappeared back inside the building. “Rotandari men eat game, no problem. Bird meat. Animal meat. Horse meat. We are Sikhs.”

“Like my Ramji,” Mother said.

“I am a Catholic, Mam,” Ramji said. He and Helena seemed to be carrying all the food reserves of the world on one enormous plate. The feast was the same Mother and I had enjoyed on our special Friday in Amsterdam, when everything was new and the quest for special drinks stretched into the night. The centerpiece was a whole roasted pig, stuffed with pheasant and bacon rinds, with vegetables packed all around it.