Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

“Incredible food!” Mother said and competed for the crackle with Steven, who loved calories with the same passion he had for diminishing their effects on other people. He ate one quail after the other with cream, bacon, and several pints of Shakespeare ale. He seemed to have lost the aversion he had to food the first time we met.

“BodySnatch,” Gloria explained. “He’s fulfilling his dream.”

When everyone had eaten, Bubi Rotandari turned to the real reason for showing up at the party. It turned out that his great uncle, Binu Fagandi, had recently been in Iceland to cash in bank shares his daughter had won in a poker game. During his stay in that dark and harsh country, Binu Fagandi had noticed several things: for instance, that one taxi from the airport to the city cost the same as running the school bus in Haridwar, his hometown, for three whole months. Short of cash, Fagandi had been stuck for two days in a rather grubby hostel near the bus station before finally managing to cash in the shares. The light-hearted relief sparked an idea in Mr. Fagandi’s mind: Iceland needed a taxi company run by the Rotandaris.

“And there you have it. You need cheap taxis in Iceland and so Mr. Hermann is going to help me.”

“I absolutely agree,” Mother said. “I live on Spítala Street, which is downtown, and it costs me more than 10 euros to take a taxi home.”

“You are right, Mam,” Bubi replied. “My uncle Binu says that in Iceland there are too many cars that nobody wants. Icelanders are very stupid. They keep their cars on ugly tarmac and take expensive taxis.”

“You seem to know everything about Iceland, Herr Bubi.”

“Yes. I bought ten cars from Mr. Sigmund, who is from Zwickau and lives in Iceland. He sold me Honda Civic and Citroën, but also a Trabant with an electrical motor. Those cars only use two liters of diesel for one hundred kilometers. Now I have ten taxis in Iceland. Krónubílar . They are my pride and joy. The Crown Cars. IceTaxi.”

“Marvelous! Trooper!” Mother exclaimed. “Now you can really use taxis.”

Bubi seized the opportunity to point out that I would have to assist him and ignored my protests by holding up a hand in front of my face: an impenetrable wall indicating his authority. “Mr. Hermann, you’ll do this to fulfill your duty to me. You will not regret it.”

“You’ll never get the permits you need,” I said, but Bubi waved a document contradicting my case.

“You will find me a place, Mr. Soldier, because you know people.”

He had hardly finished the sentence when a brilliant light clicked on in my mind. I stood up from the table and walked into the guesthouse where Monica kept a small computer. My plan was even more ingenious than any manipulated love affair of the elderly. It was the greatest scheme in human history. After ten minutes of surfing the web I pulled Danni Klambra’s business card out of my pocket and made a phone call. I explained in detail what I wanted. This would have to go off without a hitch.

“No problem, my man,” Daniel said, clueless to the Hell on Earth awaiting him. “We’ll take care of it. Get your guy to check in on us in Herengrach and we’ll call it even. And then we’re squared, H. Done. D.O.N.E. Okay?”

I hung up and walked out to Bubi and Ramji waiting by the Ambassador.

“It’s done,” I said. “Your Uncle Binu will get the building he needs in Iceland, Mr. Bubi, but you must listen very carefully: This list has all the buildings on the market, and it also states the price.”

I handed him a printout of the real estate listings I’d found on the Internet. He looked carefully at the photos and peered at me.

“You just need to know one thing, Mr. Bubi, and that is that these guys are supposed to give you a good discount. You make sure you get a really good deal, whatever the building. He will try to worm his way out of it, but then you say to him: ‘I am Bubi Singh Rotandari from India. I will not budge.’ You tell him you are my friend and if he doesn’t come through for you he will be betraying our friendship and all Rotandaris who have ever been, and you tell him that if he betrays you, you know where he lives and with whom he does business, and what kind of business that is. You tell him what fate awaits those who cross Rotandaris. If you do this, your Uncle Binu will get the building he wants at the price he wants. And now I believe our business is concluded.”

Bubi Rotandari said nothing. He smiled because I had understood him. Our two worlds had collided for a moment and we had seen eye to eye. Bubi got on his bike, tore up the pebbled courtyard with his back wheel in a pale dust cloud, and blasted down the driveway, disappearing out onto the main road.

“Now Bubi is gone, Mr. Trooper, sir,” Ramji said.

“Good riddance.”

“Mr. Bubi is Sikh, sir. He came to this country with his father, Bir Singh Rotandari, when he was fifteen years old. They left India because it was not a good place for the Sikhs at that time.”

“I’ve heard about that. Indira Gandhi, right? They killed her?”

“Ah, you know, Mr. Trooper?” Ramji was surprised but continued: “It is true, she was killed, but it was not that simple. Our Prime Minister, Mam Gandhi, was extremely popular. The people loved her because she was just and cared for the people and the future. She cared for the Hindus and the Christians and the Muslims and the Sikhs and the Buddhists; all Indians had the same Prime Minister. I know, Mr. Trooper, that when you say ‘they killed her’ you are thinking of the Sikhs. And it was true, it was a Sikh who murdered Indira, but one Sikh is not all Sikhs so it is not right to think badly of them all. I am a Christian and want to forgive like Christ teaches. The same for Hindus, they must forgive. But people don’t always do as they believe. They threw stones at Sikhs and chased them. They burned their stores and wrecked their cars, and chased them out of their homes. Many left the country and went to the West, like Bubi and his father. When I came to the Netherlands, Mr. Bubi took me and put me behind the wheel of one of his taxis and gave me a salary, food, and a home. I had to work hard but he was fair and I worked for him for two years. I sent the money to Nainital, my village in India. But when I met Dr. Frederik and he wanted me to drive for him, Mr. Bubi wanted money. I am not a slave, Mr. Trooper. He should not have done this, but he did it anyway. Dr. Frederik paid a lot of money so I could come and work for him. A lot of money — that Mr. Bubi got for nothing. He was not the owner of me, but that is how it happened.”

“I’m sorry, Ramji, the world is full of people like that.”

“I know, sir.”

“People do what they will. They go as far as they can to get what they think is theirs by right.”

“Not everyone, Mr. Trooper. Not everyone. There is still hope in the world.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said and walked back with me to the party.

The gathering had grown when Ramji and I returned. A ten-gallon belly with a woman attached sat surrounded by a rugby huddle of small children and a bearded man waving tubs of ice cream at them to try and charm them off her. Mother watched the family wearily and was obviously rather fed up. She lit up a cigarette and retreated into another dimension. I walked over to Helena, who stood in the doorway wrestling with a beer keg. She told me that she doubted that the tap had seen as much use in a single day since the pub opened in the eighteenth century. “But it seems to do the trick, look at them.”

“Yup. Skirts will fly back at Duncan’s tonight, Scottish and Icelandic.”

“No matter what happens later when everyone has sobered up. You should fetch the glasses. I think I’ve got this fixed.”