Sölvi Sigurdsson - The Last Days of My Mother

To stop the memories from evaporating into thin air I made one last big investment in a small electronic store on Kolverstraat. I bought a digital camcorder and gave it to Mother over our morning coffee one day in September, unaware that the world’s data memory was in a more perilous state than it had ever been before the dawn of the digital age. Each and every hour was the predecessor of a memory that nuzzled in the bosom of eternity under the strong artistic direction of Mother. And so were our last days in Amsterdam: substantiation that we’d lived and enjoyed ourselves, downed specials and seen the Museum of Torture, because the ruthlessness of the past was such that everything was doomed to fade and vanish unless every moment was caught on film.

When I got a call from my credit card company complaining that the transaction for the camera should really not have gone through because of unpaid bills, there was nothing left to do but check out of Hotel Europa and cash in the insurance deposit. We decided to move to Lowland, stay at the guesthouse to begin with, and take it from there. I spent the last days roaming the streets, drinking coffee, buying books and music for smoother sailings into the future, whatever it was and however long it would last. We stood newly awake in the lobby with our luggage. A car horn honked out in the street. Amsterdam was behind us in the blink of an eye.

After a couple of days in Lowland it was as if we’d never lived anywhere else. Mother had a room on the ground floor and took her breakfast in the garden. Ramji would come pick her up at noon and drive her to get her shots from the doctor. Mastering her film, she made him walk seventeen times across the parking lot before his theatrical talent reached enough maturity to perfectly interpret the required casual spontaneity. Mother, on the other hand, only needed one take to deliver her most vital role. She insisted that I barbeque with Duncan to ensure that the memory of the wonderful festivities in Lowland would never be forgotten. The ritual involved drinking half a can of beer, stabbing a few holes into it and shoving it up the rear end of a dead chicken. Never before in the history of film-making had one bird been as thoroughly jammed. In this way Mother delivered the day-to-day life on Lowland complete and intact onto the pages of history — she being the only person I know of who managed to convince a cancer patient in a kilt to get down into a ditch and wave about a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being .

I was freer than I’d been for months and took over a room up in the attic on the south side of the guesthouse. I’d wake up to the morning sun, drifting in and out of sleep until noon, enjoying strange dreams about Ljudmila, the matron’s daughter. Becoming closer to Duncan and his adventurous cooking resulted in my body expanding back to its old form, which made it possible for me, from a certain angle in the mirror, to imagine that my own ass was in fact Ljudmila’s. That she’d snuck under my covers in the night and run amok.

Before the month was over Mother had moved into Highland, having secured a four-poster-bed and freestanding bath, like she’d dreamt of having on Spítala Street. Duncan offered to let her stay free of charge in one of the rental rooms; she had gone for a look, taken in the adventurously decorated lounges, the portraits, antiques, sewing machines, and chests. “And the garden, Trooper, what a paradise!” September passed with afternoon teas and blini parties. I couldn’t help but think that the Fates had decided to be merciful. That she’d picked up the phone and consulted Joy. But it was too early to rejoice. At the end of the month one of Mother’s bones snapped in two; she’d been directing Ramji while filming him changing a tire. After all these months, Mother had fallen ill.

*

When a parent loses a child the sorrow submerges the world; this was my first philosophical notion: if I died before Mother, the silence on Spítala Street would become an infinite abyss. Cousin Matti’s record playing would never be able to fill it. The apartment would be flooded with tears, and no compensation for water damages could take away the pain.

Years later, in Dublin, when my self-pity reached full maturity, and the meaning of life poured out of my eyes and down my face, I tried to push on by reminding myself that despite everything there was a deeper sorrow, a sorrow that wipes out the significance of everything and reduces all the world’s recordings to a chilling silence. I had friends who had suffered such a tragedy — people who’d buried their will to live along with their child, torn apart the frame of their existence, and said good-bye to each other; their life together meaningless without the child. Sorrow was a gravitational force dragging everything down into that grave. It could not be shared with others. It was reserved for them alone, beyond other people’s understanding.

Soon after I split up with Zola I bumped into these unfortunate friends of mine in a restaurant in Dublin. They were back together again, had a new child and looked happy, sharing a meal. I, however, looked like an assembly of variously developed primates, unwashed and unshaved, in a blue suede jacket of Zola’s, a very ugly and badly-cut piece of clothing that I’d grabbed on my way out after our last fight. My friends offered me a seat and delved into anecdotes from their lives, this great labyrinth of happiness that forced me, in my suede jacket, into the vast expanses of myself, overcome by the abyss. After my friends had sat under my non-stop, bearded ape’s end-of-days rant for over half an hour, they’d had enough; it wasn’t as if there were any children involved.

On my way over the mire separating Highland from the village, my mind was for some reason awash with a jumble of memories: dumped and dead-drunk in a Dublin hotel elevator; four years old hiding in a cupboard on Spítala Street, determined to stay there until my point had been made clear to Mother: that without me her life was worthless, that no matter how fun life was with grownups, without me it would never be more than an apparition. The longer I stayed in the cupboard the greater her happiness would be in finding me. She would not take off, she would not get sick, she would not die. The Spítala Street attic became a venue for adventures eliminating the danger of her ever going away. I appointed dusty household appliances as guardians from external attacks. I forbade her to go on summer vacation abroad with cousin Matti, on the grounds that I’d read in World Wonders that the Mediterranean was full of sharks. The years went by. One spring day brought on mutations of my organs. My voice broke. I had sexual relations with a badly upholstered Ottoman that smelled of dog biscuits. At the same time, Mother’s presence in my life became unbearable. She could never understand the catastrophes sweeping over my soul. My delicate body became a scene of spastic movements while my limbs grew and declared independence. I lost weight and put it back on. Each transformation was followed by new and unknown dimensions resonating through my psyche. The small corner shop became a palace of new feelings that embraced the summer nights and stretched out in the face of Pála, the shop assistant, who sold me gum and hot dogs. Night after night I went to meet her, sporting new additions to my face: blackheads and random stubble that resembled sparse pubic hair more than a beard. When I got back home I would dash up to the attic so she wouldn’t be in my way. Cocoa Puffs became my haute cuisine . Meals were a thing of the past. Mother and I were no longer walking in line. Finally, I moved out. I began a new life were everything seemed possible, knowing little of what experiments the world had in mind for me.