The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson Page A

he said and squeezed between us. “Waaassaaap? Douwn widdah mon-nay?” The phrases sounded like Japanese to me, waa-saap, wid-dah, mon-nay . As it turned out, after a few more phrases, I had been right: the boys were in Amsterdam to beg. The Icelandic holding company, Fixrenta, formerly known as Klambra Group, had secured a loan for a few billion from the bankers with the champagne. The boys really were in the loop, had hit the jackpot so to speak, and were going to use the money to build golf condos in Bulgaria. They had also bought a four-story building in Herengracht, which was to house Fixrenta’s HQ in Europe and acouple apartments. I should drop in for some Veuve Clic —the place was always full of honeys .
    Daniel’s presence and his motor mouth seemed to be driving Mother off the deep end; she was tense enough from having to wait for her drink. I decided it was best to agree to everything he said, so I pretended to accept his offer and thanked him. Told him we’d be in touch. Clumsy gangsta -handshake.
    â€œWhat a creepy man,” Mother said when he was gone. “Fidgeting about like that and going on and on about himself without so much as offering a lady a drink.”
    â€œI’ll take care of it. I’ll get us something strong from the bar.”
    When I returned with a selection of tequila shots, one of the racists had taken a seat next to Mother and seemed to be admiring her earlobes. I found it perverse that a man would try to pick up elderly ladies by complimenting their earlobes and quickly drove him away. It was time to call it a night. We downed the shots, stood up and walked out into the night. A polka-dotted Amsterdam shimmered under the summer sky, the artificially lit darkness ready to gobble up the day and pave the way for the underworld. People shouted profanities at lampposts and threw beer cans, the atmosphere was intoxicated, and there was no Ramji to lead the way. I was about to chase down a cab when the bulky Indian with the turban came running, grabbed me, and stared at me with eyes full of spite.
    â€œI saw where you were,” he shouted. “I saw where you are coming from. Racists!”
    I couldn’t say anything. After all, I had just come from a gathering of racists.
    â€œYou people are a plague on the planet, you are human feces. Feces!
    He let go of me and walked off.
    â€œWhat a brute,” Mother said, insulted by this outburst. “What on earth was he thinking?”
    â€œIt’s what happens when you go to a Nazi ball. It’s time to go home.”
    We caught a cab to the hotel, where I made us a long drink while she laid out her tarot cards. She was sorry to tell me that the chances of me finding a woman in the near future were very slim indeed and that I should expect hard times financially as the year wore on. Things looked good in the long run, though.
    â€œBut now it’s my turn,” she said and lit up as she always did when expecting a prophesy. “I’m sure that my luck is about to change for the better.”
    She picked nine cards from the deck and they were all as expected: some difficulties, then tranquility, stability, new feelings and finally . . .
    â€œThere he is again!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe knight, of course!” Excited, she stuck the card in my face. A regal looking man in a kilt riding across clouds under a golden sunset. “What does this mean, Trooper? Will I meet the knight in the kilt?”

Chapter 9
    I couldn’t help but wonder now and again whether our trip was something more than one big question about the quintessential issues: a whole tarot tournament on life, death, and love, and whether the answer in the end would be anything more than a hollow, intangible sound fading into silence. The fact was that I would in all probability have many decades to ponder the so-called big questions, half a lifetime left for anxiety, nostalgia, and self-doubt, while life