The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson

control. So each time I had a drink with her she smirked. I was obviously as inept at holding my liquor as Willy Nellyson. It was remarkable with the two of us, and yet neither of us were any good at sports. Both just as devoid of physical grace. She claimed that there had to be something seriously wrong with our composition, for she believed that golfing and tennis were at the core of the world of those who managed to live with a constant lack of alcohol. She was sure that all teetotalers were half-mad with energy and drive. These same individualstended, however, to be rather boring, but they had that authority, like Ólafur Ragnar. He would never have become president if he’d been drunk all day.
    â€œYou’re projecting,” I said, finishing my beer. “You eat an entire apple in under a minute.”
    â€œThat’s only if I need vitamins.”
    â€œNope, it’s in your character.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYou eat an apple in a minute and fast-forward through Nikolaj and Julie because you’re so eager to get to the next bit. You’re exactly the type who ends up in office.”
    â€œI suppose I’d be a very good president,” she said dreamily. “And I’d bring about some change, I can tell you. For instance: I’d ban these self-jets that drive me up the wall back home. What is wrong with those people? People who never take the bus, but whiz by in taxcabs, waking you up in the middle of the night with all that noise, flying off to go shopping in Italy. I hate these people, just hate them.” She slammed her fist on the table, quaking with anger. “Have you heard anything as idiotic? Flying to Italy to go to a shop? In a self-jet?”
    â€œHow do you think your precious banker friends got here? With a commercial airline?”
    â€œOf course, they were generous gentlemen—I’m not talking about them. The people I’m referring to, Hermann, are all these self-jetting people smiling at you from the cover of gossip magazines. Who the hell do they think they are? Oprah Winfred?”
    â€œWinfrey.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I explained to her that the woman’s name was Oprah Winfrey, but she had little interest in discussing her peculiar contribution tothe language—self-jet, taxcab, Winfred; her creativity in this field seemed heightened when it came to foreigners.
    â€œDo you see what I see?” She finally said and stood up, moving towards the window and pointing like mad. “Isn’t that, what’s her name . . . Helgamom? And Ramji! Yes, it’s my Ramji! Ramjiminn!”
    She ran out into the street and was out of sight before I knew it. I had no choice but to pay for our drinks and follow her.

Chapter 5
    T he Ambassador was parked farther up the street. HelgaMam and Ramji stood next to a beautiful girl who introduced herself as Helena, proprietor of The Pleasure Fountain, the shop the doctor had mentioned to us. We said hello, and a man in his thirties stepped out of the car to greet us. He was the spitting image of the doctor; for a second I actually though it was him after a night of Botox treatments. Steven Turtleman was, in fact, a unique testimony to the resolve of the sperm cell and its devotion to the genetic compound of mankind. He had come to the Netherlands a couple years ago looking for his biological father, Dr. Frederik, whom he had found with the help of newly public documents on sperm donors in the USA. Now he managed the Cannabis Museum in Amsterdam and was the center’s supplier of quality weed. His life story churned out through his vocal cords like an unstoppable printing press until Mother tapped his shoulder and interrupted him.
    â€œIt was so wonderful to see Ramji here that I just had to run,” she said, breathless after the short sprint. “Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence, Miss . . . ?”
    â€œHelena,” the girl answered with a smile and said that Amsterdam was