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

slapped me for being right-wing—and now you want to go for free food and drinks with some bankers.”
    â€œThese are no ordinary bankers. They gave me champagne.”
    â€œWhich they bought with all the money they made from the interest you’re paying. Then you have to go abroad to get proper medical service while they sit here drinking.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, Hermann. Why do you think these men have something to do with that? If you ask me, they probably came here to be free of the extortionary prices of everything back home.”
    â€œEva, I’m telling you. These are the exact guys who are spending everything that people like you own on champagne and caviar.”
    â€œI don’t understand why you have to be such a drag, Hermann. You have to learn to live a little. This here, for instance,” she pointed to another poster that read: Grave Night Fun. Karaoke. Wild Sex. Gay Men . “Couldn’t this be something for you?” The photo showed a group of leather-clad men at some sort of a karaoke rave. Mother thought this could be fun for me. I could sing songs with my friend . . . what was his name again? Freddy Mercy? “I’m joking,” she finally said and hit me hard on the shoulder, as if the violent gesture would soften me up. “It’s incredible how serious you can be. Have you seen all these wonderful posters?” She pointed to another ad on the booth with a picture of gray haired people sitting around a table, laughing with drinks in their hands. This poster read: Single Caucasian Midlife Fun. Join us Saturday .
    â€œIsn’t this exactly what we’ve been looking for?” she asked. “Like that Russian bride, but for people my age.”
    â€œYou really want to go to a racist thing to find love?”
    â€œI think you’re misunderstanding, Trooper,” she replied. “It only means that there’ll be a limited selection. People your age are maybe used to having a million different types to choose from, but my generation can settle. I want to have a look.”
    I tried to talk her out of it to no avail, and watched her hand over 20 euros for two tickets. “Just landed and already whisked away to a ball.”
    â€œYou seriously don’t find this a tad offensive?”
    â€œWhat do you mean,” she said, preparing herself for yet another of my lectures on political correctness. “What is it that you find so racist about it?”
    â€œIt’s a ball for single, middle-aged white people. Don’t you find that a bit, I don’t know—Hitler and his friends throwing a party?”
    â€œNo, Trooper, I think you’re reading too much into this. This simply means that it’s a get-together for people who like to meet other people with a similar background. It could just as well be for black people. Then it would also read: For single, middle-aged black people. I’m sure they have those too.”
    â€œI’m telling you—you’ve just bought tickets to some sort of neo-Nazi gathering.”
    â€œYou can be so melodramatic,” she laughed. “Or do you really think that of your mother—that I’m a neo-Nazi? I, who played Herta Oberhauser in a very controversial play?”
    I turned away from her and let my eyes drown in the foreignness of the street. One of the many things Mother couldn’t stand was the rigidity younger people had toward the multiplicity age. It was as if young people didn’t understand that each generation had itsown discourse and ways. She didn’t attack people who talked about Down Syndrome, even though she herself had grown up in a world where people like that were simply called “retarded.” What young people didn’t understand was that people were different, the generations so unlike in their actions and attitudes. She knew this even though I didn’t grasp it—which was understandable as I was raised by