The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson Read Free Book Online

“You could do with a pick-me-up.”
    â€œNo more for now, thanks. I’d prefer a beer and some coffee first. How about finding a seat and having a look at the map?”
    â€œGreat idea, Trooper. If there’s anything I’ve learned on my travels it’s that you can never sit down enough . . . but I can’t say I’ve ever had much use for maps. My map is in my heart.”
    I resisted mentioning her disastrous trip with the Friends of Romania group that ended with me flying to Slovakia to take her home.
    â€œHere,” she walked into a weird café where two men took turns frying pancakes and cutting people’s hair. We got a table by a window looking out over the canal and ordered coffee and pancakes. “They’ve even got Internet here. Would you check my email for me and see if I’ve got any new messages?”
    I agreed and asked for her password.
    â€œMilan Kundera, one word.”
    â€œThe poet?”
    â€œHe’s a writer, Hermann. And not just the best writer in the world but also the most beautiful man I’ve ever set eyes on.”
    â€œWow.”
    â€œI know. And so it’s a great password. Not a chance I’ll ever forget it.”
    I went through her mailbox, conscientiously reading aloud to her every single email, including a distraught message from ObedKanutsi, a wealthy Nigerian fellow who had been terribly wronged by an unjust government and modestly asked for 1,000 dollars to pay for his escape, promising, of course, to back the loan with very generous interests.
    â€œWe have to help him, don’t we Hermann?”
    â€œNope. It’s spam.”
    â€œBut what about this watchmaker in Switzerland? Won’t he be disappointed if I don’t buy something?”
    â€œThese aren’t personal letters, Eva. You don’t have to feel bad about deleting them.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    After a short argument I decided to be the villain and deleted all her mail, checked my own inbox quickly and then played a couple of racing games for fun. An ad from Russian Bride flashed in the top right corner and immediately caught Mother’s attention.
    â€œLook at that, Trooper! You’re being offered sex.”
    â€œEverything’s available online now.”
    â€œWhat luxury for these young generations, to be able to just pick a prince from a website. Isn’t there something for dying women in their sixties?” Mother laughed at her own joke but quickly turned serious again. “I mean it. Can’t you find me a good man? Just for three months or so, can’t be more than that if we’re to have time for all those museums. The Cannabis Museum, The Museum of Torture . . . And Van Gogh! How are we going to manage all that?”
    â€œYou’ll do that with the guy, I guess.”
    â€œYou never know what these men are thinking. Like Jonas? Do you think he would have been interested in going to the Museum of Torture, limping about like some . . .”
    â€œ. . . bondage gimp?”
    â€œNo, thank you very much! There was never any of that with Jonas. He was a terrible pervert of course, like most men, but nothing that was any fun. He just wanted me to stroke him, like you would a child’s head. Which reminds me.” She pulled a pack of condoms from her handbag: Durex. Ribbed for her pleasure .
    â€œThis, my dear, is for you.”
    â€œI’m not 15, you know.”
    â€œI have no idea what your age is when it comes to sex, Hermann, but I do know, because I’m a woman of insight, that there are temptations all around this city and it’s always better to put safety first. Especially men like you who haven’t seen much action lately.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œYes. A man who mopes in his mother’s attic and hardly ever leaves the house—unless you’ve been molesting the furniture it seems pretty clear that the only pleasure you’ve had in that area