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

away my tears. “That was a bit harsh, I’ll admit that. I hit you.”
    â€œWwwww?”
    â€œYes, but it was pure instinct. Since when are you a conservative?”
    â€œNo, I just meant that I get this huge computer when . . . Was that why you slapped me? It hurts like fuck.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Trooper, I couldn’t help myself. But you’re saying you’re not really a conservative?”
    I didn’t answer but charged into the next bar to ask for some ice for my cheek. Mother followed me and offered to buy a very special drink with the money I’d given her earlier.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I said. “But I’d rather you didn’t resort to violence whenever I say something you don’t approve of.”
    â€œI know, Trooper. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
    We sat quietly by the bar and waited while the bartender checked his selection of specials. On Mother’s top ten list of world wonders, a “special” drink came in third, after Milan Kundera and the Left Green Party. She defined the level of wonder by the alcohol percentage more than anything else, and the intoxicating effect the special had on the consumer. High acidity was a bonus but the main thing was to have the drink saturated with ethanol. The most common moniker known to the outside world is “cocktail,” but she felt that it didn’t do the drink justice because cocktails often seriously lacked the right amount of alcohol and were just a way to sell people overpriced sugar water.
    â€œThat’s why it’s necessary to be in direct contact with the bartender while he’s mixing. It’s nice to feel a bit tipsy sometimes even though you don’t need to become drunk each time you have drink.”
    Because of Mother’s familiarity with alcoholic beverages and their consumption she found it ridiculous when I showed signs of intoxication. She had even less of an understanding of being “hung over” or downright sick, as I tended to get from drinking. Anything more than a six-pack of beer could send me into an aimless walkabout in the tundras of self-loathing and regret. Mother was different. In her mind a half pint of sherry and some Spätzle und Sauerkraut were the best remedy for the sad syndrome others liked to refer to as a hangover. To her, eggs were served scrambled with olive oil and cognac. Mackerel was food you ate with a shot of rum. Plaice was a side dish with an egg yolk and pickled onion, but only if there was port in the yolk.
    â€œWell, here we have some schnapps,” she said, throwing back a shot of Bols, which was on the house as the bartender had failed to come up with a special. “This is just bad enough to prevent you from drinking too fast and yet it’s good. God is in the tempo, as they say. I don’t understand how you can go on drinking beer like this. Just like Willy—he’d never have a drink before noon and even then he’d always stick to beer. I suppose its like when I went to Sweden and they always had that Mellanöl. Disgusting drink. I can’t say I’ve been hung over very often, but this was like drinking a hangover, it took forever to get a buzz.”
    Mother didn’t really get drunk that often despite her considerably diligent intake of strong spirits. She often became what she referred to as “being pompette,” slightly lightheaded. If the pom-petting advanced to another level it was simply due to weariness from travel, and she did not enjoy going from one place to another so she drank to withstand it. But becoming inebriated, as a rule . . . that was over and done with. That sort of behavior flirted with forgetfulness and evoked a sense of loss and longing, for Germany, for instance. She’d learned this at AA meetings. She’d also learned that it was better to drink moderately every day than to sporadically gulp down gallons of liquor and lose all