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

the Internet and TV, disgusting brainwashers that prevented everyone from having an independent opinion.
    â€œYou’re changing the subject,” I said. “When some guy is standing out in the street inviting everyone, except black people, to come to his party—that’s racism.”
    â€œHermann, do I have to spell it out for you? Just because some people have more things in common than others does not mean that the same group hates everyone else. Like your cousin Matti, who loves America more than anything. He’s completely different from me, yet I don’t hate him.”
    â€œIt’s just obvious that it’s not right. I won’t go near this.”
    â€œFine. I’ll go alone. I’ll take Ramji with me.”
    I muttered that Ramji would be beaten and put in a cage before she even got to the bar, but Mother said I was being a spoilsport and became agitated.
    â€œI don’t understand what’s gotten into you, Hermann. I suppose it’s something repressed to do with Zola. I would like to point out, in answer to these insinuations, that I made you participate in that charity race for Africa, remember? Maybe that was racist of me, Hermann? Was it?”
    She concluded by telling me that this was in fact just a difference between generations, that people her age tended to be more patient because they had seen so much, like the canned fruit that she ate for desert at Great Aunt Edda’s house—it wasn’t very exciting,but you made do, because that was simply what you were given. I knew that moments like this defined my role on this trip—I was to calmly nod and smile at everything Mother said even though it made my stomach churn. I just couldn’t. So after stating that eating canned fruit was, in my opinion, not comparable to seeking out black people and setting them on fire like her middle-aged Ku Klux Klan buddies did, I jumped onto a bus and let the dusty daylight settle into an uneasy silence. Mother followed, but didn’t look at me. I felt woozy.
    â€œProbably best to forget it,” I said. “Write off all aggression and get a bit drunk. I know that you’re not a racist, just like you know that I’m not a right-wing conservative. Let’s get off at the next stop, find a bar, and see who can order the most interesting round.”
    â€œYou can be such fun, Trooper. When you want to be.”
    I pressed the button and whisked her out of her seat. We walked out into the dwindling daylight and found Papeneiland, one of the city’s oldest pubs, a perfect place to get tanked and quench Mother’s thirst for historic places at the same time.
    â€œIf you’re going to order a special, make sure to get a double,” she called to me as I stood with my eyes fixed on the bar selection, determined to bring her a drink so inventive that it would blow her mind. This would be a world of wonders in a glass, the perfect blend of liquids, nostalgia’s answer to the gratification of alcohol. I asked for a Donkey, a Cow, and a Frozen Fox, three cocktails that all bore witness to the influence of the agricultural industry in Iceland at the time when the intentional diluting of strong spirits started. The bartender was irritated by my special requests, but finally conceded to serving up a regular Bloody Mary, pouring an incredible amount of vodka and tomato juice into a cocktail shaker with some pepperand Tabasco. He got two pint glasses, filled them up, and threw in some ice and celery sticks. Quite pleased with the result, I walked back to our table and raised the glasses when Mother looked up.
    â€œAhh, Maiden’s Blood? I don’t think I’ve had Maiden’s Blood since Matti had that tomato farm. Mmm, this is really good, much better than Matti’s. Strong.”
    â€œI asked him to be generous with the vodka.”
    â€œGood for you, Trooper. Like old Edda used to say: When you make a special order, it