The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson

and he’s determined to be remembered.He’s milking it for everything he’s got—he attends events hosted by the Minister of Health and has his picture taken. He wants everyone to have a right to decide when they die, but because he’s Arthur van Österich, self-appointed heir of Schopenhauer, he insists that this right must not be abused; you may not die the wrong way . I, however, think that he believes that everyone’s death but his own is quite meaningless. He’s said it himself: “First people don’t know how to live and then they don’t know how to die.” The worst thing is that Fred just chooses to ignore this stuff. He’s wholly occupied with his own research and the rest just doesn’t matter to him.”
    â€œBut doesn’t the director respond?”
    â€œShe thinks Van Österich is entitled to his opinion like everyone else. The fact that he’s dying gave him a chance to check into the hospice, and now he’s using that as an excuse to tear us down. What’s it to him if I give people some pills to make them feel a bit better?” She still seemed agitated after the run-in at the shop. “I’m not saying that he hasn’t done any good, like his website—you won’t find better information on euthanasia anywhere else. But I don’t think that people should make up protocols for how other people should die. Fred lets people die the way they want to, and he’s rewarded for his kindness with attacks from people like Van Österich. People who hate cannabis and think the Netherlands are far too liberal. Which reminds me . . .”
    She placed the bag from the store in her lap and started arranging its contents on the table; little boxes and vials with peyote, O-3 bubbles, and calmus.
    â€œAnd this will bring joy and happiness to all?”
    â€œIf bliss can be bottled, then yes. I have to run.”

Chapter 7
    T he sun disappeared behind clouds as I walked down Warmoerstraat. The salt-and-pepper sky cast silhouettes on the pebbled pavement and sent my central nervous system on a journey to my shared past with Mother. Images of Great Aunt Edda and my cousin Matti floated by, saturating my brain with such sudden melancholy that I fled into the next ice-cream parlor and gorged on half a quart of mint sorbet.
    I hadn’t had much time the past few weeks to consider what the near future had in store. Each day brought new challenges that called for action rather than thought. I surrendered to existing without sensing the thin red line separating me from total ignorance, only just making out the obscure path laid out before me. Was I starting to resemble one of those pathetic people who needed to be followed by cameras while they ruined their lives, planted next to an older individual in some bus on the road to nowhere and tested to the verge of a nervous breakdown, all for some entertainment network? The idea melted into my mint sorbet and drowned in a high-pitched shout from nearby. On the other side of the street, Mother sat in a café with a tall, slender, middle-aged man. He was dressed in jeans and a bright green shirt.
    â€œTrooper! Trooper!” She gestured to a chair and told me that they’d just been to the Museum of Torture and that they’d sat down in Warmoerstraat in the hope of bumping into me. She and Tim were going to enjoy some “hash-jazz” and insisted I come with them. “Have you two met? Tim, do you know Trooper— mein Sohn? ”
    He got up, smiled and introduced himself as Timothy Wallace, a patient at the hospice. “Tim was with Ramji when I called to ask him to drive me to the museum,” Mother explained. “I told him to join me on the museum tour—it was on the way to the hash-jazz anyway. Of course it’s up to you what you do, Trooper, but I wouldn’t want you to miss out on this opportunity. As you well know, I don’t smoke hashish