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

brilliant business plan and pointed to a La-Z-Boy with a double wire system attached to it. One of the systems was hooked to a cooler containing cream and a mobile funnel while the other one was tied to a tap to rinse the funnel after use. The whole set up reminded me of a story I’d read in Derek Humphrey’s The Final Exit . It was about an electrician in Seattle who wanted to take his own life. He placed a light sensor in the windowsill of his hotel room, hooked it to explosives in his hat and then waited for the sun to rise. When it did, the wire got hot, detonating the explosives, which in turn blew off his head. Steven’s cream machine was not as sinister a weapon, but the mechanisms were similar. When he sat back in the chair and popped up the footrest it pulled on a wire, moving the funnel to his mouth and the liquid poured straight down his throat, no swallowing needed. I pointed out that gorging on Spätzle und Sauerkraut in addition to regular sherry marathons for a few weeks would have pretty muchthe same effect, and might even be a healthier way to obesity, but he dismissed the suggestion with an aggressive wave of his hands.
    â€œI hate food.”
    He stood up, retrieved an envelope with some grass, poured us tea, and began recounting his life story with the same enthusiasm as during our first meeting. In a relatively short time he’d lived in six foster homes, spent four months as an errand boy on a chicken farm, and a couple of months as a part of Dick Cheney’s security team. His love for older women was laced with memories of a summer job in an underground bunker, where the only piece of furniture was a massage bench. He admitted that even though his native country was one of the greatest places on earth, it also contained some of the strangest people on the planet. It was good for business that Europeans were gradually catching up in weirdness, but there really was little comparison. For instance, he doubted that there were many Dutch men who would have their penises surgically removed and grafted onto their arms as a number of his compatriots had done.
    â€œWhat? Why?” I asked, gaping more and more as our talk went on.
    â€œDaddy Harold was an expert in penis enlargements. Had his own practice. The penis is grafted onto the arm so it won’t die during the procedure.”
    â€œWhat if Harold died during the procedure? Would the patient have to leave with his penis on his arm?”
    â€œPrecisely, Mr. Willyson,” Steven said and nodded his head knowingly.

Chapter 8
    T he next couple of weeks passed quite peacefully. Mother would kick-start the day with a dose of Ukrain, we’d have doughnuts and coffee at the hotel, take a walk, visit a museum, or catch a canal bus. I’d drop in on Helena at the Pleasure Fountain for a chat, and acquaint myself with Steven’s stock of various supplements. Smoking sessions on the small balcony ensured smooth sailing into the realm of dreams after an evening out at one of the local bars. Then a new morning would break and the worldview was as round as the planet turning on its axis.
    I decided to swallow my pride and reward Mother for her gallant and stoic resignation to the Ukrain treatment and take her to the Nazi ball. My drinking session started early in the afternoon with a private one-man Vodka Tournament in the hotel bar. Dmitri, my friend behind the counter, mixed up an orgy of fruit in his shaker and poured me shots like both our lives depended on it, and agreed that if there ever was a need to get shitfaced to survive an evening, this would be the occasion. A young Asian girl sat at the other end of the bar, petite and lithe, with suntanned legs that seemed to go on forever from underneath her red dress. I had been staring at them for a while when she came and sat next to me.
    â€œYou like Shaloo? Shaloo not free. Shaloo expensive . Shaloo make change .”
    I stared at her. I had supposed that such a