The Last Days of My Mother (18 page)

“Do you think that might have something to do with you leaving her at the altar?” Helena asked.

“It's not that I don't like her,” Duncan replied. “Monica's a wonderful cook. But as I stood there in that church, it just dawned on me that it's not healthy for a man of my size to marry for food.”

“Very wise,” Mother said. “One should always marry for love.”

I was expecting a speech on Willy Nellyson to follow that statement, but fortunately Duncan took the floor, bellowing a few words on love and friendship in his thick Scottish accent. It sounded as if his mouth were full of mashed potatoes. Gloria and the doctor's son joined us. He brought the gas heater and complained about the cold, saying he'd read that half the globe would soon be covered in ice.

“Then I will open IceTaxi in India,” Bubi said.

“Even scientific invention has its downside,” the doctor replied. “We tame the natural forces and cultivate this land of ours that is below sea level, but where will it end? I'm afraid it will all go under water.”

“Listen to you lot!” Helena said, pointing to the men. “You're chauffeured everywhere you go, burping beer, while my generation gets to deal with the shit.”

“Your generation is infertile,” Bubi Rotandari said. “Here, those men who are not homos have useless genitals. The Netherlands have the smallest population growth since the war.”

“Are there no homosexuals in India?” Mother asked.

“Only in Mumbai. But we have too many people there, anyway.”

“I worried for a while that my Trooper would turn out that way,” Mother said, patting the back of my hand. “But my Trooper is safe now, aren't you? You wouldn't start letting someone tap your keg at this age, right?”

“It should not be allowed,” Bubi Rotandari said, taking a swig of his beer. “It is against God and the nation.”

“God is a fickle fellow,” Duncan said with a vague smile, hoping to loosen things up a bit. “I'm sure, though, that he would agree with us asking Monica to top us up again.”

“You go, Trooper,” Mother said and placed her hand lightly on the lord's shoulder to stop him. “It's not right to have Duncan running back and forth all the time.”

She smiled and crossed her leg over the other so it pointed toward him. Compared to the long-range weapons I pretended to possess in my arsenal for communicating with women, her military strategies were blitzkrieg. Duncan flattered Mother and she accepted his compliments with the ease of someone who has mastered the warfare of love. The tarot cards didn't lie. The knight in the kilt leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

“I need a doctor,” Mother said, laughing at his joke. “Your tricks will kill me!”

In that instance Monica walked in to announce that dinner was ready and that she needed a few good men to carry the feast out. Helena and Ramji stood up to make room for the cook. She took two bowls of pheasant crackling from a basket and placed them on the table.

“A gift from Nanak Dev,” Bubi said, munching on the rind. “Most excellent, Mrs. Monica, you are a servant of life to bring us such a delicacy.” The cook nodded, stood up, and disappeared back inside
the building. “Rotandari men eat game, no problem. Bird meat. Animal meat. Horse meat. We are Sikhs.”

“Like my Ramji,” Mother said.

“I am a Catholic, Mam,” Ramji said. He and Helena seemed to be carrying all the food reserves of the world on one enormous plate. The feast was the same Mother and I had enjoyed on our special Friday in Amsterdam, when everything was new and the quest for special drinks stretched into the night. The centerpiece was a whole roasted pig, stuffed with pheasant and bacon rinds, with vegetables packed all around it.

“Incredible food!” Mother said and competed for the crackle with Steven, who loved calories with the same passion he had for diminishing their effects on other people. He ate one quail after the other with cream, bacon, and several pints of Shakespeare ale. He seemed to have lost the aversion he had to food the first time we met.

“BodySnatch,” Gloria explained. “He's fulfilling his dream.”

When everyone had eaten, Bubi Rotandari turned to the real reason for showing up at the party. It turned out that his great uncle, Binu Fagandi, had recently been in Iceland to cash in bank shares his daughter had won in a poker game. During his stay in that dark and harsh country, Binu Fagandi had noticed several things: for instance, that one taxi from the airport to the city cost the same as running the school bus in Haridwar, his hometown, for three whole months. Short of cash, Fagandi had been stuck for two days in a rather grubby hostel near the bus station before finally managing to cash in the shares. The light-hearted relief sparked an idea in Mr. Fagandi's mind: Iceland needed a taxi company run by the Rotandaris.

“And there you have it. You need cheap taxis in Iceland and so Mr. Hermann is going to help me.”

“I absolutely agree,” Mother said. “I live on Spítala Street, which is downtown, and it costs me more than 10 euros to take a taxi home.”

“You are right, Mam,” Bubi replied. “My uncle Binu says that in Iceland there are too many cars that nobody wants. Icelanders are very stupid. They keep their cars on ugly tarmac and take expensive taxis.”

“You seem to know everything about Iceland, Herr Bubi.”

“Yes. I bought ten cars from Mr. Sigmund, who is from Zwickau and lives in Iceland. He sold me Honda Civic and Citroën, but also a Trabant with an electrical motor. Those cars only use two liters of diesel for one hundred kilometers. Now I have ten taxis in Iceland.
Krónubílar
. They are my pride and joy. The Crown Cars. IceTaxi.”

“Marvelous! Trooper!” Mother exclaimed. “Now you can really use taxis.”

Bubi seized the opportunity to point out that I would have to assist him and ignored my protests by holding up a hand in front of my face: an impenetrable wall indicating his authority. “Mr. Hermann, you'll do this to fulfill your duty to me. You will not regret it.”

“You'll never get the permits you need,” I said, but Bubi waved a document contradicting my case.

“You will find me a place, Mr. Soldier, because you know people.”

He had hardly finished the sentence when a brilliant light clicked on in my mind. I stood up from the table and walked into the guesthouse where Monica kept a small computer. My plan was even more ingenious than any manipulated love affair of the elderly. It was the greatest scheme in human history. After ten minutes of surfing the web I pulled Danni Klambra's business card out of my
pocket and made a phone call. I explained in detail what I wanted. This would have to go off without a hitch.

“No problem, my man,” Daniel said, clueless to the Hell on Earth awaiting him. “We'll take care of it. Get your guy to check in on us in Herengrach and we'll call it even. And then we're squared, H. Done. D.O.N.E. Okay?”

I hung up and walked out to Bubi and Ramji waiting by the Ambassador.

“It's done,” I said. “Your Uncle Binu will get the building he needs in Iceland, Mr. Bubi, but you must listen very carefully: This list has all the buildings on the market, and it also states the price.”

I handed him a printout of the real estate listings I'd found on the Internet. He looked carefully at the photos and peered at me.

“You just need to know one thing, Mr. Bubi, and that is that these guys are supposed to give you a good discount. You make sure you get a really good deal, whatever the building. He will try to worm his way out of it, but then you say to him: ‘I am Bubi Singh Rotandari from India. I will not budge.' You tell him you are my friend and if he doesn't come through for you he will be betraying our friendship and all Rotandaris who have ever been, and you tell him that if he betrays you, you know where he lives and with whom he does business, and what kind of business that is. You tell him what fate awaits those who cross Rotandaris. If you do this, your Uncle Binu will get the building he wants at the price he wants. And now I believe our business is concluded.”

Bubi Rotandari said nothing. He smiled because I had understood him. Our two worlds had collided for a moment and we had seen eye to eye. Bubi got on his bike, tore up the pebbled courtyard with his back wheel in a pale dust cloud, and blasted down the driveway, disappearing out onto the main road.

“Now Bubi is gone, Mr. Trooper, sir,” Ramji said.

“Good riddance.”

“Mr. Bubi is Sikh, sir. He came to this country with his father, Bir Singh Rotandari, when he was fifteen years old. They left India because it was not a good place for the Sikhs at that time.”

“I've heard about that. Indira Gandhi, right? They killed her?”

“Ah, you know, Mr. Trooper?” Ramji was surprised but continued: “It is true, she was killed, but it was not that simple. Our Prime Minister, Mam Gandhi, was extremely popular. The people loved her because she was just and cared for the people and the future. She cared for the Hindus and the Christians and the Muslims and the Sikhs and the Buddhists; all Indians had the same Prime Minister. I know, Mr. Trooper, that when you say ‘they killed her' you are thinking of the Sikhs. And it was true, it was a Sikh who murdered Indira, but one Sikh is not all Sikhs so it is not right to think badly of them all. I am a Christian and want to forgive like Christ teaches. The same for Hindus, they must forgive. But people don't always do as they believe. They threw stones at Sikhs and chased them. They burned their stores and wrecked their cars, and chased them out of their homes. Many left the country and went to the West, like Bubi and his father. When I came to the Netherlands, Mr. Bubi took me and put me behind the wheel of one of his taxis and gave me a salary, food, and a home. I had to work hard but he was fair and I worked for him for two years. I sent the money to Nainital, my village in India. But when I met Dr. Frederik and he wanted me to drive for him, Mr. Bubi wanted money. I am not a slave, Mr. Trooper. He should not have done this, but he did it anyway. Dr. Frederik paid a lot of money so I could come and work for him. A lot of money—that Mr. Bubi got for nothing. He was not the owner of me, but that is how it happened.”

“I'm sorry, Ramji, the world is full of people like that.”

“I know, sir.”

“People do what they will. They go as far as they can to get what they think is theirs by right.”

“Not everyone, Mr. Trooper. Not everyone. There is still hope in the world.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said and walked back with me to the party.

Chapter 15

T
he gathering had grown when Ramji and I returned. A ten-gallon belly with a woman attached sat surrounded by a rugby huddle of small children and a bearded man waving tubs of ice cream at them to try and charm them off her. Mother watched the family wearily and was obviously rather fed up. She lit up a cigarette and retreated into another dimension. I walked over to Helena, who stood in the doorway wrestling with a beer keg. She told me that she doubted that the tap had seen as much use in a single day since the pub opened in the eighteenth century. “But it seems to do the trick, look at them.”

“Yup. Skirts will fly back at Duncan's tonight, Scottish and Icelandic.”

“No matter what happens later when everyone has sobered up. You should fetch the glasses. I think I've got this fixed.”

I was happy when I walked back out into the garden, dying with anticipation to get back to the tap.

“The truth of detox is found in the joy of the retox, Trooper,” Mother said and handed me the tumblers. “I could see it in you, after you started spending all that time in the gym. Old Edda always
used to say the same thing. The whole point of a healthy lifestyle is to have the capacity to go overboard. Did you know that Gloria is a matchmaker?” She pointed over to her and the doctor's son. “That explains how she found such a good man.”

“Actually, Steven and I wouldn't have met if it weren't for Trooper,” Gloria said. “I would say, judging from experience, that Icelanders are good matchmakers.”

“Ah, but bad at matching up,” Mother insisted. “Everyone in Iceland is unhappy. That's a fact.”

“That's not entirely true, Eva,” I objected. “Life isn't so simple. We look for love, find it, and then lose it, just like everybody else.”

“You're quite the poet today, Hermann.”

“I'm not drinking fast enough. This is a hangover.”

“If only you were like this every time you got hung over, Trooper. Then Iceland would have a great poet. But please get a refill, it should last until tomorrow.”

When Helena and I returned, Gloria and Steven had sneaked off for a smoke and the old folks sat debating the Hippocratic Oath. The doctor said it was questionable in modern context.

“I've always maintained that in order to be a good doctor one has to take the Hippocratic Oath with a pinch of salt,” he said. “To me, the patient and his wishes are the ultimate factor.”

“I suppose suicide is the only thing in life that you can never regret?”

“You're funny, Mrs. Briem,” the doctor laughed. “Can I use this on the cynics when I go to my convention in December?”