The Last Days of My Mother Read Online Free PDF

front of us. Mother’s head seemed to pop out of the glass pane. She started and looked around.
    â€œJetlag, Mam,” the driver said. “I don’t know it myself but I’ve heard about it: some are unlucky and can’t sleep, but you are very lucky, Mam. You slept on the freeway.”
    Mother, who was obviously still half-lost in her dreamy dialogue with the car window, looked quizzically at me: Where are we? Thedriver beat me to it: “It’s very good for Mam to sleep, Mam. Now she is pretty for her meeting with Mister Doctor Frederik.” She giggled at the word pretty and the Indian shot out of the car to open the door for her.
    â€œNow, here we have a proper gentleman who knows how to treat a lady,” she said, laughing as she got out. “May I ask how to address such a gentleman?”
    â€œRamji, Mam. I am Ramji the driver,” he said and made his way to the steps that led up to the entrance of the building. Tall, French windows looked out into the yard and on the garret there were oval windows with opaque, industrial glass that reflected the surrounding landscape. A fountain with Renaissance style statues stood in the middle of the gravel-filled driveway where Ramji had parked the car. Mother gaped at the vision. While we waited to be taken inside, I told her that the house had been built in colonial times as a hunting lodge for a wealthy merchant, one of Rembrandt’s clients. The master painter had probably spent some time in the house, making it one of the country’s notable historical buildings.
    â€œThey’d like it here, Nikolaj and Julie,” she said, referring to characters from a Danish drama series we watched back home on Spítala Street. “I do hope they make up. I think it’s wrong of them to throw everything away because of one mistake. She just has to forgive him. So what if he strayed a little bit, don’t we all? But this house . . . it’s like Madame Antoinette herself should be strolling about somewhere. What a gem, Trooper. You truly are a genius.”
    Ramji came trotting back down the steps. “Is Mam rested?”
    â€œOh, yes. I think I’ll actually have a little schnapps now.” She fished out a miniature from her handbag, a bulbous little flask she called her “lifesaver,” which she prized over other miniatures because it held 100 ml instead of the normal 50. She took a swigand then handed the flask to Ramji, who at first stared in disbelief, but then smiled and shook his head. Mother laughed and gulped down the rest of the contents. It had taken Ramji half an hour to establish a form of communication with Mother that I couldn’t remember anyone else managing, even over several decades. My respect for this gracious, burping driver was constantly growing.
    â€œWe wait here until Doctor Frederik arrives, or Helga, Mam,” he said.
    â€œHelgaMam?”
    â€œThe director, sir, HelgaMam. She is a very clever lady.”
    As soon as he finished the sentence the door opened and out came a woman who surely had to be HelgaMam: she was short but sprightly, in a knee-length, green dress that emphasized her womanly curves, alert and without that affected elegance of career women that always lulled me into a drowsy state of composure. She strode down the steps and welcomed us warmly to Lowland.
    â€œI am so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Briem, right? And Mr. Willyson? I’m Helga Wiestock. Our offices and the doctor’s apartment are here on the second floor, but our reception room is downstairs. Would you like a refreshment?”
    â€œI could do with a glass of white,” Mother said in Icelandic and gave her hips a little shake. I had obviously made a mistake by not letting Ramji take us to the hotel. I was about to call it all off until the next morning when HelgaMam spoke.
    â€œI have to apologize for the long ride. Ramji is an excellent driver but . . .”
    â€œOh, Ramji!”