“It makes no sense leaving it. Now go and ask the girl for a box, be a good boy.”
I did as I was told. We paid the bill and left.
“There they are, there they are!” she shouted and ran to a ticket booth on the corner. “It’s amazing that Icelanders are in charge of this. And I know them!”
In the booth window was a poster advertising the opening of IceSave in the Netherlands, an Icelandic bank that promised their customers higher interest rates than any other financial company in the country.
“Do you see what I see, Hermann? A bank launch. We’re going.”
“You hate self-jetters and bitch slapped me for being right-wing — and now you want to go for free food and drinks with some bankers.”
“These are no ordinary bankers. They gave me champagne.”
“Which they bought with all the money they made from the interest you’re paying. Then you have to go abroad to get proper medical service while they sit here drinking.”
“Don’t be silly, Hermann. Why do you think these men have something to do with that? If you ask me, they probably came here to be free of the extortionary prices of everything back home.”
“Eva, I’m telling you. These are the exact guys who are spending everything that people like you own on champagne and caviar.”
“I don’t understand why you have to be such a drag, Hermann. You have to learn to live a little. This here, for instance,” she pointed to another poster that read: Grave Night Fun. Karaoke. Wild Sex. Gay Men. “Couldn’t this be something for you?” The photo showed a group of leather-clad men at some sort of a karaoke rave. Mother thought this could be fun for me. I could sing songs with my friend. . what was his name again? Freddy Mercy? “I’m joking,” she finally said and hit me hard on the shoulder, as if the violent gesture would soften me up. “It’s incredible how serious you can be. Have you seen all these wonderful posters?” She pointed to another ad on the booth with a picture of gray haired people sitting around a table, laughing with drinks in their hands. This poster read: Single Caucasian Midlife Fun. Join us Saturday.
“Isn’t this exactly what we’ve been looking for?” she asked. “Like that Russian bride, but for people my age.”
“You really want to go to a racist thing to find love?”
“I think you’re misunderstanding, Trooper,” she replied. “It only means that there’ll be a limited selection. People your age are maybe used to having a million different types to choose from, but my generation can settle. I want to have a look.”
I tried to talk her out of it to no avail, and watched her hand over 20 euros for two tickets. “Just landed and already whisked away to a ball.”
“You seriously don’t find this a tad offensive?”
“What do you mean,” she said, preparing herself for yet another of my lectures on political correctness. “What is it that you find so racist about it?”
“It’s a ball for single, middle-aged white people. Don’t you find that a bit, I don’t know — Hitler and his friends throwing a party?”
“No, Trooper, I think you’re reading too much into this. This simply means that it’s a get-together for people who like to meet other people with a similar background. It could just as well be for black people. Then it would also read: For single, middle-aged black people. I’m sure they have those too.”
“I’m telling you — you’ve just bought tickets to some sort of neo-Nazi gathering.”
“You can be so melodramatic,” she laughed. “Or do you really think that of your mother — that I’m a neo-Nazi? I, who played Herta Oberhauser in a very controversial play?”
I turned away from her and let my eyes drown in the foreignness of the street. One of the many things Mother couldn’t stand was the rigidity younger people had toward the multiplicity age. It was as if young people didn’t understand that each generation had its own discourse and ways. She didn’t attack people who talked about Down Syndrome, even though she herself had grown up in a world where people like that were simply called “retarded.” What young people didn’t understand was that people were different, the generations so unlike in their actions and attitudes. She knew this even though I didn’t grasp it — which was understandable as I was raised by the Internet and TV, disgusting brainwashers that prevented everyone from having an independent opinion.
“You’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.”
“Hermann, 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.”
“It’s just obvious that it’s not right. I won’t go near this.”
“Fine. 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.
“I 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.
“Probably 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.”
“You 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.
“If 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 pepper and 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.