Free The Last Days of My Mother by Sölvi Björn Sigurdsson

feel a thing and the cut will heal in a couple of days or so,” Dr. Frederik said, ignoring my protests. “There we go! Here he is.”
    The mole fell from the blade onto the petri dish, where it disappeared under the lid.
    â€œThis calls for a toast,” Mother said and poured us drinks. “To my health and to Trooper’s love life, which should now take a turn for the better. I must say, you’re a fine doctor, Doctor. I know a lot of old timers who’re bound to fall ill any day now, and when they do I’ll tell them to come to you. This has been such an experience.”
    When the doctor was gone I left it to Mother to prepare for the Museum of Torture. I had a date with Helena the homeopath, who had put together a potent mix of herbal remedies, by order of thegood doctor, to maximize Mother’s love of life. The store was in Warmoesstraat, in the very heart of the Red Light District, and was famous for being the first Smart-Shop in Amsterdam, selling a weird blend of sex toys and alternative medicine. I finally found the store after wandering through a maze of canals and tall, narrow buildings leaning curiously over the streets. The space was tight and cut in half by a long table around which the customers stood, examining the merchandise. I was growing quite curious about an electrical cervix when a blind German lady bumped into me and apologized in her native tongue. I can’t say I was surprised that the first person I met in the sex shop was German. I had learned of Germany’s extensive interest in sex from watching the TV series Liebe Sünde , available on Mother’s tattered VHS tapes back home. An old friend of hers in Mainz sent her the tapes in return for flatbread. Over time the collection of Liebe Sünde grew rather impressive, and on occasion I had ended up watching the shows with her and finding out the latest developments in sex gadgets. Mother leaned toward the unabashed German way of discussing latex and insisted it would do me good to follow the series.
    â€œ Guten tag .” The shopkeeper had no doubt heard my exchange with the blind woman and figured that I was German, too. She pointed to an egg, a Spitzen-Ei that I had picked up from the floor, and encouraged me to speak my own language.
    Overwhelmed by my lack of linguistic cunning, I backed out into the street and right into the arms of a madam. “I give you everything, good hands, good tongue, nice ass.” Terrified of being rude I felt I should accept at least some minimal service, but to my relief she turned to the next passerby when I hesitated. I was bathed in the glowing red lights from the whorehouses all around me; it suddenly felt like Amsterdam was nothing but a pit of hookers, trannies, andpacks of Italian men. A gigantic African man with a street organ offered me a piece of hashish in exchange for my jacket, and the hooker turned her attention back to me. The city was so overrun with price-tagged sex that I wanted to teleport to Ikea. People on their way to work squeezed past teenaged girls who choreographed the mundane reality with pornographic moves on their smoke break. Someone had procured them from Brno, Bangkok, or Budapest, dragged them out of their parents’ tiled kitchens, smelling of porridge and sweat, shown them their Mercedes and fucked them all the way into the red booths. Like most people, my mind strayed regularly toward sex, but now in the middle of the orgy where everything was for sale, I just wanted to get out of there. Then I realized that I still held the Spitzen-Ei in my hand, so I stormed back into the shop, setting of the alarm that for some strange reason had not sounded when I had stumbled out with the thing. I forced a smile and waved the object in the air. “ Nur meine Ei .” Finally I managed to tell the shopkeeper that I was looking for Helena.
    â€œThrough there,” she said, pointing to a beaded curtain. Behind it was a small space