The Last Days of My Mother Read Free Page B

camera section where a tanned couple straight out of a magazine glided between the shelves. The boy looked like a professional athlete and the girl like Miss California, lean and blonde with endless legs. Their appeal was so conventional that they could have been off-the-rack, like her short denim dress. I almost bumped into them when she suddenly charged and snaked her body around the boy’s, who reacted like a defense basketball player to swiftly secure a position for them between the Samsungs and the Sonys to swap spit. I was relieved when the whiff of animal fat seduced me into the Food Market, where I bought gum and a newspaper, then filled out a questionnaire on Icelandic lamb. I did this in part to make up for Mother’s loathing of any and all surveys, which she regarded as an evil ofcapitalism and mass surveillance. When I found her at the bar she was staring into the mirror, sporting huge sunglasses.
    â€œStrange how I was never a dean’s wife,” she said, blowing cosmopolitan smoke rings at her reflection. “Why has my love life always been so . . . ? Take Jonas for example. It’s not my fault that the man was so sickly all the time.”
    â€œI ran into him in the bakery the other day and he seems to be doing better, he’s walking again—”
    â€œIt was hopeless,” she injected and stubbed out her cigarette. “A man who’s in rehab when he’s not actually in the hospital? No. What I’ve never had, Trooper, is a man who could support me. Look at those two over there. It’s obvious what they’ve been up to.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œObviously homosexuals.”
    â€œAh, but of course! I was wondering what’s up with their asses,” I said, ignoring the disapproving looks from the people on the next table. Truth was, Mother had a real soft spot for gay men.
    â€œWhy on earth do all the best men go into this? No wonder women my age have trouble finding a man.”
    â€œOh, for crying out loud, Eva.”
    â€œNo, I mean it. Either they’re married to some sad cow or feeling each other up. Can you name one normal, single man my age?”
    I reached for my Food Market bag and pretended to read the celebrity pages of my newspaper. The main story was about Croatian supermodels Milla and Iva.
    â€œAlthough . . . you know . . . I always thought you’d turn out gay, Trooper,” she continued. “I’ve never known any child as dramatic as you were. You’d dress up in my clothes, put on makeup, walk around in over-sized heels . . .”
    â€œYou raised me in the theater, what did you expect?”
    â€œSure, but just think, a beautiful woman like me—surrounded by homosexuals her whole life. Then along come these old farts like Emma Gulla . . . apparently she bagged herself a doctor.”
    â€œWho’s Emma Gulla?”
    â€œDon’t you remember her? Such an incredibly ugly woman. And boring, too.”
    A nearby screen announced that our flight was boarding. I picked up our things and prepared to go.
    â€œWait. Let’s have one for the road, Trooper.”
    â€œWe’ll miss our flight.”
    â€œI doubt they’ll take off without us.”
    â€œEva,” I sighed.
    â€œAlright, alright. I’ve got a little something with me anyways.”
    We walked along the seemingly endless corridor toward the gate. Mother was astonished at the lack of moving sidewalks and gave the flight attendant a long speech about the technological superiority of German airports. The Samsung-girl in the short denim dress sat in the seat across the aisle from me.
    â€œIsn’t that the same dress I gave Zola?” Mother whispered, but I was too overwhelmed by the girl’s presence to answer. She fastened her seatbelt while her boyfriend wrestled with his laptop, giving me a chance to stare at her legs and wonder how some human of the male sex, some sweaty, hick ape had actually