Читать книгу The Last Days of My Mother - Sölvi Björn Sigur - Страница 11

Chapter 5

The Ambassador was parked farther up the street. HelgaMam and Ramji stood next to a beautiful girl who introduced herself as Helena, proprietor of The Pleasure Fountain, the shop the doctor had mentioned to us. We said hello, and a man in his thirties stepped out of the car to greet us. He was the spitting image of the doctor; for a second I actually though it was him after a night of Botox treatments. Steven Turtleman was, in fact, a unique testimony to the resolve of the sperm cell and its devotion to the genetic compound of mankind. He had come to the Netherlands a couple years ago looking for his biological father, Dr. Frederik, whom he had found with the help of newly public documents on sperm donors in the USA. Now he managed the Cannabis Museum in Amsterdam and was the center’s supplier of quality weed. His life story churned out through his vocal cords like an unstoppable printing press until Mother tapped his shoulder and interrupted him.

“It was so wonderful to see Ramji here that I just had to run,” she said, breathless after the short sprint. “Isn’t this a wonderful coincidence, Miss . . . ?”

“Helena,” the girl answered with a smile and said that Amsterdam was quite small; chance meetings like this weren’t really that unusual.

“I actually met some Icelanders this morning,” Mother said. “Wonderful, generous men. But if you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Helgamom—is that your friend in the car?”

I’d noticed her wandering around the car randomly and realized that she’d been spying on the mystery man sleeping in the backseat.

“Duncan, our friend, yes. Have you met him?”

“No, I was just curious, he looks like a man I know. Well, I think it’s best that Trooper and I let you go for now. We’re going for a drink. Can you recommend a place?”

It turned out that the little party had just come from lunch at Shakespeare Fried Chicken, a branch of the restaurant at Lowland. They gave us directions to the place and we said good-bye.

“Did you see that man?” Mother asked when the car had disappeared around the corner. “The resemblance was striking.”

“To whom?”

“Well, Milan Kundera, of course! Nicht mehr und nicht weniger. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who looks as similar to him as this Doonka does.”

“Duncan.”

“We’ll see. But first we should get something to eat.”

We stopped in front of a hand-painted sign and went into the restaurant. Shakespeare Fried Chicken was decorated in Medieval style: spears, shields, and coats of armor hung on the walls, next to which stood dark, hardwood tables with glossy, built-in benches. Aside from a few tourists, the clientele mainly consisted of two groups of men drinking beer, eating, and generally being loud.