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.
“Now, 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?”
“Ramji, 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.
“They’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?”
“Oh, 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 swig and 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.
“We wait here until Doctor Frederik arrives, or Helga, Mam,” he said.
“HelgaMam?”
“The 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.
“I 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?”
“I 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.
“I have to apologize for the long ride. Ramji is an excellent driver but . . .”
“Oh, Ramji!” Mother exclaimed, fired up by her lifesaver. “What a wonderful man.”
“I thought he’d take you to the hotel. If you’d rather come back in the morning then . . .”
“Gar nicht,” Mother answered. “I never get jetlagged. I would appreciate a little schnapps or a glass of white wine.”
“Of course!” HelgaMam didn’t skip a beat. “My office is across the field. If you’d care to walk with me I’ll tell you a bit about our work here. Then we’ll drop in on Dr. Fred and see if he can’t get us a drink.”
“Ein wunderbares Traum, glaubst du nicht, mein Schatz?” Mother asked, refusing to acknowledge that I didn’t understand her theater German. “I was just saying to my son that this is like coming to Versailles.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Mrs. Briem. Many of our guests prefer to stay at Lowland while others like being in the city. That’s just the way it goes. You’ll be staying in a hotel in Amsterdam, right?”
“To begin with,” I said. “We’re going to look for an apartment.”
“You can see that not all mothers are as lucky as I am. He’s doing this all for me, my Super Trooper.”
The director grinned and we walked across the grass. She told us about the old cottages that were the servants’ quarters before Libertas took over the estate and converted them into patient housing.
“We have six people staying with us now. Two from my country, then we’ve got Americans and Italians. We were twelve all in all until yesterday; counting myself, Ramji, the doctor, and the two German girls we have volunteering this summer, but our good, old Gombrowich departed last night.”
“What?” Mother looked up absentmindedly. “Where did he go?”
“I think you’re tired, Mother.” I gave the director an apologetic look and turned back. “I think we should go to the hotel now and come back tomorrow.”
“Not on my account. Is there really so much to do?”
“Not today really,” HelgaMam said. “My office is over there and you’re welcome anytime. If I’m not in you can call the number on my card, which I’ll give you after you’ve met with the doctor.”
“Ach, let’s get this over with,” Mother said. “You may think I’m a complete invalid like Emma Gulla, I mean she practically had to marry a doctor. But to tell the truth I can’t really feel this so-called cancer in my leg. And definitely not after a little schnapps.”
“Well, then we should go see the doctor.”
She led us back to the mansion, up the stairs and into the doctor’s quarters. The doctor sat behind a blue desk on the second floor and beamed at us when we entered. He was older and grayer than in the photo on the website, but easily recognizable nonetheless. He had an aura about him of times gone by that was hard to define. His clothes were strangely tailored, the waistband of his pants sat high on his gut, held in place with suspenders, and he wore an unbuttoned, powder blue doctor’s coat.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, offering his hand. He suddenly stopped midair and stared intently at me. “What have we here?” he said and pointed to the mole on my temple. “Well, I’ll be damned! Black Beauty. What a strange place for him. How wonderful!”
“Who’s Black Beauty?” I asked, puzzled by the doctor’s behavior.
“Afrandarius erpexoplexis, aka Black Beauty—because of the color—all the way from the vast Pacific. Yes, my friend, that mole you’ve got there is in fact a fungus, and not from Europe at all, no, it’s quite remarkable. Very rare here and almost never seen on the face. May I ask how long you’ve had it?”
I told him that it appeared during my college graduation trip to Hawaii, where we’d gone hiking and I’d ended up with this lasting souvenir on my face. I’d stared at this thing in the mirror for the past seventeen years and often tried to lance it, but never managed to remove it completely. I had to admit that it had never occurred
