Munich Airport Read Online Free PDF

why I take them, I said.
    I’m the same, or at least I was, he said. But where do they go, once you’ve got them down?
    I thought for a bit. I said, Nowhere, my memory, I suspect.
    We spoke for a while longer, and when it was obvious that we weren’t going to fall asleep soon, I drew the curtains wide so we could watch outside. We propped ourselves up on the pillows again and watched the dark countryside go by. The train was smooth, but we were really flying. We shot through isolated clouds of fog. We saw some snow. Mostly it was sleeting. Every once in a while, something bright went by—a bridge, a fortress in the distance. From time to time the train slowed down at a fogged-over station, or in fogged-over towns. Sometimes it stopped, and the hydraulics whined and exhaled. My father tried to convince me that once we got to the States, I ought to stay for a while. It was obvious, to him, that I needed to get out of London, even if it wasn’t obvious to me, even if it hadn’t occurred to me. I told him I was doing fine, and anyway it wasn’t possible. I needed to get back to work. After that, we started to doze off, but by then there wasn’t a whole lot of night left. When we got to Munich and met the undertaker, he asked if we’d like to see the coffin, which was closed, and my father, surprisingly, said it wasn’t necessary, that we’d wait until we arrived in the States.
    When the hotel shuttle was out of sight, I said, I could use a coffee. I could use some coffee myself, said my father, what time is it? It’s six, I said. When are we meeting Trish again? he asked. Ten-ish, I said. My father said, Oh. But he knew what time it was, and he knew we had to wait until ten to meet Trish. I was worried he was going to start complaining that I should not have let him leave the hotel, I should have forced him to try and sleep, but he just yawned. He looked behind him, through the entrance, and up—the structure on that side, the check-in side, is a great glass box, and there are four levels in it, arranged like steps—wondering if he would finally run out of space to outpace his worry and his sorrow. Yesterday, when we arrived in Munich, we left our bags at the train station because check-in at the hotel wasn’t until the afternoon. The visit to the undertaker’s upset him, and it really hadn’t been necessary, everything could have been confirmed with a phone call. He asked if the coffin would be loaded discreetly and humanely into the airplane. The undertaker assured us that it would be, and moreover, it would be situated separately from ordinary luggage. The coffin would rest in a dedicated section of the cargo hold, and be placed there in a dignified manner by the undertakers, working with the baggage handlers. The undertakers themselves would ensure that the coffin was safely in place and secure. But what about our connection in Atlanta? he asked. The undertaker, who was of medium height, bald, with a thick mustache, and who wore the customary black suit with a white shirt and black tie, said that the American undertaker, who would receive the body under the terms of agreement, would make sure everything was handled appropriately in Atlanta. When we were finished, we still had a couple of hours before check-in at the airport hotel. Before we left Berlin, Trish had offered to come meet us while we were in Munich, treat us to a coffee or a drink, but my father told her it wasn’t right or necessary, that her coming to the airport on Sunday was enough. But as soon as we left the undertaker’s, I could see he regretted her absence. He wished to see her. His nerves were destroyed, and he was pale, and his eyes were red and melancholic, and I figured it was because he’d run out of things that had to be done before our departure. I said I was going to the museum where they had some Klimt paintings. A painting I had loved all my adult life was