Munich Airport Read Free

and think. But after she died, his attitude changed, and he took the book’s failure with a cheerful fatalism. And he never started anything ambitious, at least on that scale, again—or if he did, he did so secretly, and it never came to anything, not even a mention, in all the conversations we have had since his book came out, and all the times we have seen each other, as a joke or an aside, or an earnest admission of a small disappointment. When I call him from London, these days, and he’s at home, he’s watching golf. He watches golf from all over the world, at all hours of the day—golf in Japan, in South Africa, in Sweden. I don’t know if days and nights mean much to him now. The only regularity imposed upon his life is the upkeep of the house. He has a man come by once a week to clean the swimming pool. Another man comes once a week—or twice in spring and summer—to look after the garden. And a woman comes once a week to clean the house. There isn’t much for her to do, because he disturbs only a fraction of it. He tells me, when we talk on the phone, about the wonder and frustrations of getting things done with the Yellow Pages. He can’t look at a computer screen for more than half an hour without fainting, he says. So the Yellow Pages are his Internet. He says things like, I found some guys who can build me a deck really cheap, or, I’m probably going to get solar panels on the roof. But he has not yet built the deck or got solar panels.
    Trish says, answering my father, Of course we can get you a spot to lie down.
    My father says, Maybe there’s nothing of the sort.
    Trish says, They must have something.
    Why not try the airline’s executive lounge? I say.
    That’s a great idea, says Trish. I’ll go.
    No, let me go, I say.
    Trish thinks this is a bad idea. She is certain she is more likely to succeed. I am just an ordinary traveler, and she is from the Embassy of the United States of America. I know that she is right, and ought to be the one to go, but if she leaves, I will be stuck here, in this chair. My father will fall asleep and I will be alone to stare at the mess we’ve made on the table, the large plates of food we haven’t eaten, the napkins we have blown our noses with, and too tired to distract myself with something constructive, such as reading or working.
    Go together, says my father. I’m fine, I’ll just sit here, shut my eyes, rather do that on my own.
    Trish and I glance at my father to see if he is serious. His eyes are already closed. I say, Someone should stay with you.
    I’m fine, just tired. If one of you stays I’ll feel obliged to stay awake and keep you company.
    He opens his eyes. He digs in his bag for his sound-canceling headphones and puts them around his neck. Then he says, I’ve run out of Tylenol. Do you have some? I’ve got a headache.
    I’m out, I say, but I’ll get some more. I push his glass of water toward him and tell him to have a drink. He takes a sip—perhaps to prove he’s rational, that he really wants to be on his own—then closes his eyes again and says, If they say I can lie down in the lounge, one of you can come back and get me.
    My father is dressed in a flannel blue plaid shirt with various shades of brown in it, and a white undershirt that is tight around his neck. The flannel shirt is tucked into a pair of blue jeans hiked up very high, and he’s got on a very flash pair of fluorescent yellow running shoes. This is his travel gear. He likes to be comfortable when he travels—he also has the sound-canceling headphones and a neck pillow. In Berlin, however, and even during much of our trip to the Rhine, to the Ardennes, to Luxembourg, and to Brussels, he wore old suits, the suits he wore as a professor—suits that are now oversized on him. I don’t know what my father looks like when, back at home, he’s out and about. If I call him