Munich Airport Read Free Page B

one another in London. And I suppose I very much liked the fact that I was a boy from a place where we all drove big trucks on big roads and where space and solitude were easily attainable, and now I was living in a place where nobody I knew had a car and where space and solitude were not features of the landscape but conditions one had to manufacture in the mind. There was, yes, always New York, but I had been to New York several times while at college. There was something in the distance of London, something about a body of water between me and where I came from, and something in particular about being a foreigner. I have a nice, if very small, flat in Spitalfields, which I sublet from an architect. I run my own one-man consultancy now, and I keep busy. I’ve just left a client I’d been with for many years—a supermarket chain. It was a nice situation. I worked three days a week at the client’s main London office. I had a badge. The other two days of the week, I worked for other clients. Just before the news of Miriam’s death, however, I left the supermarket chain. I found something new—not necessarily better, but different.
    We’re here, I say.
    The door to the lounge is translucent. There isn’t a handle. Trish puts her palm flatly on the glass and pushes. The door opens and we are met, unexpectedly, by another corridor, which is narrow, and which leads to another door, also of translucent glass. It is like an airlock, in which the wealthy or well traveled can spend a moment decontaminating their thoughts, preparing themselves to switch from chaos to luxury. Behind that door, the coffee-brown lounge is making noise. It seems like such a faraway place, something like—at least from our side of the door—a memory. We approach, open the door, enter, and a woman meets us. She is handsome, tanned, and she wears a gray suit, not a uniform but a suit. Past her, there are large leather chairs and recliners. Most are occupied by businessmen—some look European, they wear nice suits with slim legs, and some are American, they wear slacks and button-down shirts, they have gadgets attached to their belts—but there are families there as well, families traveling business class, kids playing with tablet computers or listening to music with headphones. It is quiet. It is a perfect place to snooze. The seats are deep and obviously soft. It’s very full, Trish tells the woman. The woman says, with an English accent, even though she is clearly German, Normally it’s less crowded. Everyone looks satisfied—what better way to take advantage of executive lounge privileges than to use it on a day when all the flights are delayed. Everyone looks at home here. The only thing that seems to have disturbed the equilibrium is our presence. Some of them are waiting to see if we’ll be allowed to enter. Beyond the leather chairs and coffee tables is a dark bar with bottles glowing blue and gold and green on glass shelves, and there are huge red lampshades that hang from the ceiling. The lampshades, which are wide and round, remind me of a place, but I cannot remember where. The woman in the gray suit asks us for our boarding cards or our membership cards. I think of how I might begin to propose what we’re proposing. I had a script in my head a few moments ago, but now that I see the lounge, now that I am standing in it, I realize that script has no value. What is to stop hundreds of people—economy passengers like us—from coming here, complaining of extreme fatigue, and begging for a seat to sleep on? If extreme fatigue were all one needed to get a seat in the executive lounge, everybody would be here. I can’t speak. I’m overwhelmed, I suppose, by how obvious it is that we are not going to get my father a place to sleep, or by my embarrassment for having had the naivety to believe it was possible. I should return to him immediately—go get his headache pills