Free Munich Airport by Greg Baxter Page A

of mishandling something far less difficult—a comfortable life in a nice apartment in London with a smart, pretty wife who had a good job and wanted kids—because he did not know anything about my wife or my marriage. So I said, Yes, must be difficult. Trish said, He found a job a few months ago, but it’s in Munich.
    Without realizing it, I had begun to pick at my father’s potato—just the toppings. Lots of sliced, pickled jalapeños, which were not spicy, and which were not crisp. Chunks of unmelted cheese. Too much sour cream. An overdressed salad on the side. I only realized I was eating when I grabbed his fork and stuck it into the potato. I was half-alarmed. I said, I can’t believe it. What’s that? said my father. I thought about not saying anything, but then I said, Well, what else, that Miriam starved to death. My father’s eyes got very soft, and we waited to see if he had anything to say. He didn’t. But I had ruined lunch.
    That first week, I rented a bicycle and returned twice on my own to Miriam’s apartment. My father met Trish for lunches and dinners, and even had an unexpected drink with the American deputy chief of mission—the second-in-command behind the ambassador—a history buff who seemed to think my father was a famous historian, and who wanted to express his sorrow about Miriam and assure my father that her case was special. My father told me the deputy ambassador also asked him what the Indo in Indo-European meant. He had always assumed it meant collective or entire . Then he laughed at himself for a while. It would have been a funny thing to say, admitted my father, on a different type of trip. Another thing the deputy ambassador kept saying was hot dog , with a swift emphasis on hot , then a long pause, then a slow and exhaling dog , without any excitement, whenever my father said anything interesting.
    The first time I went back to Miriam’s apartment, I met a neighbor and old friend of Miriam’s. It was the day after I had been there with Trish and my father, another of those cold and perfectly clear mornings. I parked my bike outside Miriam’s place. I got a coffee in the square, and a squashed, tasteless croissant. I had two large canvas tote bags with me, in case I felt like rescuing some things. I didn’t plan on staying long. But as soon as I arrived, I realized I hadn’t any excuse to rush. And I was starting to adapt, already, to the pace of life in Berlin, which was much slower than that of London. I checked Miriam’s mailbox. There was a newspaper in it, some advertising leaflets, and a letter that looked official. I threw everything in a bin that was beside the mailboxes and was already overstuffed with newspapers and advertising. I had to cram them in, push them down hard and hold them down. A woman came down the steps, saw me, and appeared disgusted, but I wasn’t sure what had disgusted her. Three weeks later, I have come to realize that the look of disgust is just the way Germans look at each other.
    I entered Miriam’s apartment, and for the first ten or fifteen minutes I sat at the dining table and did nothing. I drank my coffee, that was all. The room was bright. I didn’t really know where to begin. I left the front door open. I was sort of hoping somebody might walk by and stick a head in. When my coffee was finished, I turned on a small silver radio and tuned it to a classical station. They were playing movie soundtracks. I kept searching. I found NPR in English and listened for a while—the conversation was insipid. So I found some pop trash that could not be accused of being good or bad, it was just fundamentally catchy, then I found a station in Russian. They were playing very strange stuff, so I left it on that. Then I went into the kitchen and checked under the sink. There were trash bags and cleaning supplies and yellow rubber gloves. I put the gloves on. I opened the window in