Free Munich Airport by Greg Baxter Page B

the kitchen, then I opened the windows in the sitting room. The front door promptly slammed shut. I went into the bedroom and grabbed a few large, heavy books. I used them to keep the front door open. Then I divided the apartment into cells and gave each cell a category—books, kitchen stuff, papers, electrical appliances, furniture, and so on. Slowly, I moved everything into these cells. Slowly, I emptied the wardrobe of clothes, a sideboard of DVDs and tablecloths and place mats and glasses, and a drinks cabinet of mostly full bottles of spirits. This is when I first started to pay close attention to Miriam’s possessions. I was so focused on the small things that I did not even notice how nice the large pieces were. They were not heavy, and when they were empty, I moved them easily. Only the couch was heavy. I did not want to scrape the floor, so I had to move it inch by inch, now this end, now that, then I stood it on its end to maximize the space. Then I got some trash bags from the kitchen and put stuff that was obviously trash into them. Then I beat all the dust out of the cushions. Then I swept the dust around the floor. Then I wiped clean all the surfaces. Then I cleaned the windows. Even though the day was cold, and even though a steady frigid breeze was moving through the apartment, and even though I worked slowly and took a lot of breaks, by the time I was done I felt overheated, sweaty, and covered in dust. I wanted a long hot shower. But then I went into the bathroom and realized I couldn’t use it until I cleaned it. At the level of close inspection, it was extremely unclean, and the tiles needed to be scrubbed. I decided, because I did not want to get my clothes dirty, and I did not want to sweat or stink in them anymore, to close the front door and get undressed, completely, except for the yellow gloves, and clean the bathroom thoroughly. It took a while, and I threw up several times, but finally it was sparkling and smelled like lemon and bleach. Then I took the long hot shower. Miriam’s shower was a lot better than the hotel shower. It was better than my electric shower in London. It had one of those tropical-rain showerheads, and it had great pressure. She also had a lot of shower gels. When I was finished, I dried myself off with one of her towels, then threw the towel and everything else from the bathroom into trash bags. Then I got dressed, back into my dusty and slightly damp-from-sweat clothes, and realized it was already past lunchtime. I took the croissant out of its bag and decided it wasn’t going to be enough. I closed the windows, turned off the radio, and put my coat on. I would go through the piles of things after lunch, I decided.
    When I opened the door, I found a man standing in the hallway, and we gave each other a fright. Then he stiffened up and rolled his shoulders back, as though he had not been frightened at all. He was slight and thin and had black hair. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket over a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. He looked past me, he didn’t seem at all happy.
    Hello, I said.
    Can I help you? he asked.
    I don’t know, I said.
    Who are you?
    I’m the brother.
    What are you doing?
    I’m going for lunch, I said.
    I mean, he said, what are you doing with Miriam’s stuff?
    I turned around and looked at the apartment, now compartmentalized like a storehouse, and I wasn’t sure I knew what I was doing.
    Who are you? I asked.
    I live upstairs, he said.
    You knew Miriam? I asked.
    Yes, she was a friend.
    I closed the door behind me and locked it and said, You have thirty minutes for some lunch?
    The man’s name was Otis. He was from New York, but his accent was as corrupted and neutralized from living in Berlin as mine was from living in London.
    You’re cleaning, he said.
    No, not really.
    You’re throwing stuff out.
    No, not that, either.
    Those books, he said. They…
    I could see he felt we ought to be standing in