Max smiles – his old smile. ‘Follow me.’
• • •
On the second floor, in what might have been Kammer’s bedroom, are red gasoline canisters, cases of bottled water, an open shoebox full of cables and batteries. Near the front window, a brocade armchair holds a stack of alchemy books with street maps fanned on top. A folder is wedged between the spines and polished armrest; inside, billfolds with American cash, Canadian cash, four more packs of colorful bills I can’t identify, and what look like several passports. I glimpse a photo of Max in one, or a flattened, grayscale version of Max. It could be a brother or a cousin with a strong resemblance. It could be a ghost, or the body once the ghost has left.
I think of East, alone on the marble floor, and feel an almost religious revulsion at t
