Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  From: Jim Bates

  To: Amy Lee

  Sent: Friday, May 6

  Subject: Bills

  Hey Amy,

  Have you heard anything from Sylvie? I stopped by the apartment after we spoke and was pretty shocked by the state of it. She hasn’t paid any bills at all since I left. I also can’t believe the credit card bills she’s racked up. Everything is in a state of limbo, especially now that she’s missing. What the hell is going on?

  I need to talk to Sylvie as soon as possible. There are things we need to straighten out. I deserve some explanations too.

  Jim

  From: Amy Lee

  To: Jim Bates

  Sent: Friday, May 6

  Subject: RE: Bills

  Jim, there’s been no word from Sylvie and I was just told you were here in the Netherlands. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you see Sylvie? How did she seem? When was the last time she used her credit card? That’s very important because it can tell us a lot about what she’s been doing and if she’s okay.

  Please, if there’s any information at all you could share with us? It might help us find her.

  From: Amy Lee

  To: Jim Bates

  Sent: Saturday, May 7

  Subject: RE: Bills

  Jim, did you get the email I sent you below? It’s really urgent that you respond. I know you guys were having some problems but I’m sure you can work things out. If you won’t talk to me, at least let the police know what you saw. Just please tell me if she’s used her credit card recently.

  From: Amy Lee

  To: Jim Bates

  Sent: Sunday, May 8

  Subject: RE: Bills

  Jim? You’re not answering my calls and you’re not responding to these emails. Just drop me a line, anything you know might help, we’re desperate, okay? Please.

  Jim, please.

  Chapter 15

  Sylvie

  Saturday, April 9

  Lukas’s friend Filip said he could give me a sample lesson right away, so the next morning, Lukas took me to meet him in Amsterdam. This time, we rode on Lukas’s black Vespa scooter. It felt good to have an excuse to wrap my arms around his waist, the smell of his leather jacket in my nostrils, the steady purr of the motor underneath me. The temperature had dropped since yesterday and we passed pedestrians bundled up in their bulky coats again. As the chilly wind whipped against my olive hooded jacket, I closed my eyes and felt the air promise me rain.

  When we passed from tree-lined views of the waterways into the steady stream of bicycles, trams, and autos in Amsterdam, I felt like a heroine in a movie. The city exuded that same sense of wild freedom and possibility of New York, but in a gentler way. A father wove through the red light district on a cargo bike filled with two tiny children. A beautiful woman talking on her mobile strode past a construction site without receiving a single catcall. Lukas stopped as a tram swerved in front of us, then he maneuvered through the narrow brick streets until we turned onto the Brouwersgracht, one of the most beautiful routes in Amsterdam. I could feel the muscles of his body shift as he navigated the turns.

  It was so beautiful and peaceful here, as if nothing could ever be wrong with the world. Graceful seventeenth-century residences edged the wide canal and living-boats bobbed in the water. Here and there, pots of crocuses and daffodils bloomed and dotted the street. I loved flowers, though I could never manage to keep them alive. One living-boat looked like a pirate ship, complete with an upturned red prow, while its neighbor resembled a rectangular train car, painted blue and white. Lukas parked his Vespa beside this one and we walked past a tiny garden on the water side of the street.

  As we stepped onto the rickety wooden walkway that connected us to the living-boat, Lukas saw I was biting my lip and reached out a hand to steady me. I always felt vulnerable over water, and Lukas noticed this. I recalled the last cocktail party Jim and I had attended together, the one my engagement manager, Martin, had hosted—a drunken Martin standing too close to me, casually resting his hand on the bare skin between my collarbone and my neck under the pretense of having to yell in my ear to be heard through the babble of voices around us, and me looking for Jim, spotting him chatting with a bunch of men a few meters away, trying to signal my distress. Jim only waved and raised a glass to me in a silent toast. He must have completely missed the sexual connotations.

  We walked onto the boat and Lukas rang the doorbell. After a few moments, the door opened. Oh my goodness. I took a half step back. The diminutive, pale boy I barely remembered had grown into this? Filip was about the same height as Lukas, except leaner, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair fell in dark, cropped waves across his forehead. Chiseled jaw with a deep dimple in the middle. Intense, intelligent eyes the color of the Dutch sky flickered over me, assessing me until his thin lips—sensual, a bit cruel—quirked in a half smile. I realized I had covered my mouth with my hand and lowered it. Lukas was watching me with his brow furrowed, one hand rubbing his neck. He had not missed my reaction either. He and Filip greeted each other, and then Filip shook my hand: a hard grip, determined and unrelenting, with calluses on his thumb and perhaps one of the fingers.

  Then Filip stepped aside to let us in. I grasped the doorframe with one hand as the boat swayed gently. We were standing in a small kitchen with a large silver refrigerator. A sink and a fancy espresso machine sat underneath a bright window. The smells of olive oil and spices perfumed the air, and now I saw that a neat row of herbs and a garland of dried garlic lined the shelves, alongside patterned ceramic plates that looked like they might be Armenian. So he cooked too. Or was he married? I quickly checked both of his hands—here, the Catholics tended to wear their wedding rings on their left hands and the Protestants on their right—but I found no ring at all. Interesting. He and Lukas continued chatting to each other but I caught both men glancing at me when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  The door to my right was closed and I imagined it led to his bedroom. We squeezed through the narrow hallway on the left, practically bumping into one another in the cramped space, and stepped into a long living room that was flooded with light. I caught my breath. What a view. An expanse of water all around us, the waves rippling, while seagulls flew overhead, cawing, sparkling in the sunlight like jewels before landing on the arched stone bridge that spanned the canal. In the distance, storm clouds gathered.

  Filip stood beside me, but instead of gazing out the window, he was examining me with his vivid, lucent eyes. “Sylvie. My, you have grown up.”

  A rush of heat swept upward from my neck. “I was just thinking the same about you. Although I must admit I do not remember you very well.”

  He bent his head toward me to say in a hushed voice, “You are very clear in my memories.” I stared up at him as if mesmerized. What did he mean? Did he remember the awkward, homely girl I had been? “Let us measure your hand to see how large your cello needs to be.”

  He held my right hand up to his left one, palm to palm, finger to finger—his tapered ones far longer than my own. Was that another callus on the side of his thumb? Then Lukas grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away from Filip.

  “Ho, ho. Enough of this.” Lukas’s smile said he was kidding but there was an intense look in his eyes. He turned to face Filip and tapped him on the chest. “Cello lessons, nothing else. You keep away from my beautiful cousin with that deadly charm of yours.”

  Lukas thought I was beautiful. I chuckled at this, charmed by his protective instincts, though my skin still tingled where Filip had touched me. “You have nothing to worry about. I am married.” Then, when Filip arched an inquiring eyebrow at me, I pulled at the collar of my shirt. “Separated. I am separated.”

  Now Lukas’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Sylvie, he is as infamous as a mottled dog with a blue tail. The girls in our high school ran after him, even the female teachers were captivated by him, not to mention all those fans he picks up at his concerts. Always keep an instrument between you tw
o, you hear me?”

  Filip batted his eyes at Lukas. “Oh, I would love to keep my flute between us.”

  I laughed as Filip slung an arm around Lukas and shepherded him back to the front door. “We will behave. Come back in an hour to pick her up.”

  I heard the door close behind him, and then Filip called, “Just a moment, Sylvie. I wanted to see how long you were and the size of your hands before I chose a cello for you. I will get it now.”

  I could still see Lukas on the sidewalk, unlocking his Vespa and craning his neck to peer in through the window before driving off. I felt flutters in my stomach, whether from anticipation or nerves, I was not sure. I was now alone with the stunning cellist and I had never been any good at music or, indeed, any of the arts. Creativity required a leap of faith I was unwilling to make. I walked around the upright piano against the wall and settled into one of the two chairs. They sat facing each other, alongside two cello stands. One stand cradled an antique instrument, the wood burnished and scarred.

  By my side was the windowsill, where an ashtray and a row of photos stood. Filip in a diving suit, a bright orange oxygen tank, his lashes spiked with water. Ah, a yellowed photo of the boy I remembered, probably about six years old, sunburned, wearing only a thin white undershirt, holding a child-size violin under his chin, playing barefoot on a rocky beach—and then another of an adult Filip with a little blond girl, around seven years old. She had his forehead and eyes, and they both stuck out their tongues at the camera.

  “My daughter,” he said from the doorway, holding a newer cello in his hands.

  I refrained from asking if he was still married. “She is very cute. And this photo, this was you, right? I remembered you playing the violin.”

  “Yes, that was taken while we were on holiday on Tenerife.” He strode over and placed the cello in my stand, then seated himself facing me.

  I tentatively stroked the shiny wooden neck with my finger. “Why did you switch over to cello?”

  “I heard one at a concert and after that, it was all I wanted. I begged my parents to let me take lessons.” He maintained his distance now and his tone was friendly but professional. So the flirting had been for Lukas. It was always easier to play at love when there were safe limits. A voice whispered in my mind, He saw the real you when you were younger, Sylvie. Why would he want you now? My chest tightened and a heaviness descended over me.

  He started tuning our cellos. The deep tones rang like a human voice, singing its darkest secrets, startling me. The floor shifted as a boat passed, rocked by the waves. I gazed upon him, another man I had known as a boy, his perfect profile impenetrable, but his hands—what tenderness and pain flowed from those hands—and just this, a gifted musician tuning his cello, began to unburden my heart. How Jim had loved me once and, so help me, how I loved him still. The sky outside grew dim and rain began to patter against the roof.

  He paused and I quickly dashed a hand across my cheek, wondering how much my expression had revealed. He closed his eyes and, instead of continuing his task, played a slow piece, filled with all the longing and unrequited love I felt. I leaned my head back in my chair and let the melody swirl through me. I am broken, the cello said. I am lost.

  When he stopped, his face revealed none of the emotion in his music. He gave me a tiny curt nod, and said, “Spread your legs.”

  I gulped. “What?”

  He came over to me, pulled me forward so I was sitting on the edge of my chair, then spread my thighs wide with a bold hand on the inside of each knee. I was still gasping as he swung the cello in between my legs. “Be glad you are not wearing a dress. I forgot to mention it to Lukas and sometimes women come in these tight skirts, which can cause quite a problem. It is also good you do not have overly large boobs.”

  I was still staring at my chest when he placed the bow in my right hand and showed me how to hold it. “First, we will start with playing the loose strings. Only the bow, no left hand. Follow me. We will start with A.”

  He sat back down and played a long note on one string and I tried to do the same. We repeated this several times, playing A, A, A, A, D, D, the cello vibrating through my bones.

  He sighed. “The cello picks up everything you are feeling in your body, and you are as tense as a cane. Close your eyes.”

  I did as he directed and felt the cold coming in through the floorboards. I suppressed a shiver, imagined the icy water beneath our feet. His voice was strong and resonant. “Let your shoulders and hands hang. That is it.”

  When I opened my eyes and tried to play, it sounded better but not enough to satisfy him. Filip went to the kitchen and returned with a ceramic bowl filled with water. He came over, picked up my right hand, and placed it inside the bowl. The water was warm, his fingers light against my wrist. This close to him, I caught a whiff of smoke and bergamot. “Does that feel good?”

  I nodded.

  “Now, take out your hand and flick the droplets off. As you do that, imagine all of your tension falling away with the water. Very good.” Then he gently dried my hand with a small cloth, massaging every digit, and placed the bow in between my loosened fingers. “Hold it lightly, do not tense up. Now you are ready.”

  And when I began, for the first few moments I could hear the difference, but then I started to stiffen. I was learning that this was my natural state: stressed. His spine was rigid, bracing him against the sounds I made, though his expression remained neutral. Outside, lightning flashed as the rain turned into a downpour, splattering against the sundeck.

  I winced and laid down the bow. I could not do this to him any longer. “This must be torture for you. I should stop.”

  He came and knelt before me on one knee so we were face-to-face, his eyes intent. He laid a hand on my arm. “Oh no. You have only just begun, Sylvie. That is why it is called an instrument. It is a tool for you to express whatever you want, good or bad.”

  “I must be filled with badness, then,” I muttered, smiling a little. I leaned toward him. I had a sudden wild desire to lay my cheek against his. Here was a man who understood heartbreak. Here was a man who also knew what it meant to be devastated, and who somehow kept it all contained. I pulled myself back and searched for a reason to keep him talking. “Is your daughter musical too?”

  He glanced over at their photo together. “Oh no. Zoë’s passion is competitive alpine skiing, which happens to be a very expensive sport. My ex-wife is a musician as well and between the two of us, we can barely manage to afford it.” He stood. I blinked back my disappointment. “Our time is almost up. Why do you not take the cello home so you can practice and not torment me so much next time?”

  “You would lend me your cello?”

  He shrugged and pulled out a hard cello case from a sliding cabinet beneath the window. “This is a cheaper one that I rent out to students sometimes. You cannot improve if you do not practice.”

  As he flipped open the lid of the case, I eyed the huge instrument. I was not substantially taller than it. “I do not have a car here.”

  He bent down to place the cello and bow inside. The case was mostly black, with streaks of dark blue running through it like a river. Two padded straps on the back allowed it to be carried like a backpack. “No problem. I take mine on my bicycle all the time.”

  I waved a hand at his long legs, the muscled arms. “But you are Dutch.” People carted Christmas trees on their bicycles here, balanced on the steering bar.

  “So are you.” He stood and set the case upright. “You rest that on your baggage rack on the back of your bike and you will be all set.” The doorbell rang. Filip handed the cello to me. “Your chauffeur is here.”

  I staggered a bit to get the cello through the tiny hallway and into the entryway. The whole thing was heavier than I thought. Filip had the door open and Lukas stood there drenched, dripping onto the tile floor. Droplets rolled off his hair and traced the line of his jaw. Behind him, a torrent of rain fell as thunder boomed.

  I asked Fili
p, “When should I come back? I am only here a few weeks at most.” Now that our lesson was over, I was like someone who had smoked opium for the first time. I did not want to see him again; it was a need. I felt lighter, looser, and something about him or our lesson had done that for me.

  Filip glanced at Lukas, then bent and gave me three deliberate, lingering kisses on my cheeks. The charming playboy had returned. “As often as you like,” he drawled. “Come every day.”

  Lukas took the case from me and scowled. “Do I need to hit this guy with my camera for you?”

  “It would be easier to use the cello.” I gave Filip a slow wink to show I was sophisticated and unaffected by him. “But it is not necessary. When he flirts, it is nothing personal.”

  I was unprepared for the flash of pain on Filip’s face or the way Lukas flushed dark red to the roots of his hair. Had there been some other woman between them in the past? Someone they truly loved?

  Lukas swung the case over one shoulder and turned on his heel to leave. “Yes, that has been my experience.”

  With the cello strapped to my back, the Vespa scooter caught so much wind that, at times, it seemed like we would take flight. The Dutch called this dog weather. Above us, the heavens opened while hard gusts of rain sent rivulets of cold water down my back. The shifting air currents caught the broad instrument at an angle and Lukas swerved to avoid a sudden bicyclist. Blinded by strands of my hair in the whipping wind, I was barely able to stay seated, clinging to Lukas with all my might. My shoulders ached from the weight. When we finally arrived at the house, I dismounted and tried to race inside to get out of the storm. But even though I was fairly tall, the cello still hit me at mid-calf, so I could only take tiny, mincing steps.

  Once inside, Lukas stifled a guffaw at my half-drowned appearance. Water drizzled from us both onto Helena’s marble tiles. He took the case off my shoulders, then removed my jacket and hung it over the radiator to dry. I propped one arm against the wall and bent to pull off my soaked shoes. When I straightened, locks of my wet hair were plastered to my face.