Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  Karin’s face turns severe. “We will do our best. Do you know why we are named Epsilon?”

  I shake my head. Why does she look so serious all of a sudden?

  Her brown eyes pierce straight through to my heart. She says gently, “Because while we approach the limit of what the human soul can bear, we always attempt to remain a small positive force. Sometimes, Amy, we are the takers of the last hope. Do you understand me? We cannot take on a case unless the family accepts this possibility.”

  I draw in a shuddering breath. She thinks Sylvie might be dead. It’s not true. I know it’s not but I need to play along so she’ll help me. In a small voice, I say, “I understand.”

  Then she asks me a number of questions about Sylvie, and takes down the license plate of her rental car, which the family also gave to the police. “Can you tell me about her daily habits? Does she have a job here? Any hobbies?”

  “Sylvie mainly came to see our grandmother before she passed away.”

  “So Sylvie did not leave the house much?”

  I scratch my head, trying to remember. “I don’t really know because I wasn’t here. I was told that she was taking some kind of music lessons. Bass or cello or something, I think. But I don’t know where.”

  Karin purses her lips. “That could be important. I would like to know where the lessons were and the route she took to get there. Also if you could find out if there were any spots she liked to visit in particular.”

  “All right, I’ll ask.” I worry my lip with my teeth. “What about your fees?”

  Karin waves a square hand. “Oh, that is not a problem.”

  I know it is unwise, but I let it go. I want her help too much. I cannot bear anything else on my shoulders right now.

  She wants to walk the property with her dogs. I follow along as the dogs sniff all of the bushes and trees. It is a cloudless day and the air smells like spring.

  We pause underneath one of the trees in the front yard. The dappled light plays over our faces, first light, then dark.

  Karin asks, “Is there anything else about Sylvie that might be useful? Places or people she likes? Things she is afraid of?”

  I lean back against the rough bark of the trunk and fiddle with my hair, trying to think. “She can’t swim. There was a prophecy that Sylvie would die by water and so she’s supposed to avoid it. When a baby is born, Chinese parents sometimes ask a feng shui master, a kind of mystical specialist, to write their destiny. It’s just superstition.”

  “We should search the water, to be sure.”

  I tip my head to the side, giving her a sidelong glance. She doesn’t seem to be the mystical type. “Why? Do you buy into that stuff?”

  She stares into the distance. “It does not matter if I believe. What matters is if Sylvie believes.”

  After this, Karin bids me goodbye and tells me they will begin combing the area immediately but that their most intensive search will start the following weekend. Please let Sylvie be back before then.

  As she pulls out of the driveway, I realize she didn’t ask for an item of Sylvie’s clothing or anything else with a scent on it. I am about to run after the car and call her back when understanding strikes like a blow to my chest.

  Karin is not looking for Sylvie. She is searching for her body.

  Chapter 21

  Sylvie

  Friday, April 22

  Lukas and I were packed and about to leave for the airport. But when I went to Grandma’s room to say goodbye, it seemed like she was hardly breathing. She had shrunk so deeply into her bed that the shape of her body was barely visible beneath the sheets, as if she were already starting to leave us. I could feel death in the room, like a presence waiting behind the heavy curtains to claim her fully. Isa hovered over Grandma, a strained look on her usually cheerful face, fussing with the oxygen tank.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t—” My eyelids felt hot and gummy. How could I leave Grandma like this? My time with her was precious. Every bite I fed her, every song I sang to her, I feared would be the last.

  She opened her mouth but no words came out. She started to cough, a delicate skull fighting for air. I helped her sit upright. She held on to my arm and pulled my ear toward her lips. “Go.”

  With a barely discernible gesture, she pointed toward Tasha, who sat on the bedside table with her serene smile, and then to the Kuan Yin in the corner altar. “I am in the hands of the goddess.”

  Lukas bent over the two of us, his forehead furrowed. “We could still cancel. It would be no problem.”

  “It is your birthday weekend,” Grandma said. After all these years, she had remembered. “I did not call you back here to watch me die. I would never wish that burden on the ones I love most. I only wanted to see you live. Go. For me.”

  I took her frail body in my arms and murmured into her wispy hair, “I love you. We will be back in a few days.”

  She nodded and made an impatient gesture with her hand for us to leave. When Lukas bent down to say goodbye, she caught his shirt. “Take care of her.”

  He hugged her and said, “I will.”

  Her next words were a whisper of air. “Open your hearts, be happy.”

  At our meeting point at Schiphol Airport, I spotted Estelle from a distance. She wore an exotic linen dress that accentuated her defined collarbones underneath a fringe-trimmed opera stole in rich beige, the same color as her golden skin. She grabbed me first, kissing me fully on the lips, practically sticking her tongue down my throat. That was Estelle. “I always wanted to do that, you gorgeous thing.”

  Laughing, I pushed her away. “Where did you get that dress? It’s lovely.”

  “I have a tailor in Bombay who designs them for me. I go to him whenever I fly there. I will get one for you next time.” Then she turned to Lukas. “And now you.” She kissed him thoroughly as well until a masculine hand landed on Lukas’s hair and pulled him away from her.

  “I have had enough of that,” Filip said, eyes bright, fingers still tangled in Lukas’s black locks, looking fine in his straight-legged dark jeans, tailored black jacket, and a navy slim-fit button-down shirt decorated with a tiny diamond pattern. Seeing the two of them together almost stopped my breath. He gave Lukas an affectionate swat on the back of his head.

  “You saved me,” Lukas said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

  “Yeah, right. You look as proud as an ape with seven dicks,” Filip said. “And what the hell are you wearing? Could you not find something a bit nicer?”

  “What?” Baffled, Lukas looked down at his battered leather jacket and faded jeans above the solid low hiking boots he always wore. I hid a smile.

  “It might be a good idea to pack a little more in there,” Filip said, gesturing at the small canvas backpack Lukas had slung over his shoulder that somehow held all his clothing and toiletries. “And a bit less of that.” Filip pointed to the giant black camera bag filled with lenses and equipment Lukas took everywhere.

  “I brought clean underwear,” muttered Lukas.

  “Come on, you delicious thing,” Estelle said, linking her arm through Lukas’s. “We had better go through security.” She paused to let a flock of Asian tourists pass. At the end came an elderly woman in a wheelchair, pushed by a young, attractive woman, probably her granddaughter.

  “Wait.” I stood there, frozen amid the bustle of the crowd. “I cannot stop thinking about Grandma. Maybe I should stay.”

  They all stopped. Filip reached out and rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. “It is your decision, belle Sylvie, but I think your grandma would want you to enjoy your birthday.”

  I cast my eyes over my little group of friends—surprised they looked concerned for me—and covered his hand with mine. “You have it right. And I have never been to Venice before.”

  I dozed on the airplane against Filip’s shoulder. He woke me as we were about to land at Marco Polo Airport. Were Estelle and Lukas snuggling in the seats behind us too? I craned my neck to look out
the window. I saw large islands set in a turquoise sea, and a wide water highway set off by long wooden pilings, where boats and water taxis sped in two directions. I was in an alternate reality.

  We grabbed our luggage after we disembarked. Outside the terminal, even the air smelled different, like seaweed and cut grass. Here, I would forget about Jim. Here, I would become a new Sylvie, happy and free with her friends. We walked to the dock, where we debated the ferry or a more expensive water taxi. In the end, since there were four of us, we decided to splurge on the taxi.

  Our driver, a cute Italian guy wearing a tight T-shirt and sunglasses, cast longing glances at Estelle the entire trip to our hotel. She laughed and waved at the boats that passed while her hair tossed in the wind. On the same water highway I had seen from the air, we sped past the Alilaguna water bus. It was jammed with tourists pressed against windows, clicking pictures. Lukas came and stood beside me, his shoulder solid against mine. We watched Italian teenagers cruise by in speedboats, and wealthy older couples enjoying their rides in luxurious yachts.

  By the time we passed the island of Murano and then curved around the coast of Castello, the sun hung above the horizon like a molten gold medallion. I had expected Venice to be overrated. Everyone knew it was inundated with tourists, the authentic Venice eradicated by money-making shops, the city slowly sinking beneath the weight of its own clichés. I too had read Death in Venice. And yet I was captivated by the skyline of thirteenth-century buildings lit by globes of light, the silhouette of the winged Lion of Venice atop its tall granite column against a pink-streaked sunset. A yellow-and-orange craft sped past painted with the words Ambulanza, Venezia Emergenza: an ambulance boat. Yes, Venice was a myth. But its magic was real too.

  Lukas was taking photos, his competent hands caressing his camera. We cruised past long alleyways of water lit by small cafés where people chatted amid the glow of candlelight. Tiny bridges crossed tranquil canals while tourists thronged and packed into stands with glittering souvenirs. The water taxi drew up to our hotel, right on the Grand Canal next to Piazza San Marco.

  Estelle and the guys headed out for a late dinner but I decided to go to bed. The trip had drained me. Once inside, I never wanted to leave my hotel room again, an oasis of velvet sage and gold trim. Thick curtains kept the night at bay while hand-blown glass lamps bloomed on the walls, elegantly arched confections of spring green leaves. The hotel clerk had left a bottle of chilled Pellegrino on ice, covered with a fine embroidered napkin. I lay back against the plush pillows on the bed and wished I could live from hotel to hotel, never stopping, never allowing the rest of my life to catch up with me.

  The next morning, I found Lukas in the hotel restaurant leaning over the terrace railing, snapping photos of the covered gondolas docked nearby. Gondoliers in their typical black-and-white-striped T-shirts stepped from boat to boat, checking and cleaning before their workday began. The cool morning air played with his shaggy hair as rays of sunlight caught the gold and red strands among the dark.

  “You are up early,” I said.

  He jumped, and turned to face me. “Congratulations.” He bent and kissed me three times. His freshly shaven cheek smelled of citrus, cedar, and a hint of vanilla. “Thirty-three years. And just yesterday, you were only nine, it seems.”

  I looked into his eyes. I could not recall the last time I had felt this content. “I am glad we decided to come here.”

  “Come on, I am hungry. Estelle and Filip are not what you would call morning people.”

  We filled our plates from the buffet—fresh croissants and pastries, scrambled eggs and fruit salad—and settled on a sun-drenched table next to the water. The waiter brought us tea and coffee with warm milk, along with fresh jus d’orange.

  I cracked open a little jar of strawberry preserves and smeared some across my croissant. “This must be the most beautiful place I have ever been.”

  Lukas looked out over the begonias that flowered along our railing to the dark cyan waters underneath a cloudless cerulean sky. Then he smiled at me, his eyes warm and dark. “I have never seen anything lovelier.”

  “Not flirting so early in the morning, I hope.” Filip’s tone was dry. He now stood beside our table with Estelle. They both wore dark sunglasses. “Congratulations, little treasure.”

  They each kissed me three times, and then Filip went to find food while Estelle sat and slowly sipped her black coffee. “Oh, I really needed this. Now, what are we going to do to celebrate Sylvie’s birthday?”

  “I do not really want to do anything special,” I said.

  She pushed her glasses up onto her head to stare at me. “Nonsense.”

  Filip set his plate down, pulled out a chair, and said, “Shall we go exploring during the day and maybe a nice dinner tonight?”

  “I have always wanted to see the Palazzo Ducale,” Lukas said.

  “Both Sylvie and Lukas are in Venice for the first time, right?” said Estelle. “You know what that means: gondola ride! Our gift to you.”

  Lukas and I both groaned.

  “I cannot swim,” I said.

  “Really?” said Filip. He leaned in close, lowered his lashes, and murmured, “I will have to teach you sometime.”

  “No one falls out of a gondola,” said Estelle, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Not even the really clumsy tourists. And if you did, I would save you. I have six swimming diplomas.”

  “I refuse to let an Italian guy sing to me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  “Me too,” said Lukas, nodding emphatically. “Especially if he is hairy.”

  Filip lifted one eyebrow, his tone turning wicked. “Which is exactly why you must both undergo this most stereotyped of tourist experiences. Think of it as a rite of passage.”

  We spent the morning at the lavish Palazzo Ducale. After we climbed the twenty-four-carat gilt staircase Scala d’Oro, I stopped before a stone face of a grimacing man with penetrating eyes and an open mouth.

  “Afraid?” asked Filip, leaning in close. I could feel the warmth of his tight muscles through his thin shirt, pressing against my back.

  “What is it?”

  “Bocca di leone, the mouth of the lion. This was a postbox for secret accusations, where people would slip notes about their neighbors. The Council of Ten would then lead an investigation by the dreaded security service.”

  I shivered. “Ominous.”

  “Every secret has its price. Come on, let us go to the Bridge of Sighs.”

  He took my hand and led me to the bridge where it is said the prisoners sighed at their last views of Venice before they were led to their darkened cells. Inside the dungeons, the bits of graffiti etched into the stone walls were the only evidence of the lives that had been exhausted there.

  For lunch we only had time to grab slices of thin, crispy pizza from a woman with leathery skin and a flowered scarf covering her hair before we were off to the Basilica di San Marco, with its lavish spires, Byzantine domes, and patterned marble. On all of my business trips, I had never taken the time to enjoy the places I had visited. There had always been a client or a colleague to impress, another presentation to prepare. Now I could just be. We hopped on the vaporetto water bus for a tour of the Grand Canal, gliding past ornate buildings while the canal itself was crowded with cargo barges, kayaks, delivery boats, and water taxis. I was delighted to see a Total gas station set by a dock, serving boats instead of cars.

  In the late afternoon, Estelle announced it was time for our gondola ride. She had already secured our vaporetto and museum passes, and now she bargained efficiently with a gondolier before calling us over. Naturally, she told him it was my birthday, so I had the seat of honor with Lukas, the other Venetian virgin, as Estelle called us. Estelle and Filip settled into red velvet cushions across from us. Instead of the flirtatious Italian singer I had been dreading, a small white-haired gentleman climbed aboard. He wore a plastic union card pinned to his neat button-down shirt. The gondolier shoved
off, and the elderly man turned on the speaker at his feet and began to sing in a beautiful baritone, his voice amplified by the surrounding buildings and the narrow canals.

  Even Filip closed his eyes to listen, a small smile signaling his professional approval of the musical proceedings. He was almost unbearably good-looking: dark lashes against fair skin, the cynical quirk to his full lips. My phone pinged with a text from Amy, wishing me a great birthday and asking when we could chat. I quickly wrote back with an excuse, not wanting her to know I had left Grandma, then put away my mobile and resumed studying Filip. If Amy ever met him, she would fall hard. He was exactly her type: musical, funny, smart.

  Lukas wrapped his arm around me and I snuggled into his side. No one made me feel safer than Lukas.

  “Do you remember the valentine I gave you? Before you left?” he murmured.

  I wrinkled my forehead. “You never gave me anything like that.”

  “Yes, I did but I did not sign it. I left it in your desk on Valentine’s Day.”

  I thought back. There had been something. I had been surprised to find it, especially since, in those days, Valentine’s Day was not really celebrated here—a crumpled piece of red construction paper in the shape of a heart. What had it said? I started to laugh. “That was you? I think the note compared me to a toe or something?”

  He nodded, satisfied. “‘Without you, I am like a sock without a foot.’ Now you know how I felt about you.”

  I chuckled, and then surrendered to the music floating between the buildings, the lapping of the water against the hull of the boat, the rhythmic stroke of the gondolier’s oars. This close to the houses, I could see the way they tilted, the crumbling brick sagging into the waves, the moss that grew and multiplied along the waterline, bits of graffiti scribbled here and there. The vulnerability of this place only made me love it more.