Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  “At least Grandma would be happy it is dry,” Lukas said, his breath disappearing into the air like a ghost.

  Grandma had always carried an umbrella bigger than she was on rainy days. She hated the chilly wet weather. Other parents had often remarked that they expected her to take off on the wind like an airplane during storms. Lukas and I had both fit beneath her massive umbrella. He had always been a long boy and had helped her hold it as I clutched her arm on her other side.

  We entered the reception hall, where the guests were supposed to wait. To my surprise, Oma and Opa were there. I had completely forgotten about them. Oma started when she saw me. I did not think she had expected to see me either. It had been so many years. They used to visit us from Belgium every birthday and major holiday. Where Helena had grown harder, Oma and Opa had grown smaller and softer. Their skin and eyes had faded to white, though Oma’s hair was still dyed black. I had not known them well. They had never been around enough to enforce discipline. I did remember that they always brought large sacks of chocolate with them for Lukas and me.

  I was longer than both of them now. I bent to kiss Oma three times on her cheeks.

  Tears sprouted in her eyes. “I know how much you loved her.”

  “Thank you, Oma.” I had never noticed their Belgian accents when I was little, but they had only just moved to Antwerp then. This was how I could mark the years: Oma and Opa had lived there long enough to develop accents.

  Opa patted me on the arm. I took a moment to look around the chilly and depressing reception area. There was only a long modern sofa with flat leather cushions. Its hard seats were dark brown and the multicolored beige and orange backrests had been added in an attempt to bring some cheer to the room. Everything was nondenominational. There was no sign of a cross or a Buddha anywhere. We had been asked if we wanted to have a priest and politely declined. This room was as pragmatic as the Dutch, with nothing to suggest anything as nebulous as heaven or an afterlife. I closed my eyes and offered a prayer to our gods. Please take Grandma into the company of our ancestors.

  The funeral director, a stubby man in a dark suit, greeted us and led us to the room reserved for immediate family. It resembled a typical Dutch living room, with a few square indigo fabric couches arranged around two mismatched coffee tables. We sat and were served tea and coffee. It felt like we were visiting distant relatives, not saying farewell to the woman I had loved the most, the only real mother I had ever had.

  Then the director told us that if we wished, we could take leave of the departed privately in the mourning room. Oma, Opa, Helena, and Willem stood but I remained. Lukas stayed behind with me, shifting closer on the sofa. I would not share my grief with Helena and did not think she wished me to witness hers either. After an awkward pause, they left.

  When they returned, their eyes were swollen and most of Helena’s makeup had worn off. I had not bothered to put on any cosmetics. Then Lukas and I entered the mourning room together. It was tiny, barely enough room for a few people to stand around the closed red mahogany coffin set on a high table in the center. Two lonely chairs leaned against the wall, which had been painted a calming beige.

  I could not comprehend it: Grandma was inside that coffin. How could she breathe? It made no sense. How tiny she must be inside there. I felt a sudden urge to open the lid, to release her, to set her free. “She does not like that clunky Dutch-size thing.”

  Then a large hand took mine and Lukas wrapped me in his arms. “She is already gone. She is free.” I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against his shoulder as he stroked my hair. He said softly, “No more pain. No gasping for air.”

  Then we were racked with sobs again, our arms around each other, the two children Grandma had tended.

  “We were not here,” I whispered. “I let her down. It was all my fault.”

  “No.” He held my chin in his hand and bent to brush away my tears. “She wanted it this way. Do you remember the last thing she said to us?”

  “‘Open your hearts. Be happy.’” And with those words, my burden lightened just a bit. In my mind, I said, Grandma, I know you can hear me. I love you.

  I heard her answer in my heart: I love you too, Snow Jasmine.

  When it was time for the ceremony, Lukas, Willem, Opa, Oma, Helena, and I acted as the pallbearers. We took the six handles on the coffin. It was heavier than I had expected. The wood probably weighed more than Grandma herself. Opa and Oma stood at the front, Helena and I were in the middle, and Lukas and Willem took up the rear.

  The handle burned into my hand. The pressure was unbearable. I was carrying the body of Grandma. A tear rolled over my cheek. She was truly inside. I would never see her again, feel her hands holding mine. I would never get to take her on a luxurious holiday, treat her to a restaurant, or take her home to China. It was too late.

  As we entered the main room, I was surprised to find people in attendance. I had not expected anyone. Estelle and Filip sat in the front row. It was clear Estelle had been crying, and Filip gave me a small sympathetic smile. Perhaps I had not completely ruined our circle of friends. Our neighbors were all here, the good faithful Dutch. Even though Grandma had never learned how to speak to them, they still came. The music was some generic classical assortment that the crematorium had chosen. Grandma never told me if she had a preference.

  As we approached the front, I was pleased to find the table for the coffin laid out in the Chinese way, with a large framed picture of Grandma at the front. I examined it more closely and realized it was one of the photos Lukas had taken the day I had done her hair and makeup.

  Lukas whispered to me as we took our places, “She picked it out herself.”

  The room was austere—rows of chairs in a neat line facing the coffin and the podium, which would remain unused. For the Chinese, a funeral is a time for grief, tears, breast-beating, folding of sacred papers to be burned that will then turn into gold and silver for the deceased. The room should be thick with incense smoke. Where were the chanting monks, the mourners overwhelmed with pain? Oh, Grandma, I thought, we have come into a strange foreign land.

  Her flowers had not been made into Chinese funeral wreaths. Helena and Willem had never followed the old customs here. What would the neighbors say about us burning ritual papers in the backyard? I thought with gratitude of Ma and Pa, who had always followed our traditions in their little back garden, where the anonymity of New York City protected us—no one had ever said a word if they noticed us at all—and of the kind monks in our temple in Chinatown, where we went to find out our fortunes for the year, each prophecy shaken from a bamboo jar. How I wished I could have taken Grandma. How much room could there be for regrets in one person? Mine were infinite.

  Estelle dabbed her face with a tissue and Filip linked his arm through hers. I had known this day was coming. How, then, was it still so bitter? It hurt to leave Grandma behind in her coffin as we left the room.

  In the other room, everyone was served tea or coffee and a slab of cake. It was very civilized. The neighbors, embarrassed by any strong emotion, including grief, gave us all the eternal three kisses on our cheeks, said, “Condolences,” and left. None of them had truly known Grandma. She was just the funny little Chinese woman who lived on their street.

  There was a tap on my arm. It was Filip. I let him draw me outside the room under Lukas’s watchful gaze.

  When we were alone, he said, “Is it going all right?” He did not wait for me to answer before pulling me into his arms and holding me tight. “Do not blame yourself.”

  I sniffed. “I am so sorry, Filip.” I had treated him so badly.

  His voice was muffled in my hair. “It was always only a jest between the two of us, darling. I knew that.”

  I let him leave it at that. But if that was true, why had he been so angry in Venice?

  As I returned to the room, I thought of the Dutch children’s song:

  In a green, green, green, green tuber tuber country

  There
are two hares, very dapper

  And the one blew the flute-flute-flute

  And the other hit the drum

  Then suddenly a hunter-hunter-man came

  And he shot one

  And that made—you must know—

  The other sad and worried

  Now with Grandma gone, one of my two lifelines had disappeared, the security of her arms, her smile, her love for me.

  Lukas was all I had left here.

  Telephone Call

  Thursday, April 28

  Sylvie: She did not wish to die a dog’s death, Ma. And, in the end, she shed the red dust of the mortal world with the grace of floating clouds and flowing water.

  Ma: I am glad you were with her, Snow Jasmine. I only wish— [sobs]

  Sylvie: Oh, Ma.

  Amy: Sylvie, it’s me. Talking is too much for Ma right now.

  Sylvie: Hey, I’ve missed you.

  Amy: Are you doing okay?

  Sylvie: Oh, sweetie. Actually, it’s been pretty hard. [Voice breaks] I loved Grandma so much.

  Amy: I know, Sylvie. But she’s still with you. I’m sure of it. When are you coming home?

  Sylvie: I’m not sure. My work here’s not quite finished. I’ll fly back as soon as I can.

  Amy: Of course, Sylvie. I can’t wait to see you.

  Sylvie: Take care of Ma for me, okay?

  Amy: I will. See you soon.

  Sylvie: Love you. I’ll be back before you know it.

  Chapter 26

  Amy

  Sunday, May 15

  The Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra has a website in English. I check their program and see they’re performing tonight in Amsterdam at the Dutch National Opera and Ballet. Got you now, Filip. They’re set to play Dvořák’s Rusalka, a favorite of mine, an opera about a water nymph who leaves her own kind and thereby gives up the power of speech. But the show is completely sold out, and I wouldn’t be able to speak to him there anyway. I’ll have to confront him afterward or during one of the two intermissions. I think back to our ride on the Epsilon boat. He’s a smoker. Everything indoors in the Netherlands is nonsmoking, so he’ll likely be outside during the break. I know the first act takes about an hour. If I hurry, I might be able to catch him today.

  I take the train to Amsterdam Central Station, and transfer to a subway to Waterlooplein. It’s now past eight o’clock in the evening and still light outside. I have to squint against the setting sun.

  I walk past the sweeping, blocklike mass of the main building to reach the curved facade of the opera house facing the Amstel River. I lean against one of the dock posts and watch as the skies darken, the white marble front evolving from a golden sunlit glow into columns of brilliant sapphire, lit by blue artificial lights. Several boats are docked along the waterfront. Beyond them, the river has turned brooding and black. The large windows reveal curved interior foyers and multilevel terraces barren of people.

  Someone’s propped open a few doors and I can hear the faint strains of “Song to the Moon” from Act I. I haven’t missed the first intermission then. The singer’s melancholy voice floats across the water, yearning for love:

  Moon, high and deep in the sky

  You travel around the wide world,

  and see into people’s homes.

  Moon, tell me where is my dear.

  It reminds me of Sylvie. The Autumn Festival, which falls on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month, was always her favorite holiday. She would stand at our window and gaze out at the full moon. I once heard her whisper, “Uncle Moon, come down and have a piece of cake.” She had told me, “When I moved to America from the Netherlands, the moon was the only thing that came with me.” It was one of the few times she spoke about the life she had before I existed. Out here, in the lonely night, the tears run down my cheeks, where no one can see.

  I hear a gong and the crowd of well-dressed people inside begin to approach the doors. It’s time. There are several exit points. I pace back and forth, afraid to miss him, and wonder what I’m doing, confronting a man I think might be involved in my sister’s death. But who could I have brought as backup? The police think I’m being ridiculous and Lukas has disappeared. The sounds of Dutch and laughter drift like a cloud all around me. I stare carefully into each person’s face, hoping to find Filip in the half darkness. There, a bunch of people in black tie walk out of a side door that looks like it could be the exit for the musicians. I circle them, but he is not a part of the group.

  Then I catch sight of a lone cigarette’s glow and recognize Filip at once: his athletic build, the tilt of his head. He stands by himself at the water’s edge on the periphery of the crowd. A raw breeze whips through me and I shiver. People chatter loudly to one another and drink champagne. Would anyone see or hear if he pushed me in the water?

  As I step up to him, he jerks and drops his cigarette. “You startled me.”

  “You owe me an explanation.”

  He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “This is not a good time. I have to go back inside soon.”

  My neck goes stiff and my pulse pounds in my ears. I shove him in the chest, hard, despite the fact that he’s almost a foot taller than me. He stumbles backward. My voice comes out in a furious hiss. “My. Sister. Is. Dead. You lied to me. You must have lied to her. How dare you try to get rid of me now?”

  His eyes flare and his face turns into something hard and furious. He raises his arm as if to strike me and I am suddenly afraid. It’s so dark. I’m sure no one can see us. The waves lap at the dock and the water seems sinister and vast. I step back.

  The anger drains from his face and he presses a fist against his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I am sorry. For everything.”

  I am still trembling and wrap my arms around myself. “W-why did you jump on my bicycle?”

  He stares into the distance, unable to meet my eyes. He scuffs his foot against the ground. “I was back in the village, seeing my folks. I had a concert on Mother’s Day, so I would not be able to go home. I went to give my mother her gift early. I was on my way when I spotted you with Lukas and Estelle outside the café and I understood immediately who you were. So I followed you. Once you started going back to Lukas’s house, it was simple to figure out where I could intercept you, especially since you bike slower than a snail.” A small smile creases his lips at this.

  A sudden gust of wind sweeps my hair forward. I gather it back out of my face impatiently. “But why?”

  He swipes a hand over his face. “I cared about Sylvie. I was hoping you would hire Epsilon. I have no right, but you do because you are a family member. I had suggested them to Lukas, but he would not listen to me. He was still angry over something that happened in Venice. I was afraid if I told you the truth, you would ask Lukas about me and he would stop you. He pretty much went out of his mind when she disappeared. I have never seen him like that, like a beast had taken him over. I think he was in denial that she might be dead.” He throws his hands up.

  I cross my arms and try to make out his expression. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were after we got to know each other a bit? I would have done anything to help Sylvie, including keeping a secret from Lukas.”

  He sighs. “It began with an impulse and then I was caught in the lie. I was trying to find the right moment to tell you, but then—” He breaks off and tugs at his ear.

  There is a moment of awkward silence. I finish for him. “I developed that ridiculous crush on you. I stared at you and called you a sex object and sent you a million texts. You were embarrassed.” My cheeks must glow in the darkness. But it doesn’t matter. I need to figure out what happened to Sylvie. “Why did you and Lukas fight? I mean, what was the real reason?”

  He wraps both arms around his head, an unusually gawky, graceless move for him. “The truth? I was jealous.”

  I furrow my brow and bite my lip, trying to assimilate everything he’s saying. “Because you were afraid Lukas would take Sylvie away from you? Even though
he’s with Estelle?”

  Filip doesn’t answer and covers his face with his hands. He starts to heave. At first, I’m afraid he’s crying, but then I realize he’s laughing, long and bitter.

  I stare at him. Lukas’s crazed grief. How Filip let Lukas hit him over and over again, not lifting a finger to defend himself. “You were never romantically involved with Sylvie.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes still clouded, but not with humor, with pain. His gaze is fixed on me and I understand.

  “You thought that if she was found, he would be able to move on.” He had done it all for Lukas. Filip hadn’t been jealous of Lukas. He’d been jealous of Sylvie. I ask gently, “How long have you been in love with him?”

  His face in the shadows is unspeakably sad. “Forever.”

  I reach out my arms and he goes into them. We hold each other for a long moment. I breathe in his smell of cigarette smoke and Earl Grey tea. I mutter into his shirt, “I just want to make it clear that you were never my type.”

  He breaks into a surprised chuckle. As we separate, we both have tears in our eyes. The air between us feels lighter now, as if a great weight has fallen away.

  There is a thickness in my throat as I ask, “Did you ever tell him? I mean, you’re Dutch, for goodness’ sake. You live in Amsterdam.”

  He rolls his shoulders and blows out a series of short exhales, as if to regain control. “Everyone except Lukas knows. I made it very clear to him once. We were the last ones in the locker room in high school and we’d just gotten out of the showers. He looked so beautiful, with the water crusted on his eyelashes, I just—” Filip breaks off and sighs. He works his jaw. “I made it perfectly obvious how I felt about him and he was horrified.”