Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  I grinned. “I revel in imperfection.” I was learning from Lukas to relax my standards. Then I asked airily, “But what did you mean, coincidental?”

  He was still muttering to himself as he worked but paused to say, “That they knew exactly the right time. Was the jewelry just lying around?”

  “No, I believe it was hidden.” I traced the embroidered velvet of the chair where I sat with my index finger.

  “So they found it quickly too. Sounds like an insider was involved. She is not well, right? Was there some sort of conflict over who would inherit it? Who was she going to leave it to?”

  I fixed my eyes on the upholstery. “Me.” In two seconds, he had made clear every weakness in our plan. I rubbed my hand over my eyes. In two more seconds, he would have figured out the whole thing. I cast about for a change of subject. I pointed to his stand. It was engraved, and I asked abruptly, “Is that a menorah?”

  “Yes. My mother gave that to me. I am surprised you know what it is.”

  “I grew up in New York City. Many of my friends are Jewish.”

  Filip finished tuning my cello and began to play a melancholy piece on it, a low accompaniment to his words. I sensed that talking while playing made it easier for him to share, just as my own pained music somehow eased my mind. “That is quite different from here. Most of us have been killed or left for other countries. The Jewish community here is small and very aware of being survivors. Do you remember that kid Rafael from our class?”

  “The name, yes, but I cannot recall a face.”

  “Well, he used to chase me during our lunch breaks, yelling, ‘You stink, you dirty Jew.’” Filip said this in a sardonic way, as if reciting a story about someone else.

  I recognized a kindred spirit in him. I too could talk as long as I did not need to admit that any of it had ever hurt me. “Fun. Some of the girls used to call me a ‘poop Chinese.’”

  “Oh yes, there was a phase when everyone was saying that on the elementary schoolyard. As we grew older, Lukas got into trouble for fighting too. They would call him a cunt Asian or a fat samurai, as if he were ever overweight.”

  My lips flattened. I did not remember those particular insults. I must have already been gone then and Lukas had endured it alone. So many years I had missed. “It is like people become blind and they just yell things that have no connection to who you are.”

  Filip segued seamlessly into a sharp, fiery melody. His left hand flew from string to string, trembling, as the bow relentlessly sawed against the instrument, cutting the blazing music out of the cello piece by piece. “My grandfather was part Indonesian. During the war, he sat in a camp run by the Japanese and, to the end of his life, would never buy a Japanese car. My grandmother was hidden here in Holland, moved from house to house. She wound up killing herself. My mother found the body.” The bow lifted off the strings with a flourish, and then a soft, lilting refrain began. Nothing to see here, it said. No grief. No rage. Just move on.

  I made my voice as casual as his expression. This, I realized, was what attracted me to him: his need to control all his demons, to wrap them up and confine them neatly in a locked compartment never to be opened. Still, the beasts we tried to tuck away writhed, twisted, and wailed to be free. “It is sad how trauma gets passed down from generation to generation. Helena, my own ma and pa: They taught us to keep our heads low, to hold our secrets as closed as an oyster. Keep ourselves apart from everyone else. At a certain point, you wind up dividing yourself internally into so many different people you do not even know who you are anymore.”

  Filip stopped playing and looked up at me. For once, his eyes were vulnerable and his voice filled with emotion. “That is it exactly. My mother told me everyone was anti-Semitic. Do not stick out your head in case it gets cut off. Never trust anyone outside of the family, while the family itself was, of course, completely untrustworthy. Do not reveal what you are truly feeling or thinking. Never show who you are. She wanted me to become a rabbi.”

  I asked softly, “And now?”

  “She still wants me to become a rabbi.”

  We both chuckled. Then an awkward silence fell over us. He rubbed his jaw and I twisted a loose button on my shirt. When he finally spoke, his tone was brisk. “All right, let us do a call-and-response exercise now.”

  He played D, A, D, A, A and I answered with A, A, A, D, D. As we played, my instrument answering his, I felt as if our cellos were speaking to each other, like we were still communicating, only without words. I had progressed to playing notes and simple melodies. I frowned, concentrating on finding the note with my left hand as my right drew my bow across the string.

  “The cello is difficult because unlike the guitar, it does not have any frets. You must search for the note on the string yourself. But before you can find the note, you must be able to hear it.”

  Filip stepped over to the piano and began to play. It was a simple scale and he sang along in a strong baritone. He indicated with a gesture of his head that I should join him. I got up, stood beside him, and began to sing, our voices merging. He played higher and higher, until the music slipped past his range, then he fell silent as I continued—each note pure and full.

  When I finally stopped, he quirked his lips in a half smile and said, “You can sing.” Was that admiration in his gaze? I thrilled to it. It felt like I had been submerged in a warm bath.

  “A little. My younger sister used to stutter quite badly and sometimes, when she couldn’t get the words out, we would sing together. It calmed her down. Amy is the one with the real talent in the family. Singing is something we share.”

  He nodded in approval. “Well, that is a huge step. Hearing where the notes should be is a great advantage.”

  I shrugged. “Or disadvantage, because, actually, I am hurting myself as much as you when I play so badly. I can hear it in my head and I wish I could put it into my hands. Well, if dogs could pray, it would rain bones.”

  He wrapped his hand around my wrist and my pulse quickened to a drumroll. Could he feel it? Without releasing me, he stood and led me back to my cello. “That is because your shoulders and arms are too tense. Let me do the left-hand fingering.” He straddled my chair behind me and took hold of my cello with his left hand, and wrapped his right around mine on the bow. I was enveloped by his scent, the hard muscles of his chest and thighs, the firm gentle grip of his hands, the faint stubble on his cheek against my temple. His lithe body cradled mine. I closed my eyes and we played together.

  Grandma had been warned to turn off her hearing aids whenever I practiced at the house. As I had known it would, my playing drove Helena insane. This gave me great pleasure. She asked me to practice at Lukas’s apartment, which I only did when she was not at home. I was horrible at something for the first time in my overcontrolled life and I reveled in it. I poured my grief, pain, and ugliness, my misformed eye into my playing. I lost myself in the clumsiness of my fingers, the awkwardness of my body, the peeping, cracking sounds that came from my cello. This was indeed my instrument and it voiced all the rage and frustration that I could not.

  I took off my wedding ring. I had always been too consumed with my ambitions, had never been boy crazy. Yet now there were two new men in my heart. I no longer recognized myself. I always warned Amy, when she fell in love with one guy after another, “You will not find happiness that way. You are just trying to distract yourself.” I never understood why she yearned to find love and affection with strangers when, in my eyes, she already received so much from Ma and Pa. I was such a prude. With Jim, I had started dreaming of our future together almost right away. When I had read fairy tales to Amy, I was the one truly captivated by them. The gods help me, I believed that if I worked my hardest, if I was the best in every class, if I made myself beautiful, I would find someone who would love me like no one else ever had—and I had succeeded with Jim, my affectionate blond prince in tattered jeans. But he had only taught me that in these modern times, the distinction between hero and vill
ain was often in the eye of the beholder. Instead, the spell had been broken in reverse: the kiss had revealed the truth of the frog underlying the prince.

  No, this time, I loved not to remember, not to bring us together into some imagined future, but to forget. What was love but the most potent and addictive of all drugs, more powerful than pills or alcohol? I was still taking more than the recommended allowance of my sleeping pills each day; the habit had made them less effective. And drinking was no use because I found alcohol bitter. It made me feel flushed and itchy, my heart and mind racing like a hunted animal. I longed for peace, sleep, and forgetfulness—so I threw myself into thoughts of Filip and Lukas; they were a barrier holding my memories of Jim at bay.

  I did not dream of a future together. I no longer trusted that rope bridge to hold. Therefore, I did not have to choose. They were from before I became everything I was now, good or bad. They were in both my before and after photos. It was like I had finally come home. It felt like they had a prior claim, a right to me that preceded everyone else, even my husband. Perhaps it was the intensity of knowing my time here was limited, the wonderful safe boundary of the inevitable goodbye. I kept my attraction a secret because I had learned that to do otherwise was to invite the gods to mock you. My relationship with Jim had been a mad rush, out of control and consuming everything in its path, like an avalanche. From the day we met, we had been inseparable. No more of that for me.

  Lukas was forbidden fruit. He was my cousin and my friend, and what would it do to Estelle? When it all went wrong, as it invariably would, I would be left weeping among the ruins of our friendship. Filip was off-limits too, because I was mere sport to him, like the rabbit used as a lure in a race. Once he had exhausted himself, I would be of no more use, if he had not devoured me already. I was using them as a distraction and part of me knew it. But it did not matter. I held on to the images of their faces, their bodies, their hands, their voices.

  None of us acted on our attraction, as if afraid to disturb this tenuous happiness, as fragile as a soap bubble floating upon a surface of water. Love was an asymptote I neared but could never reach, edging ever closer for eternity. This strange triangle of affection was my final chance at happiness and I chose to cling to it with my toes like a tightrope walker balancing above an abyss.

  Dutch Local Newspaper

  NOORD NEDERLANDS DAGBLAD

  Tuesday, 17 May

  This past Saturday, 14 May, the body of an unknown woman was found in the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal in Diemen. She was located inside her rental auto. Her identity has not been confirmed, though sources at the scene report the possibility that the body could belong to Sylvie Lee, a dual Dutch-American citizen, who was reported missing two weeks ago by her family.

  It is believed that the victim might have been under the influence of alcohol and miscalculated the distance to water in her auto.

  Chapter 16

  Amy

  Friday, May 6

  I realize it is much farther to the house than I’d thought, especially when I keep ramming my shins into the pedals of the bike as I walk it. Bicycle after bicycle passes by me. It’s not like in America, where mainly athletic, young people ride as adults. Here in the Netherlands, it seems as though everyone is on a bicycle, from tiny toddlers to the decrepit senior citizens you’d think could barely walk. The bike lanes have their own traffic lights. At an intersection, I spot a woman on a huge chestnut horse, peering at what appears to be a traffic light set high on the pole for equestrians. A man rides by with a crate of beer loaded onto the back of his bike and shopping bags hanging from both of his handlebars. Steering without hands, a teenage girl cruises with her arms at her sides, listening to music through her earbuds.

  She seems so relaxed I decide to give my bruised shins a break and ride my borrowed bicycle the rest of the way. It goes pretty well until a pimply kid passes by, turns his head, and winks at me. He’s completely turned around on his bike, jerking his eyebrows suggestively and pursing his thick lips into kisses. He seems to be doing just fine without looking where he’s going, but I’m thoroughly distracted by this. He looks about thirteen and I wonder how old he thinks I am. I’m surprised by the attention, but I suppose I’m a rarity here. I stick out, in both good and bad ways. He obviously believes everyone can bike like the Dutch. I can hardly manage to steer and swerve as a car comes too close, honking at me.

  Thankfully, this surprises lover boy enough that he turns around and soon disappears into the distance. I am passing a crowd of people, all standing around, drinking and laughing by a café, when, to my shock, another guy launches himself onto the baggage rack of my bike so he’s sitting behind me. What is it with Dutch men and bicycles? He is enormous and the extra weight unbalances me. We swing like crazy. Luckily, the road is empty of cars at the moment.

  “Hoi!” he says cheerily, and then a bunch of nonsense words I can’t understand.

  “I don’t speak Dutch!” To my horror, we are heading straight for the edge of the canal, which is not secured by any type of guardrail. If this were the U.S., someone would drown there every five minutes, but in Europe they seem to believe that if you’re dumb, you deserve to die so you don’t pass your genes on to the next generation.

  We both holler. I brace for the impact, tell myself that at least I can swim, when the stranger reaches past me to jerk the handlebars with one hand. He manages to crash us into the trunk of a large tree planted on the bank of the canal. We fly off the bike as we impact.

  We are piled together—me, the man, the poor bicycle—and my rib aches where the handlebar grip struck me when we fell.

  “W-what were you thinking?” I sputter.

  He shakes his head, dazed, and gets to his feet, collecting his leather messenger bag as he does so. He offers me a hand, which I refuse. He then says in excellent English, “I did not realize you were not Dutch.” And can’t ride a bicycle properly. I hear the words he didn’t say as clearly as if he’d spoken them out loud.

  I brace myself on the fallen bicycle as I stand, still shaken. “Even if I were Dutch, why in the world would you throw yourself onto the back of someone’s bike?”

  He gives a short little cough and busies himself picking up my bike and fixing the stem of the handlebars. Despite my anger, I notice his fine shoulders, and how his wavy brown hair gleams in the sunlight and that he has a very nice profile. “Ah, it is sort of a custom here. I had a few beers with lunch and I changed back to my student days when I saw you.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Well, you see a pretty girl go by, you jump on the back. I just wanted to come along.” He shoots me a hopeful look that manages to seem both self-mocking and charming.

  I am speechless. This man thinks I’m attractive. The wind whips my hair in my eyes. I brush it away and take a good look at him. He is probably a bit older than me, closer to Sylvie’s age. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a button-down shirt and his jeans fit snugly over his long legs. But more, there is vulnerability and trepidation in his sensitive face, as if he’s taking a great gamble by standing here, talking to me like this, but he’s risking it anyway.

  “I am very sorry about the bike and the crash and the possible swim and all that. At least your bicycle appears undamaged. Could I possibly take you out for coffee to make up for it?”

  I want to go, very much. But I have been brought up in New York City. In fact, I have never spoken to a stranger to this extent before today. Serial killers abound. What would Ma or Sylvie say?

  He reads my answer on my face. “Okay, I understand. Never go out with a man you do not know and all that.” He rummages in his bag and pulls out a crumpled flyer. “Well, I happen to be giving a free lunch concert tomorrow at the Noorderkerk in Amsterdam. There will be many other people there to keep you safe if you should want to come. And there is a nice farmer’s market outside on Saturdays.”

  The flyer is in Dutch but I can read the words J.S. Bach, Zes suites. “Are you a musician?”r />
  He inclines his head. “I’m a cellist. My name is Filip.”

  Part 4

  Chapter 17

  Amy

  Saturday, May 7

  I float in a haze. Did the handsome cellist really invite me to see him today? I find his full name on the Bach Cello Suites flyer and, after Googling him on the laptop Sylvie gave me, now know everything about him. Is there anything I own that wasn’t given to me by my sister? I can hear her now: Slow down, Amy. You don’t even know him yet. It’s not possible to fall in love six times a year. I’m not that bad. I just enjoy liking guys. It’s my hobby. Each man is a potential doorway leading me out of my boring life and into theirs. Most of the time, I don’t manage to speak to them much, let alone have them take a real interest in me. It’s more about the fantasy. With the help of online translating programs, I learn that Filip (such an elegant and European name) is an established cellist with the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra—so definitely not a serial killer.

  Sylvie. Is it wrong to spend my time going to a concert? How can I like a guy while she’s still missing? What is wrong with me? But there’s nothing I can do until Monday, when I can contact the police again. The stress of waiting has caused a constant ache in my shoulders and neck, and I can barely eat or rest. I sleep and wake with a weight upon my soul. I need a distraction from it all, even just for a morning. I could go listen to a concert given by a gorgeous musician—and the Bach Cello Suites are some of my favorite pieces. Even if Filip isn’t actually interested in me—and I’m sure he’s not—I can enjoy the music if nothing else. It might help clear my mind.

  I study how to get to the Noorderkerk in Amsterdam by public transportation. A train, closely related to the subway, is something I trust and understand. It’s surprisingly easy since the map program shows me exactly when and where the train arrives and Helena has given me an OV-chipcard, which I can use for any type of mass transit. I’m scared but excited too. I’m not telling Helena, Willem, or Lukas. If they’re anything like Ma and Pa, there would be an interrogation and they would probably send Lukas along to make sure Filip isn’t a murderer. Living at home, I’ve only managed a few dates under Pa’s watchful eye, a bare minimum of a love life.