Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

  Lukas pulled me closer and rested his cheek against my hair. Though Estelle chattered away and Filip seemed to be asleep, I realized they were both watching us: Estelle out of the corner of her eye and Filip from under half-closed lids. My face, neck, and ears began to feel hot. I stretched and pulled myself out of Lukas’s arms. At his surprised glance, I shrugged a little and sat up straighter, putting some distance between us.

  When the singer took a break, Filip spoke to him in fluent Italian.

  Lukas turned to me and mouthed, Show-off.

  Estelle knocked her loafer against Filip’s shoe. “Okay, we are impressed enough. You may stop now.”

  Filip looked at us for a moment. “I had a good Italian friend once.” Then he said something to the singer that made the man throw back his head with laughter.

  Estelle gave me a look and pointed at our gondolier. I turned to find him taking a selfie with his mobile. Filip caught the gondolier’s eye and blew him a deliberate kiss. The man blushed and almost dropped his phone.

  I chuckled and Estelle leaned forward. “You should smile more, Sylvie. It suits you.”

  I stared out at the water and wondered what it was that Estelle saw in my face most of the time.

  That evening, we went out for dinner at a restaurant that specialized in Venetian delights. We sat underneath red umbrellas on an outdoor terrace on top of the canal, surrounded by water. The meal was my treat, of course, a custom that had tripped me up when I first moved to the States. For the Dutch, it was customary for the birthday person to take out everyone else, while in America, this was reversed.

  Estelle, as organized and practical as ever, told the restaurant about my seafood allergy, then took the seat beside me, and we all toasted with a bottle of prosecco.

  I leaned my elbows on the table, entwined my fingers, and rested my chin on my hands. I cocked my head at Estelle, so lovely, independent, and uninhibited. Everything I wanted to be. “You have come so far. A female pilot. Was it hard for you?”

  She twirled a finger around the rim of her glass. “You have no idea.”

  Filip scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, it is so difficult to be the only woman in the cockpit with all those men in uniform. Come up, you know you love the attention.”

  She grinned and took a big sip of her drink. “It is nice sometimes. Like when we fly to Africa and go out at night, they all watch out for me. But then my copilot will knock on my door and ask for sex, and if I say no, he tells everyone I am a shitty pilot. Men have come right out and said to me that this is no job for a woman.”

  “Well, it is not a great career if you want a family.” A passing gust of wind ruffled Lukas’s hair as he spoke.

  Our food came then and everyone was silent as we admired our meals, inhaled the rich aromas, and shook out our napkins.

  Estelle had ordered scallops with wild fennel. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before she answered. “True. If you are a woman who wants house, tree, and pet, then being a pilot is not for you, unless you can find some nice man to be your house husband.” She wrinkled her nose at Lukas, who grinned. Had they talked about this? Stop it, Sylvie. It was none of my business.

  I took a bite of my tagliatelle with artichokes and pecorino and sighed; the sharpness of the cheese highlighted the silkiness of the pasta. “This is so good, as delicious as an angel peeing on your tongue.”

  The others murmured their agreement.

  “But I can imagine it is not easy for you sometimes,” I pressed.

  Estelle’s usually expressive face grew still and she dropped her breezy facade for a moment. “Everyone always thinks I am a flight attendant. The airlines are saying how they would love to hire more female pilots but the truth is, there are no laws regulating it and they would rather have a man. When I took the exam for my commercial license, the examiner opened the door and he said to me, ‘Oh, you are a woman. Do you know what color the sky is?’ Ha ha. I showed him how good I was. But I cannot imagine it was all smooth sailing for you either, Sylvie.” In her face, I could see that she remembered how homely I had been, how awkward and isolated.

  I emptied my glass and held it out for Filip to refill. How much should I tell her? Years of habitual silence seemed to block my lips, but the lapping of the waves, the warm haven created by the candlelight, the full moon hanging like a ripe fruit over us, and their sympathetic faces made me reconsider.

  “You want a bite?” Filip asked, pushing his plate of squid ink linguini at me.

  I held up my hand in refusal. “Allergic, remember? I do not want to go to the hospital on my birthday.” I turned to Estelle, who was tilted back in her chair, cradling her glass in her hands. I had held so much inside with Jim and look at where that got me. A new Sylvie would be born in Venice. “It is still difficult, actually. My engagement manager on my last project said to me, ‘I admire you people so much. I mean, Chinese immigrants.’”

  Filip shook his head ruefully. “Not a compliment.”

  “The next thing is, ‘You people are ruining our economy’ or ‘You people smell.’” Lukas pushed his salted codfish around his plate.

  I remembered the teacher in my New York elementary school who sometimes called me Miss Ching Chong. “I think that wherever you are, to live in the world as a white person is a completely different experience than a person of color. Discrimination is invisible to them because it does not affect them. They are truly shocked.”

  “Or if you are a woman or gay,” Filip added, tapping his finger against the tabletop.

  The waiter appeared then to take our dessert orders. Filip asked, “Shall I just do it?” and we all nodded. He glanced at the menu and fired off a stream of rapid Italian.

  After the waiter left, Filip leaned back and crossed his legs. “You know, there was this yellow-face character on TV for many years. It was after you left.”

  “I heard of it.” I had read Dutch news all the time I was gone. “Was there not also a film?”

  Lukas cupped his hands around the candle on the table. The light played across his straight nose, his high cheekbones. “Yes, a white woman dressed as an Asian who spoke terrible English and said embarrassing things to international celebrities. There is a kind of naiveté here. Or you could call it ignorance. Maybe the Asians simply do not protest enough.”

  Dessert came then, plates filled with crumbly zaeti cookies, ciambelle ring doughnuts, a pie of amaretti biscuits and almonds, and fried sweet Venetian dumplings.

  I took a bite of one of the ciambelle and said, “In the U.S., people may be racist, but at least they are usually aware that it is wrong.”

  Estelle said, popping one of the dumplings into her mouth, “Sometimes I think that because we Dutch believe we are so emancipated, we become blind to the faults in ourselves.”

  Filip tilted his head to the side and looked at me with his clear blue eyes. “So how goes it with this engagement manager of yours?”

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself, New Sylvie. “Actually, he got me fired.”

  Lukas froze with his zaeti cookie halfway to his plate. Estelle reached out and took my hand in hers. “What? Oh, little darling. What happened?”

  I could not meet their eyes. “He had wanted to get rid of me for a while—after I made it clear I was not interested in fun and games with him in bed. So when I was foolish enough to give him an excuse, he did.” I hunched my shoulders. I was a failure at everything. What must they think of me now?

  Lukas tilted up my chin in his hands. His face was blurry. I blinked to clear my eyes as he said, “It was not your fault.”

  I gave a choked laugh and brought a shaky hand to my cheek. “He was not the only one who wanted me gone. I do not really have friends back home.” My throat felt thick, as if I were having an allergic attack.

  Estelle gave me an incredulous look. “How can you say that? Why not?”

  “People use me for my connections, and the ones who do not, stay away.” I hugged my shoulders, my chin resti
ng on my neck. I suddenly felt chilled.

  Lukas asked, eyes fixed on me, “Why is that?”

  It hurt to admit everything, but it felt good too. No more hiding. “It is my fault. I keep them at a distance. I am cold and unfeeling. I always have to play first violin.”

  Filip smiled and pretended to shudder at the idea of me playing any instrument, then picked up my hand from across the little table and pressed a warm kiss onto it. “Ridiculous. You are not that bossy. Remember, high trees are attacked by strong winds.”

  Estelle wrapped her arm around me. “I have the solution: Do not go back, Sylvie. Stay here with us.”

  I hugged her and looked across the table at the two men: Filip, with his elegant eyebrows arched in challenge, and Lukas, with his heart in his eyes. Stay.

  Later, when we tried to cross Piazza San Marco to return to our hotel, I was amazed to find it under at least ten inches of flooding, the lights that hung from every archway now reflected in the glistening water. The enormous square had become a sea, with no dry spots anywhere. Some tourists wore plastic sheeting on their feet and legs while others waded barefoot. A few reclined in the partially submerged metal and bamboo chairs that had been set out earlier for dining, their shoes dangling from the armrests.

  “What happened?” I asked, breathless at the transformation.

  Estelle said, “Acqua alta. Occurs during certain phases of the moon when tides are strong.”

  “You knew this was possible?” said Lukas, swatting her on the arm. “And you did not warn us?”

  Estelle opened her black leather shopping tote and pulled out a pair of rubber boots encased in a thin plastic bag.

  “Incredible,” said Filip with a bark of laughter.

  “You kept boots in your Prada bag?” I said, wide-eyed. I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Bought these rain-shoes for an apple and an egg at the HEMA, only ten euros,” she said happily, pulling off her Rockstud ballerinas and slipping them into the plastic bag she had used for the boots.

  Lukas sighed. “In the land of the blind, she with one eye is queen.”

  She pulled on the khaki rain boots. I looked down at my champagne satin mules, my blue linen wide-leg pants. They would be ruined by the water.

  “I would have mentioned it to you,” Estelle said, “but I knew you could not fit anything in your little knot clutch anyway. I love it, by the way. That woven silk is so cute.”

  Estelle began to wade across the plaza. I took a breath and was about to plunge in behind her when Lukas stopped me with a touch on the shoulder.

  “Please allow me to carry you,” he said, his head haloed by the street lamp behind him. He stood there, broad and handsome, holding out his hand in invitation, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  But before I could step into his embrace, Filip swooped me up from behind. I clung to his neck, laughing, as he twirled in circles until the world spun and I was dizzy and gasping. Then he strode across the dark water of the square, his strong arms holding me tight, while Lukas was left behind.

  By the next morning, the floodwater had drained away as if it had never been there. This was our last full day in Venice. We tried to purchase tickets for a concert that evening, but the only showing available was performed by musicians in period costumes.

  Filip pretended to stick his finger down his throat. “I refuse to see this Punch and Judy show.”

  “‘Masquerade dinner and dancing beforehand,’” Estelle read from the brochure. “‘Masks required.’”

  “Can you say ‘tourist trap’?” Filip said.

  “I think it sounds fun,” I said, peering over her shoulder. “And are not we shopping for gifts and souvenirs anyway today?”

  To appease Filip, we first visited the renowned opera house Teatro La Fenice. We decided to follow the audio tour, but at some point Estelle and Lukas disappeared and I found myself growing bored. Instead, I followed Filip around. His face was aglow, his grumbling manner entirely dissipated.

  “It is amazing to be here,” he said. “Monteverdi was hired as choirmaster. La Traviata and Rigoletto premiered here. Rossini, Bellini.”

  By this point, we had climbed the stairs and could hear music coming from the stage below. The door was ajar and we peeked through to find one of the central opera boxes, half-filled with tourists watching a rehearsal in progress. We squeezed into two empty seats. At first, I was too astounded by the beauty of the theater to notice the opera. The room glowed with elaborate golden moldings and paintings beneath a huge chandelier.

  The woman on the minimalistic set was dressed in a simple all-black shirt-and-pants combination with stiletto heels, which I could tell were Louboutins from their signature red soles. The two male singers wore bathrobes and slippers. I could not tell if they were in costume because this was a modern opera or if these were their normal clothes. When they sang, the music reverberated inside my soul.

  As we left to rejoin Lukas and Estelle, I said, “I think I follow now.”

  “What?”

  “Music. My sister, Amy, lives for it. I never truly understood before.” I traced a finger along the wall as we passed.

  We started down the elaborate staircase and Filip took my elbow. “Watch your step. And what have you learned?”

  “That it can express something beyond words, beyond logic and rational thought.”

  “The first time I heard the cello, I felt recognized. Like the music was greeting something inside of me, something no one else could see.” He slung his arm around my shoulder in a loose hug.

  It was unusual for Filip to be this open about something that mattered to him. I reached up to give his hand an affectionate squeeze, then gazed down the stairs to find Lukas staring up at us. Estelle was busy checking her phone at his side. His face was tight. He sent me such a long, pained look that I tried to edge away from Filip, who only tightened his grip.

  “Where have you guys been?” asked Lukas, his tone casual despite the strain around his lips.

  “We were lost,” answered Filip with a satisfied smile. “But now we have been found again.”

  We headed over to the Ponte di Rialto to do some shopping at the little stands and boutiques on both sides of the Grand Canal. My legs ached by the time we arrived. I had not realized that all of the charming arched bridges in Venice were composed of steps, like staircases. Tourists everywhere huffed and puffed to haul their heavy luggage to their hotels.

  Estelle and I wandered arm in arm through the elaborate crowded market, licking our dripping gelati. I noticed a shop window near us was filled with masks and carnival costumes. Inside, artisans were hard at work.

  “A real mask maker,” I said. “We could all find something.”

  “It is hard to catch hares with unwilling dogs,” Filip said.

  Estelle grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the store. Lukas followed meekly. We watched an artist paint details on a full-faced harlequin before Estelle and I started trying on eye masks. She bought one made of velour and embroidered with swirls of green and silver flowers. Mine was covered in gold leaf and macramé lace; a plume of black feathers embellished the forehead. For Amy, I purchased a delicate laser-cut black metal filigree decorated with crystals. Meanwhile Filip and Lukas were laughing their heads off, trying on different looks. Finally, Filip chose a half face in silver leaf and Lukas a full face red-and-black Japanese-style Kabuki mask.

  In a boutique selling authentic Murano glass, I purchased a bright green watch for Ma—its large round face edged in tiny beads—and, for Grandma, found a white-gold keychain with a dangling Sommerso key. Streams of amber blue flowed through the glass. I was at a loss to find a present for Pa but then Lukas showed me a Solingen pocketknife with an engraving of the Venetian winged lion. I could not wait to give my family their gifts.

  That evening at the masquerade dinner, a white-faced mime drifted from table to table, resorting to speaking when he failed to sell his roses through gesture alone. The flower
s were everywhere, on the tables, braided into the canopy, their heady sweet scent filling the air. The music from the live band drifted over the cobblestones as masked couples, drunk on wine and anonymity, fondled each other in dark corners. At the table next to ours, a man in a white diamond skull mask dipped his fingers in red wine and let his female companion wearing a bronze Egyptian cat face lick them off, one by one. A woman in a glittering ball gown and elaborate sun-goddess headdress twirled around the dance floor with a man in a plague-doctor mask, his long beaklike nose buried in the feathers of her hair.

  When Estelle asked me to dance, I shook my head. She seemed to remember the last time, giggled, and tried to pull Lukas to his feet instead. He too refused, leaving Filip, who gave me a lingering glance as he and Estelle left the table, his eyes gleaming behind the silver mask, his sensual mouth quirked in a half smile.

  Without a word, Lukas’s hand found mine underneath the table. He stood and led me to the shadowy area behind the musician’s stand, and pulled me close. As I swayed in his arms, the night seemed to be a hallucination: the masked dancers, the eerie labyrinth of streets that led away from the small square, the soft glow of lamps creating our own universe. I could not see his face through his mask and knew mine was hidden as well. Glimpses of flesh served as my guide: a flash of his eyes, the underside of his jaw, the column of his neck. As I turned beneath his arm, the feathers on my mask brushed against his sleeve. Then he was leading me into a darkened alleyway—and my back was against the brick wall, his hands cupped around my head, his fingers caressing the hollows of my neck. I was breathing quickly. He towered over me. His mask hid him from my sight.

  “Sylvie,” he breathed. His voice was filled with heat and sweetness. “This is making me insane.”

  He pushed his mask to the top of his head and then he was kissing me, his lips warm, demanding. I entwined my fingers in the silky mass of his hair as I had wanted to for so long. My mouth opened to his, and he half lifted me off the ground, pressing me against his supple body. The kiss felt like an edge we had tumbled off and we were falling, falling. His hands, callused and long-fingered, caressed my skin, pushed the straps of my top off my shoulders. His eyes were dark with desire, urgency, and claimed my own. I still wore my mask and felt like I was swimming in honey; there was nothing but feeling. I was drowning in it, with my last chance, my only one.