by Alison Ryan
As I got closer to my dorm, I saw him. My father, in a crisp suit, his salt and pepper hair slightly tousled from his nervous habit of running his hands through it. I could see other girls walking by and staring at him. My father was a handsome man, tall and formidable, with a presence that commanded attention and respect. But he was a sweet man, and despite his lack of direct involvement in my life, I knew he was good.
I also knew there were things that kept him from me that he wouldn’t share. I used to think he might have another family somewhere. I’d never asked him, of course. I never asked questions I didn’t want to know the answers to.
“Dad!” I said, a broad smile across my face. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s your sweet sixteen,” he said, as if I should just know.
“Yeah but I didn’t know you were coming,” I said. “It doesn’t matter! I’m so happy you’re here.”
I threw my arms around him, something that wasn’t easy to do with his height. I had inherited my mother’s stature and figure. I was average height, and curvy- something I hated about myself. I’d had to wear a woman’s sized bra since sixth grade. I’d never been quite comfortable in my own skin. I’d always wished I could be more like him, long, and lean. Confident. Like I owned the universe.
“Well, it’s not a surprise if you know about it,” he said, holding onto me tight. “I missed you, Camilla.”
It was one of the best hugs of my life.
“So what are we going to do?” I asked. “Go to dinner? Go into the city?”
On the rare occasion my father visited, we usually made a weekend of it. We’d drive to Boston or down to New York; have a huge dinner and see a show if we were in New York or go to a Celtics or Red Sox game in Boston, depending on the season.
“I have something bigger in store,” he said. “You have your passport?”
I looked at him, stunned.
“Yes,” I said. “But school…”
Dad grinned, “I made arrangements. You don’t have to be back until Wednesday. So let’s go on a really great adventure this time. You only turn sixteen once, right?”
I nodded and started jumping up and down, clapping my hands, the way only teenage girls seem to. I tried to be poised and reserved most of the time, but this was all too much. I was overwhelmed with joy.
“How long will it take you to pack?” he asked as we walked back toward my dormitory. “Because I’ve made some pretty unique arrangements for our travel.”
“I can throw all my stuff in a suitcase and be packed in… 15 minutes?” I said, hoping that would be enough time since I wasn’t sure if I would even be able to manage that.
“That works,” he said, giving me a wink. “Now hurry up, sweetheart. The sooner you’re packed, the sooner it all begins.”
********
I’d never left the country before, unless you counted a trip to Niagara Falls with my freshman class in which we briefly crossed over into Canada, I think mostly for the benefits of the “normals” at Choate, kids like me who didn’t go globetrotting every summer break. As I threw every decent outfit I had into my suitcase, my mind raced with all the possibilities. Not only was I getting to leave school for almost an entire week, but I was doing it with my dad. It was something I saw other kids do all the time. I’d envied them, even though most of them would roll their eyes anytime their parents came near them. If only they knew how lucky they were.
I finally stuffed my suitcase to its breaking point; I’d had to sit on it to make it zip closed. I glanced in the mirror above my dresser. My skin was flushed, my long brown hair a wild mane of curls and waves. It was the first time I noticed that I was at least half pretty. I’d mostly avoided mirrors since puberty when my body began to betray me. But now it seemed most things had caught up to one another and I had to admit, I didn’t look half bad. Maybe I’d meet a cute foreign boy and have my first make out session. Who knew what awaited me?
When I walked outside my dorm to meet up with my father, I awkwardly lugged my overstuffed luggage behind me. I noticed kids were gathered outside staring at something. I looked around to see what fuss was about.
I heard it before I saw it. I thought it was the sound of a plane at first, but it was too loud for that; whatever it was, was closer than any plane could be. The trees around Memorial Hall whipped around in a frenzy. My father was waving to me with both arms in the middle of the green field in front of Memorial, a gigantic smile on his face.
“Is that a fucking helicopter?” A boy a few feet away from me asked his friend. “Someone’s getting picked up in a heli?”
I looked up, and sure enough there was a helicopter landing in the middle of the lawn in front of my dorm. For a moment, I wondered who it was for. But as my father continued to wave to me and yell out my name, it suddenly dawned on me.
The helicopter was for me.
“Holy hell,” I muttered, somehow making my legs move forward toward the waiting chopper. “My father brought in a helicopter.”
“You mean that’s for you?” A girl I recognized from my English Honors class was standing next to me. She was one of the intimidating ones- her mother was a famous television actress and her father owned an NFL team. She’d never spoken or acknowledged me, even having been in at least three or four of my classes over the years.
“Yep,” I said, trying to sound cavalier and bored with the whole thing. “My dad’s here for the weekend. We’re flying to Europe.” I had no idea if this was true yet, but what did it matter?
“Wow,” she said, clearly impressed. “I had no idea. Have fun.”
“Sure,” I said, walking past her toward my adventure. “I always do.”
********
“Since when do you own a helicopter?” I asked when we finally landed in New York. It had been almost impossible to talk in the “heli,” even with headphones. It was loud and I was still speechless and in awe that I’d just been picked up in front of the entire school in a Bell 430.
“I don’t,” Dad said. “The firm uses it sometimes. But I was owed a favor and I wanted you to make a grand exit.” He looked at me, serious for a moment. “I know sometimes that kind of thing can help at a school like Choate.”
That’s what I loved about my father. He knew a lot about how the world worked, even without me having to tell him. Most parents were so clueless.
“It was pretty cool,” I said. “Where to now?”
“Austria,” he said. Nothing else. He walked ahead of me, leaving me to ponder what was next.
********
A couple hours later we were gliding above the Atlantic Ocean in a Gulfstream jet, my father punching the keys on his laptop as I sat next to the window in a soft leather seat, a Diet Coke in my hand. I couldn’t remember the last time I was ever this happy.
“Sorry, I have a little bit of work to do before we get to Vienna,” he said. “I promise, no work once we’re there. We’re going to see everything.”
And we did. We landed a few hours later and were picked up in a sleek, black SUV which took us to The Ritz Carlton. We napped and then had dinner at Steirereck.
It was the most amazing meal of my short life; so many different dishes. There was hearty goulash, plates of tafelspitz (beef), all kinds of strudels, and then desserts I’d never even dreamed could exist. The menu was completely in German, but my father seemed to understand and speak it as fluently as if he were Austrian himself. He confidently ordered for us and I sat in complete admiration of my cosmopolitan father who didn’t seem to be a stranger to any place he walked into.
After my third strudel, and a glass of wine (“Being that it’s legal here for you to drink, you may have one glass,” my father had said.), I felt loosened up enough to talk more openly with my father, to ask him things I’d rarely had the chance to before.
My father was the ultimate unexplored frontier for me. I knew very little about him, other than the essentials. He was an only child, born on Long Island. He’d been the son of wealth
y parents, grandparents I’d never met, and he’d gone to boarding school too, but at Groton. He’d gone to NYU for undergrad and Columbia for law school, where he’d met my mother. They’d had me a year after meeting, to the day. They never married, but they were always together, until one day my father left and didn’t come back for four years. My mother was devastated; she only knew he was alive because he sent money every month from places all over the world. She assumed it was an affair, another woman. But that was all she knew; one day he loved her, the next day he didn’t.
Something happened when I was seven that changed her, something to do with my father, but I never knew what it was. She stopped being angry with him and instead just became scared for him, for me, and terrified of the world in general. She kept me home for school, had tutors come to teach me my lessons. Part of me always assumed it was when the cancer must have started. It had made her ill, made her not think about things rationally. But that was all speculation on my part. I knew very little about her, something I realized once she was gone. It made me sad how little I knew the people who made me. Not knowing who they were meant I didn’t completely know who I was either.
But on my sixteenth birthday, at a beautiful restaurant in Vienna, I finally had my chance (and the courage) to ask my father more about himself.
“How do you know German?” I asked, as he bit into his pastry. He smiled as he chewed.
“Picked it up in college,” he said. “I’m good with languages. Have a knack for them, I suppose. And German is not so terribly different from English in many ways. Well, the basic words anyway. Here in Vienna there’s a Bavarian dialect…”
He started going on and on about language and the differences between all the different German dialects and I quickly grew bored, realizing he’d done what he always did when it came to me getting personal- he’d changed the subject.
After dinner we took a car down to the famous Vienna State Opera House to watch the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, which I knew I should be stoked about, but it meant I wouldn’t get to talk to my father, which was the only thing I was interested in doing. I knew after this trip I probably wouldn’t see him for a while, so I wanted to take advantage of all the time we had.
That night when we finally got home, we were both too exhausted to socialize. We retired to our rooms, but not before my Dad came over to give me a peck on the cheek and a long hug goodnight.
“Camilla, I’m so happy,” he said, as he squeezed me tight. “This was one of the best days of my life.”
My heart swelled and my prior agitations were forgotten immediately.
“Me too, Dad,” I said. “I love you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my darling girl,” he said. “I love you always.”
********
The next morning, after a delicious breakfast in the grand living room of our suite, my father informed me we were heading to Salzburg.
“What’s there?” I asked. “I feel like we still have so much to see here in Vienna.”
“Oh we could be here a month and never see all there is to see in this beautiful country,” Dad said as he sipped his coffee. “But we have such little time, so for this trip, we’re hitting my favorite places. And one day we’ll come back and explore Vienna even more. I promise.”
I smiled. I loved knowing there was more to look forward to in the future.
“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good to me.”
“Salzburg is a beautiful place,” he said. “I have someone there I need to meet with briefly, but you can come with me. It’s one of our new partners at the firm. He happens to be staying in Salzburg this week, so I thought I would multitask.”
“Alright,” I said. “But only a short meet up. I’m pulling the daughter card on you. I get dibs!”
He laughed, “Always, Camilla. You’ll always be first in my heart.”
********
My father wasn’t kidding. Salzburg was the most beautiful city I had ever seen. We took a train there from Vienna, and the Alps had whirled by my window, making my jaw drop at their beauty. I still couldn’t believe I was in a land that looked like the setting of every fairy tale I’d ever read as a kid. And I was with my father. It was like one of my best dreams, the kind I never wanted to wake up from.
Our first day was spent walking around the city. It had been the setting for The Sound of Music, my favorite movie as a kid, so I pretended to be one of the Von Trapp kids, marching around town, singing out of tune as my father laughed at my silliness.
There were castles! Stunning cathedrals. And the backdrop of breath-taking mountains. I never wanted to leave. Ever.
On our last day in town before taking the plane back to the US and the dreariness that was Choate, my father had the meeting he’d been talking about.
“It won’t be long,” he said. “And it ties into the little tour I want to take you on.”
“Where to now?” I asked, yawning. I was tired. I also still felt like I hadn’t broken through the fortress that was my father; I hadn’t learned enough about him. He kept us busy, and part of me felt that was purposeful. It didn’t leave me much time to ask questions.
Dad smiled, “Mozart. You’ve heard of him?”
I laughed, “Uh, yeah, Dad. I’ve definitely heard of him.”
He winked, “Just making sure your tuition isn’t a complete waste of money. Well, we’re going to visit his birthplace. He was born here in Salzburg. He’s buried in Vienna, but he spent much of his life here. All the beauty you’ve been surrounded by the last couple days is what inspired him to make the genius that is his music.”
I sighed. Not that I didn’t appreciate the brilliance and virtuosity of Mozart, but it felt like I was on a school field trip. I didn’t want to learn more about Mozart. I wanted to learn more about my dad.
But my father wasn’t someone I felt comfortable whining to. That sort of behavior was beneath him, something I was sure he’d look down upon. And I didn’t want to disappoint him. I suppose I can look back now and realize I was just afraid to displease him; afraid he’d stop visiting me if I wasn’t pleasant to be around at all times.
So to Mozart’s home we went.
“Who are you meeting today?” I asked as we drove across town in a limo provided by the hotel. “Someone from work?”
“Yes,” my father said. “He’s new to the firm. He’s in Salzburg visiting a client, but he’ll be on a new assignment soon and I need to touch base with him.”
“What kind of an assignment would an attorney have?” I said. “Don’t you guys just write briefs all day and bark into your cell phone?” I grinned at him.
He laughed, “Well, we do those things, too. But my firm is global, so we have clients all over the world. So sometimes we have to visit them. And as the founder of the firm, I like to get to know our new attorneys.”
“I see,” I said, already bored. “Sounds great.”
Dad looked at me, sensing I was agitated, “It won’t be long, sweetheart. I promise.”
********
Mozart’s home was also a museum, so while my father stood outside to talk to his new guy, I wandered around the halls of what had once been Mozart’s home, thinking about how cool it was to literally be walking in the footsteps of one of the greatest musicians and famous people in the history of the world.
At one point I glanced out the window to see the man my father was speaking to. I had to admit, the new guy was pretty hot. My friend Landen would have called him “GQ as fuck!” He was tall, dark hair, a rugged face. He was in a black pea coat, dark slacks, his hair slicked back. He was debonair and didn’t look like an attorney. I’d pictured a doughy man with glasses and a brief case when I thought attorney. This man could have been a model. He was also incredibly intense. He was listening to my father speak, his gaze laser focused on whatever he was saying. I would have guessed he was probably about thirty. Maybe younger, maybe older. It was hard for me to guess men’s ages. Besides, I only paid attention to guys my own age.
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But this one was hard not to look at. Or imagine certain scenarios with…
I turned away from the window and wandered around some more. I had stopped to look at Mozart’s childhood violin when my father joined me, finally. They’d been speaking for over half an hour.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and kissed my head. “Took a little longer than I thought it would.”
“Is all okay?” I asked.
“Oh yes. All is well,” he said, smiling. But there was something in his eyes that told me different.
“Handsome guy, your new guy,” I said as we walked toward the next exhibit. “Sorry, I had to take a peek.”
My father laughed, “Oh Lord, Camilla. You sounded so grown up just now. Don’t grow up on me too fast.”
We walked around some more but I was growing bored, and my father seemed distracted by something.
“So why bring me here?” I finally asked him. “I know there’s a lesson in everything we do.”
Dad nodded, “Yes. Very true. Well, I’m a big fan of Wolfgang. You know, he was born to a musician. His father, Leopold. From the time Mozart existed, his destiny was laid out before him. Yes, he was a genius, but to be immersed in something is to make it anything but a choice. Mozart was composing at 4 years old. He went on tours by 6 years old. His genius is undeniable, but it’s always made me sad in a way, how he was never given a chance to pursue anything else.” My father’s face grew sad for a moment.
