Searching for Sylvie Lee (23 page)

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.

This is the new, independent Amy. I hear Sylvie’s voice in my head—
Just go, you’ll be fine
. I pull myself together. I put in my contact lenses and apply a tiny bit of makeup. There are new and unexpected dangers in this country, like flirtatious Dutch men on bicycles. I can no longer afford a fog of blurriness, not while Sylvie needs me at full capacity.

I go downstairs and call out to Helena and Willem, who sip coffee as they work on their paperwork at the dining room table. I tell them I’m heading out to explore Amsterdam. They don’t seem surprised or alarmed. Don’t they realize I’m not Dutch and could get lost forever?

The train station is quite close to their house so I don’t have to take the bicycle, thank goodness. The weather has changed again and now feels like spring. I love the smell of fresh-cut grass. The wind is warm and playful today, tousling my hair with caressing fingers, though the sky is edged with a hint of darkness. Even the people I pass on the street seem to be smiling—that is, until they see me. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a stranger, or Chinese, or because of the way I avert my face to avoid eye contact, a necessary habit learned in New York, where hustlers and aggressive men lurk.

At the little red kiosk on the train platform, I manage to buy myself a cup of coffee and a warm
saucijzenbroodje
. I indicate by pointing. I make sure to speak English right away so they won’t assume I’m Dutch and start speaking it to me. There’s a rectangular sign next to the tracks that shows when the train will arrive and lists all the stops—truly a very civilized country. I sip my hot coffee, which is smaller and much stronger than I’m used to, and nibble on the flakey sausage pastry as a white train with bright yellow doors and blue accents pulls up.

I stand there waiting for the nearest door to slide open but it doesn’t budge, even though people are getting in and out of other entrances. I race to another doorway and barely slip inside before the door closes. The conductor blows the whistle and we’re off. I learn by watching at other stations. The doors only open if you push a button. Half of New York City would be trapped on the subways if we implemented that. There would be riots. The Dutch landscape is in full bloom, fields filled with tulips and hyacinths, rioting in red, yellow, and magenta over their carefully cultivated beds. There, lines of workers are decapitating the flowers. I assume it’s to strengthen the bulbs. I crane my neck to watch as the train roars past. Trails of sacrificial blooms litter the earth, their delicate petals already wilting.

The train rides into a long covered space at Amsterdam Central Station, overarched with panes of glass and metal that glitter in the sun. People wait politely outside the train for us to get off before crowding in. I flow along with everyone until I find myself in the large central hall. It is part medieval cathedral, part modern age—I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s no graffiti or litter anywhere. Tourists drag their wheeled suitcases into sandwich and pasta shops, while backpackers stride past teenagers chatting on cell phones.

My sense of being foreign eases a bit here, among all the diverse races and nationalities. I hear jazz piano music and realize it’s coming from a shiny black grand piano that has painted on its side:
Bespeel Mij / Play Me
. A Moroccan man in a janitor’s uniform is playing Thelonious Monk’s “’Round Midnight” with great feeling as his pail and bucket rest against the pillar nearby. A small group of people have gathered to listen.

I step outside and find myself in the midst of a mass of tram tracks. I did it. I went to Amsterdam all by myself. The maps app on my phone shows that it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the Noorderkerk. I look back at the station and see that it is indeed a long cathedral built on the water, lit golden by the morning light. For a moment, I close my eyes.
Please, whatever gods roam this land, please let my sister be all right.
Passengers are disembarking from flat ferries. I cross the street without looking both ways and am almost run over by a bicyclist who swerves to avoid me at the last moment. Then I pick my way along a road where literally thousands of bicycles rest against each other on both sides of the street. To my right is a tall modern building, entirely scaled with small squares of thick glass like some mythical snake.

In this beautiful city, I can feel that Sylvie will return to me, safe and sound. She will hug me and laugh that I was worried enough to come all the way here. We all go out for drinks together: Sylvie, Lukas, Estelle, and me with my new boyfriend, Filip. I giggle at the idea of this. I can’t wait to see Filip again and hear him play. I cross an elegant modern arched bridge and pass an interracial couple, both men, necking by one of its pillars.

Then I stroll along the Brouwersgracht, a canal lined with tall and thin canal houses—each bearing soaring gables and long sleek windows. Pale green buds speckle the trees and houseboats are docked all along the waterside. How Sylvie must love it here. She always wanted to play boat when we were little, which meant sitting on our tiny bed and pretending we lived at sea together. I would leap onto the floor and thrash around to catch the fish and bring them back to Sylvie, who expertly fried them up. We had no idea she would grow up to be such a terrible cook.

On the corner, I spot a large, cross-shaped Protestant church. That must be the Noorderkerk. I have some trouble finding the entrance because the square in front is smothered with market stands, each with a little sloped cloth roof to protect it from the rain and sun. I can smell the fresh bread and roasted nuts, but I don’t stop to browse. I hurry inside to find a good seat.

I spot Filip at the front, busy tuning his cello. His shoulders strain against the tuxedo he wears. He’s sitting underneath the short staircase that leads to the pulpit, his hair lit by a large circular chandelier. Behind him, a massive pipe organ gleams silver and gold and stretches toward the arched ceiling. He stands to adjust his cuff links, and I stop so suddenly the woman behind me almost bumps into me and then stares at me curiously as she steps around me. I catch my breath. Those long legs, the narrow, tapered waist, the elegance of his hands, his chiseled, kind features. A line of well-dressed ladies admire him from the first row. The pews to the left and the right are filled already. I hurry to an empty seat in one of the rows of wooden folding chairs arranged down the middle of the church. He scans the audience as if he’s looking for someone, and I feel myself glow as he sees me. Then he lifts a hand in greeting.

I move my chair slightly and it catches on one of the long gray stone slabs that line the church. There’s a number engraved onto it, plus a hole to lift up the stone. I almost jump out of my seat as I realize we are sitting on tombstones. Ma:
Never walk over a person’s grave. Very uncomfortable for their soul.
At the cemetery, we always take care to maneuver around the graves. This would be the greatest form of hell for us Chinese, to be buried in a busy church where hundreds of people tromp over our bodies.
What if Sylvie’s
—I break off the thought. Just for one day, I will try not to worry.

A man in a suit speaks to the room in Dutch and presents Filip with a flourish. The audience claps loudly. Filip inclines his head, then sits and lifts his bow to his cello. The familiar strains of Bach’s prelude of the first suite for solo cello in G major fill the hall, the soft, translucent tones of his baroque instrument resonating in this holy place. His phrasing is sensitive, yet intense and quietly perceptive. Despite Sylvie’s disappearance, I feel at peace as the melody undulates, flows into the ragged edges of my soul. It’s like I can sense Filip’s passion and vulnerability in his playing—and, just like that, my stupid and frustrated heart is his.

After the concert, Filip is immediately ringed by his fans. I hesitate. I long to approach him but even the thought of speaking to him turns my tongue into a log inside my mouth. I wait for a few minutes. The crowd around him shows no signs of thinning. He’s a god and I am nothing. I shouldn’t mistake politeness for anything more. My shoulders droop, and I turn to make my way to the door. But just as I step outside into the brilliant sunlight, I hear him call, “Amy! Wait!”

My joy sprouts wings and takes flight. I turn to see him hurrying toward me with his sleek silver cello case slung onto his back like a giant backpack.

“That’s quite a talent you have there, being able to run with that thing on your back,” I blurt out.

He stops a moment, surprised, and then starts to laugh. “Not quite the cello-related compliment I was hoping for, but thank you. Look, I really do want to make it up to you for almost drowning you in the river. There is a café right on the corner here that supposedly has the best apple pie in all of the Netherlands.”

Could this truly be happening to me? I want to squeal with joy. “I-I’d like that.”

As we make our way through the crowded market, I can’t help craning my neck to stare at the huge round wheels of Dutch cheeses stacked on top of one another, and the mounds of crusty bread with names like
desembol
and
rustiek stokbrood,
and spectacular flowers in beige plastic crates being sold at ridiculously low prices. At one of the stands, a man is making large fresh versions of the
stroopwafel
I’d eaten, smearing caramel syrup between two pieces of wafer-thin waffle dough that he then toasts in a flat round iron. My stomach rumbles as the sweet fragrance wafts toward us.

Filip doesn’t seem to mind our silence but when the crowd eases a bit, I say, “Your playing style reminds me of Starker.”

His head whips around to face me. “You are full of surprises. Why do you say that?”

I scrunch my head down into my jacket. I always put my foot in my mouth. I mumble, “I felt bad I only complimented your running with your cello, though you did that very well too.”

He shakes his head, his eyes clear and insistent. “I meant, why did you compare me to him? He happens to be someone I admire greatly.”

I perk up. “So much darkness and passion beneath a cool and elegant surface.”

“Ah yes. You are the musical one in your family, aren’t you?” He’s scanning the street, figuring out where to go.

I stumble over my feet and stare at him. “How did you know that?”

He stares into the distance. “Just a guess. Oh, here we are. This is Winkel.”

We are standing at a packed outdoor café. Filip pronounced it “Vinkel” instead of “Winkel” like it says on the striped green-and-white awning. Diners sit at tiny wooden tables laden with meat pies, club sandwiches, thick slices of apple pie, and tall glasses of layered espresso and foamed milk.

We join the line of people waiting for a table. Across the street, a long-haired calico cat blinks at me from inside one of the windows, sitting among a nest of orchids. Behind the cat, an older woman watches us, probably because of Filip and his tuxedo. When she realizes I’ve seen her, she moves away from the window, but I can follow her movements through her living room. It’s something I noticed earlier: the way the Dutch throw their curtains wide open, if they bother to have any drapes at all. Behind every pane of open glass, I imagine unseen faces examining me and everything I do.

I ask, “Why do so many houses keep their drapes open? I thought it was because I was staying in a village, but I noticed it here in Amsterdam too. In New York City, someone would break into your place right away if they could see inside.”

He furrows his brow, thinking. “That is typical Dutch. There is plenty of crime here, but somehow the tradition still persists. It is like saying, ‘We have nothing to hide here. We are very normal, decent people, look all you want.’”

It’s our turn and the waiter leads us to a sunny little table in the corner. Filip takes his cello off his back and balances it against the pillar beside us. After I tell him what I’d like, he orders two slices of
appeltaart,
a double ristretto for himself, and a fresh mint tea for me. I venture to ask, “Are the Dutch really that open?”

“We are and we are not. People here are extremely direct, which means if you ask them if they like your new shirt, they will say, ‘I have never seen anything so ugly.’ But when it comes to things like sharing problems, there is a real tendency to say, ‘Everything is fine. I can handle it.’ Even if that might not be the case.”