Searching for Sylvie Lee (29 page)

Laughing, I pushed her away. “Where did you get that dress? It’s lovely.”

“I have a tailor in Bombay who designs them for me. I go to him whenever I fly there. I will get one for you next time.” Then she turned to Lukas. “And now you.” She kissed him thoroughly as well until a masculine hand landed on Lukas’s hair and pulled him away from her.

“I have had enough of that,” Filip said, eyes bright, fingers still tangled in Lukas’s black locks, looking fine in his straight-legged dark jeans, tailored black jacket, and a navy slim-fit button-down shirt decorated with a tiny diamond pattern. Seeing the two of them together almost stopped my breath. He gave Lukas an affectionate swat on the back of his head.

“You saved me,” Lukas said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

“Yeah, right. You look as proud as an ape with seven dicks,” Filip said. “And what the hell are you wearing? Could you not find something a bit nicer?”

“What?” Baffled, Lukas looked down at his battered leather jacket and faded jeans above the solid low hiking boots he always wore. I hid a smile.

“It might be a good idea to pack a little more in there,” Filip said, gesturing at the small canvas backpack Lukas had slung over his shoulder that somehow held all his clothing and toiletries. “And a bit less of that.” Filip pointed to the giant black camera bag filled with lenses and equipment Lukas took everywhere.

“I brought clean underwear,” muttered Lukas.

“Come on, you delicious thing,” Estelle said, linking her arm through Lukas’s. “We had better go through security.” She paused to let a flock of Asian tourists pass. At the end came an elderly woman in a wheelchair, pushed by a young, attractive woman, probably her granddaughter.

“Wait.” I stood there, frozen amid the bustle of the crowd. “I cannot stop thinking about Grandma. Maybe I should stay.”

They all stopped. Filip reached out and rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. “It is your decision, belle Sylvie, but I think your grandma would want you to enjoy your birthday.”

I cast my eyes over my little group of friends—surprised they looked concerned for me—and covered his hand with mine. “You have it right. And I have never been to Venice before.”

I
dozed on the airplane against Filip’s shoulder. He woke me as we were about to land at Marco Polo Airport. Were Estelle and Lukas snuggling in the seats behind us too? I craned my neck to look out the window. I saw large islands set in a turquoise sea, and a wide water highway set off by long wooden pilings, where boats and water taxis sped in two directions. I was in an alternate reality.

We grabbed our luggage after we disembarked. Outside the terminal, even the air smelled different, like seaweed and cut grass. Here, I would forget about Jim. Here, I would become a new Sylvie, happy and free with her friends. We walked to the dock, where we debated the ferry or a more expensive water taxi. In the end, since there were four of us, we decided to splurge on the taxi.

Our driver, a cute Italian guy wearing a tight T-shirt and sunglasses, cast longing glances at Estelle the entire trip to our hotel. She laughed and waved at the boats that passed while her hair tossed in the wind. On the same water highway I had seen from the air, we sped past the Alilaguna water bus. It was jammed with tourists pressed against windows, clicking pictures. Lukas came and stood beside me, his shoulder solid against mine. We watched Italian teenagers cruise by in speedboats, and wealthy older couples enjoying their rides in luxurious yachts.

By the time we passed the island of Murano and then curved around the coast of Castello, the sun hung above the horizon like a molten gold medallion. I had expected Venice to be overrated. Everyone knew it was inundated with tourists, the authentic Venice eradicated by money-making shops, the city slowly sinking beneath the weight of its own clichés. I too had read
Death in Venice
. And yet I was captivated by the skyline of thirteenth-century buildings lit by globes of light, the silhouette of the winged Lion of Venice atop its tall granite column against a pink-streaked sunset. A yellow-and-orange craft sped past painted with the words
Ambulanza, Venezia Emergenza:
an ambulance boat. Yes, Venice was a myth. But its magic was real too.

Lukas was taking photos, his competent hands caressing his camera. We cruised past long alleyways of water lit by small cafés where people chatted amid the glow of candlelight. Tiny bridges crossed tranquil canals while tourists thronged and packed into stands with glittering souvenirs. The water taxi drew up to our hotel, right on the Grand Canal next to Piazza San Marco.

Estelle and the guys headed out for a late dinner but I decided to go to bed. The trip had drained me. Once inside, I never wanted to leave my hotel room again, an oasis of velvet sage and gold trim. Thick curtains kept the night at bay while hand-blown glass lamps bloomed on the walls, elegantly arched confections of spring green leaves. The hotel clerk had left a bottle of chilled Pellegrino on ice, covered with a fine embroidered napkin. I lay back against the plush pillows on the bed and wished I could live from hotel to hotel, never stopping, never allowing the rest of my life to catch up with me.

T
he next morning, I found Lukas in the hotel restaurant leaning over the terrace railing, snapping photos of the covered gondolas docked nearby. Gondoliers in their typical black-and-white-striped T-shirts stepped from boat to boat, checking and cleaning before their workday began. The cool morning air played with his shaggy hair as rays of sunlight caught the gold and red strands among the dark.

“You are up early,” I said.

He jumped, and turned to face me. “Congratulations.” He bent and kissed me three times. His freshly shaven cheek smelled of citrus, cedar, and a hint of vanilla. “Thirty-three years. And just yesterday, you were only nine, it seems.”

I looked into his eyes. I could not recall the last time I had felt this content. “I am glad we decided to come here.”

“Come on, I am hungry. Estelle and Filip are not what you would call morning people.”

We filled our plates from the buffet—fresh croissants and pastries, scrambled eggs and fruit salad—and settled on a sun-drenched table next to the water. The waiter brought us tea and coffee with warm milk, along with fresh
jus d’orange
.

I cracked open a little jar of strawberry preserves and smeared some across my croissant. “This must be the most beautiful place I have ever been.”

Lukas looked out over the begonias that flowered along our railing to the dark cyan waters underneath a cloudless cerulean sky. Then he smiled at me, his eyes warm and dark. “I have never seen anything lovelier.”

“Not flirting so early in the morning, I hope.” Filip’s tone was dry. He now stood beside our table with Estelle. They both wore dark sunglasses. “Congratulations, little treasure.”

They each kissed me three times, and then Filip went to find food while Estelle sat and slowly sipped her black coffee. “Oh, I really needed this. Now, what are we going to do to celebrate Sylvie’s birthday?”

“I do not really want to do anything special,” I said.

She pushed her glasses up onto her head to stare at me. “Nonsense.”

Filip set his plate down, pulled out a chair, and said, “Shall we go exploring during the day and maybe a nice dinner tonight?”

“I have always wanted to see the Palazzo Ducale,” Lukas said.

“Both Sylvie and Lukas are in Venice for the first time, right?” said Estelle. “You know what that means: gondola ride! Our gift to you.”

Lukas and I both groaned.

“I cannot swim,” I said.

“Really?” said Filip. He leaned in close, lowered his lashes, and murmured, “I will have to teach you sometime.”

“No one falls out of a gondola,” said Estelle, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Not even the really clumsy tourists. And if you did, I would save you. I have six swimming diplomas.”

“I refuse to let an Italian guy sing to me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“Me too,” said Lukas, nodding emphatically. “Especially if he is hairy.”

Filip lifted one eyebrow, his tone turning wicked. “Which is exactly why you must both undergo this most stereotyped of tourist experiences. Think of it as a rite of passage.”

W
e spent the morning at the lavish Palazzo Ducale. After we climbed the twenty-four-carat gilt staircase Scala d’Oro, I stopped before a stone face of a grimacing man with penetrating eyes and an open mouth.

“Afraid?” asked Filip, leaning in close. I could feel the warmth of his tight muscles through his thin shirt, pressing against my back.

“What is it?”

“
Bocca di leone,
the mouth of the lion. This was a postbox for secret accusations, where people would slip notes about their neighbors. The Council of Ten would then lead an investigation by the dreaded security service.”

I shivered. “Ominous.”

“Every secret has its price. Come on, let us go to the Bridge of Sighs.”

He took my hand and led me to the bridge where it is said the prisoners sighed at their last views of Venice before they were led to their darkened cells. Inside the dungeons, the bits of graffiti etched into the stone walls were the only evidence of the lives that had been exhausted there.

For lunch we only had time to grab slices of thin, crispy pizza from a woman with leathery skin and a flowered scarf covering her hair before we were off to the Basilica di San Marco, with its lavish spires, Byzantine domes, and patterned marble. On all of my business trips, I had never taken the time to enjoy the places I had visited. There had always been a client or a colleague to impress, another presentation to prepare. Now I could just be. We hopped on the
vaporetto
water bus for a tour of the Grand Canal, gliding past ornate buildings while the canal itself was crowded with cargo barges, kayaks, delivery boats, and water taxis. I was delighted to see a Total gas station set by a dock, serving boats instead of cars.

In the late afternoon, Estelle announced it was time for our gondola ride. She had already secured our
vaporetto
and museum passes, and now she bargained efficiently with a gondolier before calling us over. Naturally, she told him it was my birthday, so I had the seat of honor with Lukas, the other Venetian virgin, as Estelle called us. Estelle and Filip settled into red velvet cushions across from us. Instead of the flirtatious Italian singer I had been dreading, a small white-haired gentleman climbed aboard. He wore a plastic union card pinned to his neat button-down shirt. The gondolier shoved off, and the elderly man turned on the speaker at his feet and began to sing in a beautiful baritone, his voice amplified by the surrounding buildings and the narrow canals.

Even Filip closed his eyes to listen, a small smile signaling his professional approval of the musical proceedings. He was almost unbearably good-looking: dark lashes against fair skin, the cynical quirk to his full lips. My phone pinged with a text from Amy, wishing me a great birthday and asking when we could chat. I quickly wrote back with an excuse, not wanting her to know I had left Grandma, then put away my mobile and resumed studying Filip. If Amy ever met him, she would fall hard. He was exactly her type: musical, funny, smart.

Lukas wrapped his arm around me and I snuggled into his side. No one made me feel safer than Lukas.

“Do you remember the valentine I gave you? Before you left?” he murmured.

I wrinkled my forehead. “You never gave me anything like that.”

“Yes, I did but I did not sign it. I left it in your desk on Valentine’s Day.”

I thought back. There had been something. I had been surprised to find it, especially since, in those days, Valentine’s Day was not really celebrated here—a crumpled piece of red construction paper in the shape of a heart. What had it said? I started to laugh. “That was you? I think the note compared me to a toe or something?”

He nodded, satisfied. “‘Without you, I am like a sock without a foot.’ Now you know how I felt about you.”

I chuckled, and then surrendered to the music floating between the buildings, the lapping of the water against the hull of the boat, the rhythmic stroke of the gondolier’s oars. This close to the houses, I could see the way they tilted, the crumbling brick sagging into the waves, the moss that grew and multiplied along the waterline, bits of graffiti scribbled here and there. The vulnerability of this place only made me love it more.

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.”