“I’d love to see your work sometime,” I say.
“Sure,” he answers, without any enthusiasm. He pulls on a chain hooked against the wall and an adult-size pink bicycle descends from a pulley on the ceiling.
“That’s surprising,” I say. “I didn’t expect it to be up there.”
“Space is costly here so we have to store a lot of things vertically. Like my washer and dryer.” He gestures at the two machines in the back corner, which are stacked one on top of the other. “Especially because we usually do not have any basements. The ground is too soft and wet. The entire country is below sea level.”
“Nowhere to stash the bodies, huh?” I say, and want to face-palm myself. That came out all wrong. Lukas freezes and I follow with a weak “Ha ha.”
He doesn’t answer. A breeze gusts against my jacket as he steps outside with the bicycle. I squint my eyes against the brilliant, piercing sunlight. The clouds are swirling in unpredictable patterns within a vast Van Gogh sky.
Lukas has brought a few tools with him and starts to lower the bike seat for me. The bicycle is covered with hand-painted white flowers. “Sylvie is taller than you are.”
I realize that I’m supposed to ride on that thing. “Much more athletic too. Is this her bike?”
“Borrowed from Estelle. But Sylvie will not mind. We can reset it for her easily.” A bit of the constant ache in my neck eases to hear his calm certainty that Sylvie will be back.
“What do you think has happened to her?”
His eyes dart away from mine. “I think something upset her and she wants time to consider everything.”
Why is he not looking at me? Was he the one who upset her? “Really? You think she’s okay?”
“Yes, I do.” His voice is so intense I wonder if he truly believes this or if he needs to be certain of Sylvie’s safety so much he’s convinced himself of it. Or maybe he’s a brilliant actor and he’s covering something up.
I try to sound casual. “What could have upset her that much?”
He shrugs and waves one hand at the main house.
“Right,” I say. “Lots of options there.” Maybe Helena had accused Sylvie of stealing the jewelry and Sylvie had left. But why wouldn’t she have come home? In the pit of my stomach, my longing for my sister intensifies. Sylvie, where are you?
Lukas has fixed the seat with quiet competence and now adjusts the handlebars. I notice that despite his apparent calm, his knuckles are white with tension.
“C-couldn’t we just walk?”
“No, it will be much easier for you on the bicycle.”
Right. A few minutes later, I am wobbling on the treacherous pink bicycle, barely managing to stay upright. Which idiot said you never forget how to ride? Lukas didn’t even give me a helmet. But then I manage to find my balance and follow him into the brick street. I can tell he’s holding back for me because soon an old lady with a walker attached to the back of her bike zooms past us as if we were standing still. My bike sways as I fight the wind that threatens to blow me backward.
“You are doing fine,” Lukas calls over his shoulder. “We are going to make a right at the next corner, and after that, it is straight along the River Vecht. Very easy.”
I grunt, too stressed from concentrating on the bumpy road. There are a surprising number of people on bicycles for a Friday. Doesn’t anyone have to go to work here? A mom and her tiny child weave past me. He’s pedaling away on his own little bicycle without training wheels and is the only one wearing a helmet. She shoots me a sympathetic smile. Then comes a businessman in a charcoal suit, sitting bolt upright, speaking into his headset, elegant leather briefcase strapped to the back.
I manage to make the turn onto the river road and take a moment to lift my head and look around. I can smell the water. The sparkling sky is admiring its own reflection on the surface of the rippling green waves where the rowboats and sailboats are docked, waiting to whisk their passengers away on an adventure. The tree-lined, small brick street merges with the sidewalk, only a different color and stone pattern distinguishing them, and I almost veer onto the walkway. I barely miss a young woman who leaps out of my way, uttering what must be a Dutch curse. I speed past old and new houses with pointed gables, none taller than three stories, which line both our side of the river and the opposite bank. It is completely foreign and almost unbearably charming at the same time.
As we pass a little white church, its high bell tower chimes the hour. With the urgent peal of its bells behind us, we pass a bridge and pull up to a café nestled on the bank of the river. To our right, large rustic barrows filled with pink begonias, and to the left, potted shrubs guard a number of square wooden tables shaded by dark green parasols that read heineken. I spot Estelle sitting in a checkered sage-and-white chair with her eyes closed, sunlight caressing her upturned face. She is wearing some kind of blue blazer and there’s a clunky black bag on her lap. Despite the brisk breeze, a few other customers are seated at the outdoor tables.
My legs almost crumple as I get off the bicycle and leave it at the rack. Give me a nice subway any day. Estelle smiles as we approach and stands to give Lukas another lush smack on the lips. Then she kisses me three times, alternating on each cheek, as everyone else seems to do in this country. “I am so glad you came! Did you remember to lock your bike, Amy?”
Lukas tosses over my bike key and sits down beside her. “I did it for you.”
Estelle pretends to tsk. “This is a very safe country. I have left my handbag with wallet inside in the basket of my bicycle by accident and come back after shopping to find that no one has taken it. Of course, that was a stupid thing to do. But if you leave a bike unlocked, watch out!”
I have settled into the chair across from them. “Why is that?”
Lukas shrugs. “Everyone has had so many bikes stolen themselves that if they see one unlocked, they feel it is fair game.”
Estelle winks. “It turns into the wild west here. One minute and your bicycle will be gone.”
I study them for a moment. The anger Estelle displayed at the airport when she asked Lukas if he had fought with Sylvie is gone. She hasn’t said anything about Sylvie. He must have already talked to her and somehow convinced her that he’s in the clear. Is that true or is Lukas just an incredible manipulator?
When the waitress comes, Estelle suggests I order a koffie verkeerd, which she explains means coffee the wrong way around, so it’s more milk than coffee, and an uitsmijter, which has something to do with eggs and the Dutch cheese Gouda. She pronounces it like Houda.
After she and Lukas place their orders, Estelle says, “So are you surviving that house?”
I chuckle. What a relief to talk to someone normal again. “Barely. I mean, my cousin Helena means well, but . . .”
“I know. And Lukas can be prickly too, especially these days.”
Lukas throws his hands up. “Just talk about me like I am not here.”
“Will do,” Estelle agrees, with a wink at me. “Well, it has been very hard for him, first with Grandma’s death and then the disappearance of Sylvie.” Her face turns serious. She wrinkles her forehead. “Though Grandma was not actually his grandmother by blood, right? That always confuses me.”