He started tuning our cellos. The deep tones rang like a human voice, singing its darkest secrets, startling me. The floor shifted as a boat passed, rocked by the waves. I gazed upon him, another man I had known as a boy, his perfect profile impenetrable, but his hands—what tenderness and pain flowed from those hands—and just this, a gifted musician tuning his cello, began to unburden my heart. How Jim had loved me once and, so help me, how I loved him still. The sky outside grew dim and rain began to patter against the roof.
He paused and I quickly dashed a hand across my cheek, wondering how much my expression had revealed. He closed his eyes and, instead of continuing his task, played a slow piece, filled with all the longing and unrequited love I felt. I leaned my head back in my chair and let the melody swirl through me. I am broken, the cello said. I am lost.
When he stopped, his face revealed none of the emotion in his music. He gave me a tiny curt nod, and said, “Spread your legs.”
I gulped. “What?”
He came over to me, pulled me forward so I was sitting on the edge of my chair, then spread my thighs wide with a bold hand on the inside of each knee. I was still gasping as he swung the cello in between my legs. “Be glad you are not wearing a dress. I forgot to mention it to Lukas and sometimes women come in these tight skirts, which can cause quite a problem. It is also good you do not have overly large boobs.”
I was still staring at my chest when he placed the bow in my right hand and showed me how to hold it. “First, we will start with playing the loose strings. Only the bow, no left hand. Follow me. We will start with A.”
He sat back down and played a long note on one string and I tried to do the same. We repeated this several times, playing A, A, A, A, D, D, the cello vibrating through my bones.
He sighed. “The cello picks up everything you are feeling in your body, and you are as tense as a cane. Close your eyes.”
I did as he directed and felt the cold coming in through the floorboards. I suppressed a shiver, imagined the icy water beneath our feet. His voice was strong and resonant. “Let your shoulders and hands hang. That is it.”
When I opened my eyes and tried to play, it sounded better but not enough to satisfy him. Filip went to the kitchen and returned with a ceramic bowl filled with water. He came over, picked up my right hand, and placed it inside the bowl. The water was warm, his fingers light against my wrist. This close to him, I caught a whiff of smoke and bergamot. “Does that feel good?”
I nodded.
“Now, take out your hand and flick the droplets off. As you do that, imagine all of your tension falling away with the water. Very good.” Then he gently dried my hand with a small cloth, massaging every digit, and placed the bow in between my loosened fingers. “Hold it lightly, do not tense up. Now you are ready.”
And when I began, for the first few moments I could hear the difference, but then I started to stiffen. I was learning that this was my natural state: stressed. His spine was rigid, bracing him against the sounds I made, though his expression remained neutral. Outside, lightning flashed as the rain turned into a downpour, splattering against the sundeck.
I winced and laid down the bow. I could not do this to him any longer. “This must be torture for you. I should stop.”
He came and knelt before me on one knee so we were face-to-face, his eyes intent. He laid a hand on my arm. “Oh no. You have only just begun, Sylvie. That is why it is called an instrument. It is a tool for you to express whatever you want, good or bad.”
“I must be filled with badness, then,” I muttered, smiling a little. I leaned toward him. I had a sudden wild desire to lay my cheek against his. Here was a man who understood heartbreak. Here was a man who also knew what it meant to be devastated, and who somehow kept it all contained. I pulled myself back and searched for a reason to keep him talking. “Is your daughter musical too?”
He glanced over at their photo together. “Oh no. Zoë’s passion is competitive alpine skiing, which happens to be a very expensive sport. My ex-wife is a musician as well and between the two of us, we can barely manage to afford it.” He stood. I blinked back my disappointment. “Our time is almost up. Why do you not take the cello home so you can practice and not torment me so much next time?”
“You would lend me your cello?”
He shrugged and pulled out a hard cello case from a sliding cabinet beneath the window. “This is a cheaper one that I rent out to students sometimes. You cannot improve if you do not practice.”
As he flipped open the lid of the case, I eyed the huge instrument. I was not substantially taller than it. “I do not have a car here.”
He bent down to place the cello and bow inside. The case was mostly black, with streaks of dark blue running through it like a river. Two padded straps on the back allowed it to be carried like a backpack. “No problem. I take mine on my bicycle all the time.”
I waved a hand at his long legs, the muscled arms. “But you are Dutch.” People carted Christmas trees on their bicycles here, balanced on the steering bar.
“So are you.” He stood and set the case upright. “You rest that on your baggage rack on the back of your bike and you will be all set.” The doorbell rang. Filip handed the cello to me. “Your chauffeur is here.”
I staggered a bit to get the cello through the tiny hallway and into the entryway. The whole thing was heavier than I thought. Filip had the door open and Lukas stood there drenched, dripping onto the tile floor. Droplets rolled off his hair and traced the line of his jaw. Behind him, a torrent of rain fell as thunder boomed.
I asked Filip, “When should I come back? I am only here a few weeks at most.” Now that our lesson was over, I was like someone who had smoked opium for the first time. I did not want to see him again; it was a need. I felt lighter, looser, and something about him or our lesson had done that for me.
Filip glanced at Lukas, then bent and gave me three deliberate, lingering kisses on my cheeks. The charming playboy had returned. “As often as you like,” he drawled. “Come every day.”
Lukas took the case from me and scowled. “Do I need to hit this guy with my camera for you?”
“It would be easier to use the cello.” I gave Filip a slow wink to show I was sophisticated and unaffected by him. “But it is not necessary. When he flirts, it is nothing personal.”
I was unprepared for the flash of pain on Filip’s face or the way Lukas flushed dark red to the roots of his hair. Had there been some other woman between them in the past? Someone they truly loved?
Lukas swung the case over one shoulder and turned on his heel to leave. “Yes, that has been my experience.”
With the cello strapped to my back, the Vespa scooter caught so much wind that, at times, it seemed like we would take flight. The Dutch called this dog weather. Above us, the heavens opened while hard gusts of rain sent rivulets of cold water down my back. The shifting air currents caught the broad instrument at an angle and Lukas swerved to avoid a sudden bicyclist. Blinded by strands of my hair in the whipping wind, I was barely able to stay seated, clinging to Lukas with all my might. My shoulders ached from the weight. When we finally arrived at the house, I dismounted and tried to race inside to get out of the storm. But even though I was fairly tall, the cello still hit me at mid-calf, so I could only take tiny, mincing steps.