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.”
His voice has a lovely, resonant quality that makes it sound like he’s singing. He peeks at me once or twice as he talks, as if he’s unsure of me. I thrill to this—he’s somehow nervous around me. He’s open and thoughtful, a sensitive soul hurt by the rigors of the world. He squints a bit in the direct sunlight and even this is charming, the way his lashes turn golden, his light liquid eyes.
He is looking at me strangely and the tips of his ears are bright red. Oh no, I have been staring at him like a fool. “I-ah, I . . .”
Fortunately, the waitress arrives then with the appeltaart and drinks, so I am saved from having to speak, though I am cringing inside. Why can I not be cool like other people? Sylvie would never do anything like this. I distract myself by pretending I am fascinated with my food. It does look delicious. My generous slice of appeltaart is made with thick, cakey, moist dough still crispy around the edges. The apples have been sliced thinly and layered with raisins. A dollop of freshly whipped cream accompanies the dish. My tea comes with a delicate little log of meringue filled with buttercream and dipped in chocolate at both ends that Filip tells me is called a bokkenpootje, a goat’s foot.
After we’ve each tried the appeltaart, which tastes as good as it looks, Filip asks, “So why are you in the Netherlands?”
I cup my hands around my steaming mug filled with a large bundle of fresh mint leaves. Its fragrance soothes my embarrassment a bit. “I have some things I need to do while I’m here.”
“You are not just a tourist?”
I stir in the little package of honey that came with my tea. I hardly know him. But I feel like I can trust him. I scratch my cheek and decide to take the plunge. “No, my sister, Sylvie, was here and then she disappeared.” As I say these words, my fear wells up in me again. How can this not be a bad dream? What will I do now? I was deceiving myself earlier. This isn’t a misunderstanding. Something has gone terribly wrong.
Emotions I can’t quite read flash in his eyes: concern, discomfort, fear. Oddly, he doesn’t seem surprised. I’m relieved he doesn’t react with shock or horror, though, which would only scare me more. He pauses for a long moment, as if he’s hesitant to speak or is trying to make some monumental decision, then says, “Oh, that is terrible. What happened?”
So I tell him the story of Sylvie’s trip to the Netherlands. He listens intently.
Then he asks, “Have you spoken to the police?”
I sigh. My voice thickens and my shoulders sag. “Yes, but they didn’t seem to have a real plan.” What am I supposed to do if the police can’t act?
Filip leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. Nice hands. “I do not think they are going to do much.”
Hearing him say it confirms my fears. “How do you know?” I don’t quite manage to keep my voice from breaking.
“Well, my passion is diving.”
I mutter, “That would explain your amazing body.”
He is about to take a sip of his ristretto and sputters.
Mortified, I clasp my hands to my mouth as if I could force the words back inside. “I am so sorry for treating you like a sex object.” I gasp again. “Uh, no, I mean, what—what I’m trying to say is I either stammer or stuff like that comes out of my mouth. It’s one or the other.”