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.”
Filip looked at us for a moment. “I had a good Italian friend once.” Then he said something to the singer that made the man throw back his head with laughter.
Estelle gave me a look and pointed at our gondolier. I turned to find him taking a selfie with his mobile. Filip caught the gondolier’s eye and blew him a deliberate kiss. The man blushed and almost dropped his phone.
I chuckled and Estelle leaned forward. “You should smile more, Sylvie. It suits you.”
I stared out at the water and wondered what it was that Estelle saw in my face most of the time.
That evening, we went out for dinner at a restaurant that specialized in Venetian delights. We sat underneath red umbrellas on an outdoor terrace on top of the canal, surrounded by water. The meal was my treat, of course, a custom that had tripped me up when I first moved to the States. For the Dutch, it was customary for the birthday person to take out everyone else, while in America, this was reversed.
Estelle, as organized and practical as ever, told the restaurant about my seafood allergy, then took the seat beside me, and we all toasted with a bottle of prosecco.
I leaned my elbows on the table, entwined my fingers, and rested my chin on my hands. I cocked my head at Estelle, so lovely, independent, and uninhibited. Everything I wanted to be. “You have come so far. A female pilot. Was it hard for you?”
She twirled a finger around the rim of her glass. “You have no idea.”
Filip scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, it is so difficult to be the only woman in the cockpit with all those men in uniform. Come up, you know you love the attention.”
She grinned and took a big sip of her drink. “It is nice sometimes. Like when we fly to Africa and go out at night, they all watch out for me. But then my copilot will knock on my door and ask for sex, and if I say no, he tells everyone I am a shitty pilot. Men have come right out and said to me that this is no job for a woman.”
“Well, it is not a great career if you want a family.” A passing gust of wind ruffled Lukas’s hair as he spoke.
Our food came then and everyone was silent as we admired our meals, inhaled the rich aromas, and shook out our napkins.
Estelle had ordered scallops with wild fennel. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before she answered. “True. If you are a woman who wants house, tree, and pet, then being a pilot is not for you, unless you can find some nice man to be your house husband.” She wrinkled her nose at Lukas, who grinned. Had they talked about this? Stop it, Sylvie. It was none of my business.
I took a bite of my tagliatelle with artichokes and pecorino and sighed; the sharpness of the cheese highlighted the silkiness of the pasta. “This is so good, as delicious as an angel peeing on your tongue.”
The others murmured their agreement.
“But I can imagine it is not easy for you sometimes,” I pressed.
Estelle’s usually expressive face grew still and she dropped her breezy facade for a moment. “Everyone always thinks I am a flight attendant. The airlines are saying how they would love to hire more female pilots but the truth is, there are no laws regulating it and they would rather have a man. When I took the exam for my commercial license, the examiner opened the door and he said to me, ‘Oh, you are a woman. Do you know what color the sky is?’ Ha ha. I showed him how good I was. But I cannot imagine it was all smooth sailing for you either, Sylvie.” In her face, I could see that she remembered how homely I had been, how awkward and isolated.
I emptied my glass and held it out for Filip to refill. How much should I tell her? Years of habitual silence seemed to block my lips, but the lapping of the waves, the warm haven created by the candlelight, the full moon hanging like a ripe fruit over us, and their sympathetic faces made me reconsider.
“You want a bite?” Filip asked, pushing his plate of squid ink linguini at me.
I held up my hand in refusal. “Allergic, remember? I do not want to go to the hospital on my birthday.” I turned to Estelle, who was tilted back in her chair, cradling her glass in her hands. I had held so much inside with Jim and look at where that got me. A new Sylvie would be born in Venice. “It is still difficult, actually. My engagement manager on my last project said to me, ‘I admire you people so much. I mean, Chinese immigrants.’”
Filip shook his head ruefully. “Not a compliment.”
“The next thing is, ‘You people are ruining our economy’ or ‘You people smell.’” Lukas pushed his salted codfish around his plate.
I remembered the teacher in my New York elementary school who sometimes called me Miss Ching Chong. “I think that wherever you are, to live in the world as a white person is a completely different experience than a person of color. Discrimination is invisible to them because it does not affect them. They are truly shocked.”
“Or if you are a woman or gay,” Filip added, tapping his finger against the tabletop.
The waiter appeared then to take our dessert orders. Filip asked, “Shall I just do it?” and we all nodded. He glanced at the menu and fired off a stream of rapid Italian.
After the waiter left, Filip leaned back and crossed his legs. “You know, there was this yellow-face character on TV for many years. It was after you left.”
“I heard of it.” I had read Dutch news all the time I was gone. “Was there not also a film?”
Lukas cupped his hands around the candle on the table. The light played across his straight nose, his high cheekbones. “Yes, a white woman dressed as an Asian who spoke terrible English and said embarrassing things to international celebrities. There is a kind of naiveté here. Or you could call it ignorance. Maybe the Asians simply do not protest enough.”
Dessert came then, plates filled with crumbly zaeti cookies, ciambelle ring doughnuts, a pie of amaretti biscuits and almonds, and fried sweet Venetian dumplings.