Searching for Sylvie Lee by Jean Kwok

Author:Jean Kwok
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-06-03T16:00:00+00:00

The next day, I watched as Filip’s long, capable fingers tuned his cello, which to my eyes was far uglier than mine. I had a modern instrument, with a warm glow to the maple. The varnish on his cello was uneven and burned in some places. It looked like it had been worn thin by centuries of use. Small bubbles had formed in those spots, and they’d filled with dirt over the years. I had come to cherish these moments as he concentrated on tuning and I could watch him unobserved: the intensity of his focus on each string, the grunt of satisfaction he made in the back of his throat when the tune was just right, the texture of his rough knuckles against the wood. I was completely unimportant then; to him I did not exist, and this gave me the freedom to utter whatever flew into my head.

I asked, “What happens if I break your cello by accident? How much would it cost?”

He slapped the Y-shaped metal tuning fork against his knee, and then set it on the bridge of his cello. He listened to the hum of the note and then adjusted the pegs. “The one you are using? It is an inexpensive one. I think around three thousand euros.”

My lips parted. I was glad I had not yet succeeded in dropping it down the stairs. “How much does that old thing of yours cost?”

“Fifty thousand euros.” He smiled at my incredulous look. “It was made by Cuypers in 1767. Listen to the sound.” He played a quick melodious phrase that sounded like sunlight shining upon gold. Behind him, the waves outside took on the color of his intent eyes and slivers of clouds crowned his finely shaped head. He lifted his bow off the strings and the spell was broken. “This cello cost me a rib out of my body but I love her.”

Had he ever cared about anyone like that? What would it feel like to have all that intensity focused on me? He was the sort who loved seldom but deeply. He would be faithful, to the point of being consumed by his passion. I shook my head, cleared my unruly thoughts. “You have expensive taste.”

He looked rueful. “Yes, between my competitive skier daughter and my beautiful instruments, I need to find a pot of gold somewhere.”

Today, the water and sky had melded into a single blue expanse that cradled the two of us on his boat, rocked by the waves, submerged in the liquid voice of his cello. Into this intimacy, I said, “There was a burglary at the house yesterday and Grandma’s jewelry was stolen. It was worth a great deal.”

He cocked his head, and moved to tune the next string. “Oh? When did that happen?”

“During her daily walk.”

“How coincidental.” He placed his cello on his carved wooden stand and started on mine.

As he struck the tuning fork against his knee again, I asked, “What do you mean?”

Instead of using the fine tuners at the bottom of my cello, he fiddled with the giant pegs at the top of the neck.

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