September, 2015
Amsterdam, Holland
Zari
Wil and Zari wandered through the narrow streets of Amsterdam, the late afternoon sun warm on their faces. Zari cast covert glances at Wil from time to time, taking in the disheveled dark-blond curls that sprang from his head in all directions, his lanky limbs and tall frame, the confident grace of his movements. Being in his presence charged her entire body with delicious anticipation. She reached out, caught his hand in hers, and raised it to her lips.
On the arch of a bridge, they paused to watch a flotilla of swans glide through a canal’s dark waters.
The swans floated to the open window of a small yellow houseboat, where a young girl leaned out with a piece of bread. The first swan snatched it from her hand with the speed of a striking snake. Screams ensued. A woman shooed the bird away with an umbrella and shut the window. Undeterred, it pecked at the glass with demented intensity.
“It’s an attack swan,” Zari whispered. “The most dangerous kind.”
Wil looked at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and draped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, breathing the scent of eucalyptus.
“You still smell the same. Thank God.”
He grinned.
Zari’s mobile buzzed with an incoming text. She pulled it from her pocket and scanned the words. “My presence is not required again at the conference until tomorrow,” she announced. “I’m all yours. We can keep watching crazy swans, or...”
Wil pulled her in for a kiss. “I think ‘or’ sounds a lot more interesting.”
At Wil’s apartment building, they climbed the narrow, dimly lit staircase, the sounds of the streets and canal fading away with each step. Zari trailed her fingertips over the wooden bannister. It was so old and worn that it resembled polished stone.
Wil unlocked his apartment door and stepped aside so she could enter. Sunlight streamed in through the skylights, illuminating the centuries-old wooden floor. The white walls were crisp in contrast, and massive dark beams were exposed in the peaked ceiling. A simple kitchen outfitted with white appliances and matte gray wall tiles ran along the opposite wall. A table of rich honey-colored wood that Wil had made himself stood adjacent to the kitchen area.
Zari crossed to the table and ran her hands over the smooth, perfectly planed surface. She shook her head, smiling.
“What’s funny?” Wil asked.
“Your apartment is exactly where I imagined my artist alter ego would live. The attic of a classic brick Amsterdam house, overlooking a canal. All it needs is some giant canvases and panels, maybe a standing desk filled with paints and brushes and charcoal.”
“Your alter ego, whatever that is, is welcome to visit,” he said, padding up next to her. “But even better would be the real you. Here. All the time.”
He slipped his arms around her. Zari luxuriated in the caress of his fingers moving across her collarbone, sliding down each knob of her spine, exploring each indentation of her ribs. Then she took his hand and led him across the room to a door that stood ajar.
“I’m guessing this would be the bedroom.”
He nodded.
“Why don’t I start making myself at home right here in your bed?” She pulled him gently through the doorway.
With a wicked smile, he set about undressing her.
The next morning Zari found herself on a bicycle whizzing along a path behind Wil, feeling extraordinarily Dutch. The sunlight held a trace of summer’s heat, but the wind on her face was cool. A gaggle of tourists clogged the sidewalk ahead, a few of them spilling into the bike lane. Wil rang his bike bell with vigor as they wheeled by the group. Zari kept his pace, coming within a hair’s breadth of a woman wearing a bright red jacket, the familiar blue-and-gold cover of an American guidebook tucked under one arm.
“I could pass for one of you!” she called out to Wil. “No helmet, no light on my bike. Blatant disregard for pedestrians.”
His rich laughter tumbled back at her.
“Why is your laugh so intoxicating?” she demanded.
“It’s a Dutch thing,” he said over his shoulder. “We have addictive laughs.”
They dodged another group of tourists.
Part of her dreaded the meal tonight with Wil’s best friend, Filip. Wil and Filip had once been “adventurists,” working half the year to save money for huge expeditions all over the world. Their lifestyle came to an abrupt end during a disastrous skiing trip in the Arctic, when Filip had fallen into a crevasse and lost the use of his legs. Filip’s sister Hana had been Wil’s girlfriend for nearly a decade; their relationship was a casualty of the accident. Zari couldn’t shake the worry that Wil’s family and friends had written her off as a rebound girlfriend, a temporary distraction on the road back to normalcy and a nice Dutch woman. Maybe even back to Hana again.
Just be yourself, Zari. Her mother’s voice floated into her head. Because everyone else is already taken.
She smiled.
It was as good a mantra as any for the evening to come.
Their meal was nearly finished. The small Indonesian restaurant was emptying. A few last spoonfuls of rice in peanut sauce sat on a plate in front of Wil, and he periodically shoveled a bite into his mouth.
Filip wasn’t much of an eater. His plate was still half-full. He was on his third beer, though. He constantly made small adjustments to his position in the wheelchair, clearly uncomfortable. His dark hair was cut close to his skull and streaked with silver. His fine-boned face was pale and gaunt, with deep-set brown eyes that regarded her with wan detachment.
“How long do you plan to live in Europe, Zari?” he asked.
“I was only supposed to be here a year, but I got a new opportunity.”
“She’s looking for an artist from Renaissance times,” Wil said. “A woman who painted in the Flemish style.”
Filip looked doubtful. “A woman? From that era?”
“Women painted then,” Zari replied, “but most of them were never recognized. They weren’t offered opportunities or were forced to work anonymously.”
A defensive note had crept into her voice. She got emotional too quickly when she talked about this topic. It was a weakness, the kind of character flaw that a person like Dotie Butterfield-Swinton would pounce on and use to his advantage.
“If we can fill the holes in the historical record,” she went on in a more measured tone, “if we can uncover those silenced stories, the question of whether women could and can produce truly great art will lose relevance.”
Under the table Wil leaned his thigh into Zari’s. A slow shiver of pleasure rippled through her.
The server approached and cleared the remaining plates, and talk turned to stories of Wil and Filip in childhood, of antics with siblings and cousins.
Hana came up often in the course of their reminiscing. Apparently she was even more of a thrill-seeker than her brother had once been. She was currently trekking on horseback through the plains of Mongolia, on break from her job as a disaster-relief coordinator for an international humanitarian group.
As the true measure of Wil’s ex-girlfriend took shape, a feeling of uneasiness drifted over Zari. Great, she thought glumly. I’m walking in the shadow of a badass do-gooder.
Wil avoided the topic of the expeditions that had been the cornerstone of his relationship with Filip since their university days, that had defined both of them for a decade. Filip, for his part, was subdued. He occasionally sparred with Wil over a detail in a story, and twice he smiled with genuine delight, his eyes radiating joy. But each time the smile vanished so quickly Zari wondered if she had imagined it.
Watching the men dance around the subject of the adventures that had been their greatest passion, she felt a sudden jolt of despair for Filip. To be a person who reveled in taking his body to the limits of human endurance, trapped in a wheelchair for life—it was devastating.
“My brother Gus has a friend who was paralyzed in a skiing accident too,” she heard herself blurt out.
Filip and Wil stared at her, astonished.
“He still skis. And he sails. He’s going on a sailing trip in Croatia next spring, actually.”
There was a long silence. Filip took a sip of his beer, his eyes unreadable across the table.
“He could be a good resource for you.” Zari’s mouth was suddenly dry.
Wil and Filip exchanged a glance. Filip shifted in his wheelchair again.
She faltered a moment, then found her voice. “I could send an e-mail introduction to you both.”
Zari searched Filip’s solemn face, fearing she had made an unforgivable blunder.
After a moment, he shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “If you want.”
Wil launched into a story about a decrepit houseboat the two men had purchased together and refurbished when they were in their early twenties.
Listening to him, watching Filip’s face relax, Zari felt the tension slowly drain from her body.