Dee looks at me as if the answer is obvious. “You look.”
Twenty-three
NAME: Willem
NATIONALITY: Dutch
AGE: 20 as of last August
GREW UP IN AMSTERDAM.
PARENTS: Yael and Bram. Mom isn’t Dutch Mom is a naturopathic doctor
1.9 meters, which is about 6’3”; 75 kilos, which is about 165 pounds.
Acted with the theater troupe Guerrilla Will last summer
This is the complete list of hard biographical facts that I have on Willem. It takes up barely a third of a page in one of my abandoned lab notebooks. When I finish, the list is like a taunt, reality’s bitchslap. You think you fell in love with someone, and this is what you know about him? Eight things? And how would I find him with these eight things? Forget looking for a needle in a haystack. That’s easy. At least it would stand out. I’m looking for one specific needle in a needle factory.
Eight things. It’s humiliating. I stare at the page and am about to tear it out and crumple it up.
But instead, I turn the page and start writing a different list. Random things. Like the amused look on his face when I admitted I’d thought he was a kidnapper. And the way he looked at the café when he found out I was an only child and asked if I was alone. The goofy happiness as he bounded around the barge with Captain Jack. How good it felt to know that I was responsible for him looking that way. The way Paris sounded under the canal. The way it looked from the back of the bike. The way his hand felt in the crook of my hip. The fierceness in his eyes when he jumped up to help those girls in the park. The reassurance of his hand, grasping mine as we ran through the streets of Paris. The raw expression on his face at the dinner table when I’d asked him why he’d brought me there. And later, at the squat, how he looked at me and I felt so big and strong and capable and brave.
I let the memories flood me as I fill one page. Then another. And then I’m not even writing about him anymore. I’m writing about me. About all the things I felt that day, including panic and jealousy, but more about feeling like the world was full of nothing but possibility.
I fill three pages. None of what I’m writing will help me find him. But in writing, I feel good—no, not just good, but full. Right, somehow. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long, long time, and it’s this more than anything that convinces me to look for him.
The most concrete thing on the list is Guerrilla Will, so I start there. They have a bare-basics website, which gets me pretty excited—until I see how out of date it is. It’s advertising plays from two summers ago. But still, there’s a contact tab with an email address. I spend hours composing ten different emails and then finally just delete them in favor of a simple one:
Hello:
I am trying to find a Dutch guy named Willem, age 20, who performed in last summer’s run of Twelfth Night. I saw it and met him, in Stratford-upon-Avon, and went to Paris with him last August. If anyone knows where he is, please tell him that Lulu, also known as Allyson Healey, would like him to get in touch with her. This is very important.
I list all my contact info and then I pause there for a moment, imagining the ones and zeros or whatever it is that emails are made of, traveling across oceans and mountains, landing somewhere in someone’s inbox. Who knows? Maybe even his.
And then I press Send.
Thirty seconds later, my inbox chimes. Could it be? Could it be that fast? That easy? Someone knows where he is. Or maybe he’s been looking for me all this time.
My hand shakes as I go to my inbox. Only all that’s there is the message I just sent, bounced. I check the address. I send it again. It bounces again.
“Strike one,” I tell Dee before class the next day. I explain about the bounced email.
“I don’t do sports metaphors, but I’m pretty sure baseball games are generally nine innings.”
“Meaning?”
“Dig in for the long haul.”
Professor Glenny sweeps in and starts talking about Cymbeline, the play we’re about to start, and announcing last call for tickets for As You Like It before giving a brief warning to start thinking about oral presentations at the end of the year. “You can either work alone or with your partners, do a regular presentation or something more theatrical.”
“We’ll do theatrical,” Dee whispers.
“It’s the Glenny way.”
And then we look at each other as if both getting the same idea. After class, we go up to the lectern where the usual coterie of groupies are simpering.
“Well, Rosalind, here to buy your As You Like It tickets?”
I blush. “I already bought mine. I’m actually trying to get ahold of someone I lost touch with, and I don’t have very many leads, but the one I do have is through this Shakespeare troupe that I saw in Stratford-upon-Avon last year, and they have a website, but the email bounced, but I saw them do a play less than a year ago . . . ”
“In Stratford-upon-Avon?”
“Yeah. But not at a theater. It was sort of an underground thing. It was called Guerrilla Will. They performed at the canal basin. They were really good. I actually ditched the RSC’s Hamlet to watch them do Twelfth Night.”
Professor Glenny likes this. “I see. And you’ve lost a Sebastian, have you?” I gasp and I blush but then I realize he’s just referring to the play. “I have an old mate in the tourist bureau there. Guerrilla Will, you say?”
I nod.
“I’ll see what I can dig up.”
The following week, right before spring break, Professor Glenny hands me an address. “This is what my friend found. It’s from police records. Apparently your Guerrilla Will friends have a habit of performing without permits, and this is from an old arrest. Not sure how current it is.” I look at the address. It’s for a city in England called Leeds.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Let me know how it ends.”
That night, I print out the copy of the email I sent to Guerrilla Will but then I change my mind and write a handwritten letter to Willem.
Dear Willem: