Until I Find You

eight years before, or that (when Jack was four) he truly saw his father fall to the ground with both hands holding his broken heart.

“Don’t cry, Jackie—don’t cry!” Els called to him from her second-floor window, but Jack had dropped to his knees on the Sint Jacobsstraat. He was still waving good-bye, and Els kept waving back to him.

Richard and Wild Bill were struggling to get Jack to his feet, but Wild Bill was drunk. Richard, in addition to his jet lag, had been knocking back the red wine, too.

“You’re her little boy?” Richard was asking, but Jack was waving good-bye to his dad and couldn’t answer; Jack’s heart was in his throat.

“You actually know this lady?” Wild Bill asked, losing his balance and sitting down in the street. Richard was holding Jack under one arm, but he let go. Jack just lay in the street beside Wild Bill; Jack was still waving.

“Jackie, Jackie—your mother loved you!” Els was calling. “As best she could!”

It was Wild Bill’s pretty anchorwoman who finally helped Jack to his feet; she’d laid off the red wine, Jack had noticed. “For God’s sake, stop waving to that old hooker!” Anneke said. “Stop encouraging her!”

“She was my nanny!” Jack blubbered.

“She was his what?” Wild Bill asked Richard.

“His babysitter,” Richard explained.

“Marvelous!” Wild Bill exclaimed.

“Oh, shut up, Bill! Can’t you see he’s crying?” Anneke asked The Mad Dutchman.

“Jack, why are you crying?” Wild Bill asked.

“She looked after me while my mother was working,” Jack told them.

“Working where? Working here?” Richard asked.

“My mom worked in a window, in one of those doorways—back there,” Jack said, pointing in the general direction of the red-light district. “My mother was a prostitute,” he told them.

“I thought his mom was a tattoo artist!” Wild Bill said to Richard.

“She was a tattoo artist, too,” Jack said. “She wasn’t a prostitute for very long, but she was one.”

Jack began to wave good-bye to Els again, but Anneke wrapped her arms around him; she pinned his arms to his sides. “For God’s sake, stop!” the anchorwoman said.

“Come back and see me before I die, Jackie!” Els was calling.

Wild Bill was still sitting in the street. He had begun to wave good-bye to Els, too, but Anneke kicked him. “What a great idea, Bill!” she said. “You give a tour of the red-light district to a guy whose mom was a whore!”

“Well, I didn’t know!” Wild Bill shouted. Richard helped him to his feet; Anneke removed a candy-bar wrapper from Vanvleck’s long, gray ponytail.

They were walking away from Els in her window, toward the red-light district; that was the most direct way back to the Grand. Richard, who was walking beside Jack, put his arm around him. “Are you all right, Jack?” Richard asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Jack told him.

But Richard was sober enough to be worried about Jack, and they were fast becoming friends. “When you get back to L.A., I know someone you could see,” Richard said.

“Do you mean a psychiatrist?” Jack asked.

“Dr. Garcia knows actors,” Richard said. “You wouldn’t be her first movie star.”

The waving good-bye had stopped, but Jack could still see Els lifting his dad off the pavement and carrying him like a child to Femke’s Mercedes. (In all probability, Alice had put Jack down on the deck and the boy could no longer see over the ship’s rail.) The damp night air blew into Jack’s face, like ocean air—like the air blowing all the way from Rotterdam to Montreal, which was where the ship was heading.

Jack heard the women and girls in their windows and doorways calling out his name, but he just kept walking. “Brilliant!” Jack heard Richard say once, for no apparent reason.

Anneke was holding Jack’s arm again—this time as if to shield him from the greetings of the prostitutes. “When you get back to the hotel, just go straight to bed and try to forget about it,” Anneke whispered to him.

“Good night, my dears!” Wild Bill was calling to the red-light women.

Jack would forever feel the movement of the ship pulling out of the harbor—the deck rolling under his four- year-old feet, Rotterdam receding. How he wanted to see his father’s Herbert Hoffmann—the tattoo William got in Hamburg, if he got one. A sailing ship seen from the stern; the ship would be pulling away from shore. Hoffmann’s Sailor’s Grave or his Last Port—a tattoo like that was what William would have wanted. Jack felt pretty sure about it. That was when Jack knew he would have to find him.

In Beverly Hills, the sun was now high enough in the sky that the slanted rays of light no longer came in the open windows. Miss Wurtz’s painted toenails were a less-bright shade of rose-pink. The black piano had taken on a more somber tone—less like a pool of oil, more like a coffin. But even without direct sunlight, the Oscar standing beside their bare feet on the glass-topped table was no less gold—no less dazzling.

“I know that William saw you last night, Jack,” Miss Wurtz was saying. “I don’t care what time of night or early morning it was in Europe, if that’s where he is. I just know that he wouldn’t have missed seeing you.”

Caroline got up from the couch and kissed Jack on the forehead; holding her bathrobe tightly to her throat, she bent over and kissed Oscar on the top of his gleaming head. “I’m going to go to sleep, you two,” she said.

Jack watched her walk across the living room, her hand trailing lightly for a moment on the keys of the black piano; there was just the tinkling of those soft notes before she went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Jack got up and went into his bedroom and closed the door; he left the curtains closed, but he opened the windows. Some light came into the bedroom when the breeze stirred the curtains, and he could hear the sound of a hose; below him, in the garden, someone was watering the flowers. Oscar lay down beside Jack. The statuette had its own pillow. Jack looked at Oscar lying there, holding his alleged sword. In the dim light, Oscar looked like a dead soldier; maybe his comrades had found him on the battlefield and laid his body to rest in a dignified pose.

Jack slept until the phone woke him that Monday afternoon. It was Richard. Jack had forgotten that he and Vanvleck and Richard had agreed to go to a sound studio to record the commentary track for the DVD of their film. They had to screen the entire movie, pausing it occasionally, while they talked about the intention behind this shot or that scene—how a particular moment had come about, or how this line of dialogue or voice-over had actually been moved from somewhere else.

Jack took a shower and got dressed. He put the Oscar on the piano, on top of a note of explanation to Miss Wurtz; she was still sleeping. They would have dinner together—maybe with Richard and Wild Bill, Jack said in the note. So that no one would steal the Oscar or wake up Miss Wurtz, Jack left the DO NOT DISTURB card on the door to the suite; at the front desk, he told them not to put through any calls.

Then he walked out into the harsh sunlight, and joined Richard and Wild Bill in the limo for the ride to the sound studio. Wild Bill had a bad hangover, which had not been improved by Anneke getting sick in the middle of the night. “Something she ate,” Wild Bill told them. “I wish I’d eaten it, too. I wish it had killed me.”

Richard told Jack that no hangover was as bad as not winning the Oscar.

It seemed to take hours to record the DVD commentary. As when Jack first met with Richard and Wild Bill in Amsterdam, his heart wasn’t in it. But Jack liked the movie they had made together, and when he watched the film, he remembered how it had all come about.

“Whose idea was this?” Wild Bill would say, from time to time.

“Yours, I think,” Richard would tell him.

It went pretty well, all things considered. Wild Bill’s hangover seemed to go away, or else he rose to the occasion. In a short while, Vanvleck was doing most of the talking. There was almost a half hour when Wild Bill just talked nonstop; it was amazing what he could remember. But hearing the Dutchman’s voice like that was oddly dislocating. Jack could almost hear him asking, “You actually know this lady?”

Or when Jack had explained (that night in the Sint Jacobsstraat) that Els had been his nanny, how Wild Bill had asked Richard: “She was his what?”

“Jack, why are you crying?” The Mad Dutchman had also asked.

Here they were in Hollywood, in a sound studio, and Wild Bill Vanvleck was going on about how they’d made