13 Little Blue Envelopes(48)

The Heineken factory. Every quarter. Every park. Every

canal. Every night, she listened to Mr. Knapp say something like, “You know, even if you had a whole month, you still couldn’t do this city justice.”

Ginny almost wept with joy when she found out that day

five on the Knapp Tour of Amsterdam had been marked down

as a “free day.” Phil vanished after breakfast, and by eight, Olivia was already changing into her special high-tech running clothes. Ginny sat on the bed and watched, trying to convince herself not to lie back down and go to sleep for the entire day.

She still had to find the mysterious Piet and also to send a 217

note to Keith. She’d been wanting to for days but hadn’t managed to escape long enough to do it.

“What are you doing today?” Olivia said.

Ginny looked up with a start.

“I was . . . going to send some e-mail,” she said.

“So was I, after my run. There’s a big Internet café a few streets over. I’m going there later. If you want, we can split a day pass. It’s cheaper that way.”

Olivia provided directions to the Internet café, and Ginny went over—after allowing herself a long shower and a chance to carefully braid her hair.

After sending Keith a note, Ginny switched on the messenger program and then killed an hour or so just surfing. It felt like . . . drugs . . . even better than the magazine and music a few nights before. It almost scared her how much she missed looking at the same stupid sites.

There was a bleep as Keith came online.

well how is a’dam?

Adam? she wrote.

amsterdam you twit.

Suddenly, Miriam’s IM profile lit up as well.

OH MY GOD ARE YOU THERE? she wrote.

Ginny almost screamed. She immediately put her fingers on the keys to answer, then drew them back, as if she had been scalded.

She couldn’t communicate with anyone from the U.S.

online.

WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING? Miriam wrote.

218

YOU CAN’T WRITE TO ME, CAN YOU?

OH MY GOD.

OKAY.

IF YOU’RE THERE, LOG ON AND LOG OFF REALLY FAST.

She tried to quickly log on and off, but the computer was slow. She groaned in frustration. When she finally came back, a few messages from Keith quickly popped up.

hello?

do I offend?

where did you go?

have to go anyway

No, I am here . . . she wrote.

But it was too late. He was already off.

Miriam was still there, though, cyber-screaming.

I AM TOUCHING THE SCREEN. I MISS YOU SO MUCH.

Ginny felt her eyes tearing up. This was so stupid. Her best friend was right there, and Keith was gone.

She put her fingers on the keys. She started typing quickly, one line after another.

I’m not supposed to do this but I can’t stand it

I miss you too

things are so complicated

ARE YOU OKAY?

Fine.

I GOT YOUR LETTERS. WHERE IS KEITH? DO YOU LOVE HIM?

I think he’s still in Paris. He’s just Keith.

WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? I SO WANT TO COME

THERE.

It means I’ll probably never see him again.

219

WHY NOT?

Ginny jumped to see Olivia suddenly sitting next to her.

“Done?” she asked.

“Um . . .”

Olivia looked kind of impatient, and Ginny’s guilt reflex managed to kick in.

I have to go. I miss you.

MISS YOU TOO.

A few minutes later, after giving the computer to Olivia, she was back out on the street. The sudden contact left her numb, and she had a hard time uprooting herself from her spot on the sidewalk, so bikes and backpackers and people on cell phones wove around her.

There was still something to be done. Where was Piet?

Who was Piet? Piet was somewhere back at the museum, so

that’s where Ginny headed . . . back to the massive

Rijksmuseum.

What had she missed? What else was there? Paintings.

People. Names.

And guards.

Guards. The people who looked at the paintings all the

time. The guard in this room was a sage-looking old man with a white beard. Ginny went up to him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course.”

“Are you Piet?”

“Piet?” he repeated. “He’s in seventeenth-century still life.

Three rooms down.”

Ginny practically ran down the hall. There was a young guard 220

with a tiny goatee standing in the corner of the room, playing with his belt buckle. When asked if he was Piet, he narrowed his eyes and nodded.

“Can I ask you about The Night Watch?”

“What about it?” he asked.

“Just . . . about it? Do you guard it?”

“Sometimes,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Did a woman ever ask you about it?”

“Lots of people ask me about it,” he said. “What do you want?”

Ginny didn’t know what she wanted.

“Just anything,” she said. “What you think about it.”

“It’s just part of my life,” he said with a shrug. “I see it every day. I don’t think about it.”