The Faces of Strangers (10 page)

In the afternoon when the students were dismissed, Paavo found Nico in the darkening lane.

“Come,” Paavo said. “We will go for a walk around Old Town before we go home. How was the day?”

“Good,” Nico said. “But, dude, Estonian? Kicked my ass. I don't know if I'm going to make it through.”

“I can help you,” Paavo said, as he led the way up a long paved cobblestone alleyway. He waited for Nico to walk alongside him as they walked in tandem and approached a long, paved cobblestone street. “
Tere.
I'm sure you know that one by now.”

“
Tere.
Hello
,
”
Nico answered.

“Kuidas sul läheb?”

“Yeah, you lost me,” Nico said. They were walking up an incline and Nico could feel his breath quickening.

“It was ‘how are you?'” Paavo said. He pointed out the black-domed church that appeared to stand sentry over the city. “There is the Aleksandr Nevsky Cathedral that we passed this morning. And here is the main square of the town, Raekoja plats.” The only open space that Nico had seen since entering the narrow streets of Old Town loomed in front of him, holding a few lonely tables in front of some sleepy restaurants. “Stay with me. It is easy to get lost in these streets for your first time.”

“I thought New Yorkers walked fast, but you are serious, man. You're on a mission,” Nico said.

“There is a lot to see,” Paavo said, glancing at his watch. “And we have homework.” Paavo pointed toward a side street. “Let's go this way.” Nico was walking so close to Paavo that he felt his body tense at the next turn. A group of boys stood at the corner, their backs turned toward Paavo and Nico. Paavo picked up his pace.

“Actually, this way. Quick, quick.”

“What's going on, Paavo? Why are we running? We don't have that much homework.”

“It's nothing,” Paavo panted. “It's good to exercise, no?”

“Well, sure, but I thought I was getting a tour.”

“Yes, sure. There is St. Olav's Church. The Russians used the tower to send messages during the Cold War.” He pointed up at a tall metallic spire as he jogged quickly by.

“Hang on,” Nico said, lagging back. “I want to look at it.”

“There is time later. Or tomorrow. I want to show you this building.” They approached a stained, gray building that took up the majority of the block, the windows on the street level boarded up. There were a few metal-framed terraces on the higher floors that looked as though they might come hurtling down at the slightest touch. “Around this way.” Paavo led the way down a street and they found themselves in a back alleyway facing a set of stairs that spiraled down. Nico followed Paavo as they descended below street level into what appeared to be an abandoned cellar. Wooden boards blocked the rectangular windows and Nico was sure he heard rats squeaking in the corners. He wasn't skittish, but no one liked rats.

Paavo turned and smiled at Nico in the gloom. Why had Nico followed him down here unwittingly? What was about to happen? “This,” Paavo said, smiling at Nico in the gloom, “is very special. Do you know where you are?”

“Not a clue. I need to catch my breath.”

“This is the former headquarters of the KGB.”

“No shit,” Nico said, looking around. It was hard to see; the bulbs appeared to have been burned out, and the only light peeked from behind the boards in front of the windows. “It's just open like this?”

“Well, technically we're trespassing.” Paavo smirked. “But I wanted to show you before the government makes it completely inaccessible.”

Nico stepped forward and then immediately back as his foot hit something.

“I know there's not much to see,” Paavo said.

“That's okay. It's still pretty cool.” Nico walked around, kicking at the debris around him with his sneaker. “How long has it been abandoned like this?”

“At least ten years. There was a fight over who was going to own it after Estonia became independent. They're trying to make it a historic site. In a few years, I bet we'll have to pay tickets to get in here. That church I pointed out before? That was used by the KGB to send radio transmissions.”

“Yeah, I barely saw it. You wanna tell me why we're running? Who were those guys?”

“I just saw some guys,” Paavo said, running his fingers over dark spots on the wall. “Just some not-so-nice guys. It's not a big deal. It's just better to avoid them.”

“Do they go to Eesti?”

“They dropped out.”

“Are they bothering you?” Nico stepped closer so he could see Paavo's face.

“They're fine. They are just people I would rather avoid.”

As the boys walked out of Old Town, Nico could feel the tug of winter once again. His skin prickled, craving the sun. It was a blot in the sky, huddled behind the clouds as though seeking its own warmth. The grayness of the day had been a precursor to the pitch that had now taken over the afternoon. Nico felt drawn and wan, his skin like paper in the drought of light. In the morning, the roofs in Old Town had been red brick, the sun pushing through to illuminate them, but now, everything was drab and colorless. The afternoon was like the opening credits of
The Wizard of Oz
, before Dorothy discovers the magical land of Technicolor. But he put his head down to fend off the breeze that had picked up and was snaking its way through the narrow streets of Old Town and followed closely at Paavo's heels out of the maze.

NORA

New York
City
September 2002

Looking at a face felt to Nora like having to find your way out of a maze, the way a mouse in an experiment raced the clock in a lab. Nora had to add features, voice, stature and posture in adequate time before she passed that point of awkwardness where it became clear that she was scrutinizing someone a little too closely. Her brain felt scrambled; she couldn't think clearly, or keep up with what was being said to her before she could properly identify the appropriate person. But as difficult as it was to admit it to Stella, the few meetings she'd had with the group had been useful. For one, she hadn't felt quite as alone as she had before she'd walked into the meeting room at Mount Sinai. Even though the members of the group remained consistent, each meeting started the same way, with introductions. Nora didn't feel as helpless within the walls of that room as she did once she left the meetings. Nicknames were okay—there were no penalties for forgetting faces or names. And another thing, the girl with the red hair had suggested using clues to identify people. Forget faces or body types, she'd said. Have your family wear jewelry, something that they always have on them that can help you know who they are.

“Apparently,” Nora said at the dinner table that evening, “I need clues.” Arthur stopped chewing and put his fork down. It was the first time in a long time that Nora had shown any sign of wanting to make progress. “Apparently, while I inherently know who you are, you can help me by being consistent and familiar so that I can recognize you. Ginger Spice said that things like wearing glasses or having freckles are markers that can help me identify you.”

Arthur glanced down at his hands. “What about my wedding band?”

“Lots of men have wedding bands, Dad,” Nora said.

“How about these?” Stella asked, pointing to the gold star studs in her ears. “These pretty much go with everything anyway. I won't take them off.”

“I don't know, Mom. So you're never going to change your earrings ever again? That's stupid. Maybe we should just forget I said anything,” Nora said. “I'm not a moron.”

“Honey, of course not. But you know who we are within the confines of this apartment. If we're outside, this exercise can help. I think it's a great idea. And it can be our family secret. No one else has to know,” Stella said, taking her hand.

“What if I don't shave my mustache?” Arthur offered. “I've sort of been toying with keeping it around this time.”

“What do you think, Nor?”

“That's fine,” Nora said.

This evening, Nora lay in bed for a long time. Her parents were due back from work in an hour or so, and the apartment was silent except for the clanging of some pipes in the walls, which echoed through her bedroom. She thought she should probably get started on dinner. While she only had group twice a week, she was satisfied to remain within the triangular path she'd forged between the library, the grocery store and the Grands' apartment. If she was going to stay home, she had promised her parents that she would read and keep up with her degree as much as she could on her own, and help with the shopping and make dinner each night. The library and the grocery store were relatively safe within the realm of her neighborhood. She didn't run the risk of bumping into many people she might know.

At least she didn't have to deal with the Estonian boy for another four months, when Nicholas returned with him in the new year. He would just be another face to remember. Rather, a new face to forget. She didn't have to worry about him until he was here in the flesh. But for now, there was something else to worry about. She reached under her pillow and pulled the corner of the envelope out between two fingers as through it were a piece of dirty laundry.

The envelope felt alive, as though it was throbbing from within. She knew its contents; she'd opened it the previous day when it had arrived in the afternoon post. She could feel the raised letters of the card under her fingertips.

Claire Evelyn French and Benjamin Jerome Reilly request the pleasure of your company at their upcoming nuptials.

The whole thing certainly wasn't news; Claire had gotten engaged the previous semester, though what the rush was to get engaged and then married while still in college, Nora couldn't quite understand. The fact that Claire and Ben wouldn't have children until at least a decade later was proof that they certainly didn't need to rush into anything.

But what was tacit in Nora's understanding was that she would be Claire's maid of honor. The two girls had imagined and envisioned this day for nearly as many years as they had been friends, and it certainly wasn't out of jealousy that she was having this reaction. It was out of fear. A wedding was a joyous occasion, but to Nora, it was almost worse than the prospect of returning to college. A wedding was a reunion. There would be hordes of their friends and classmates there. Familiar faces. That word had become anathema to Nora;
familiar
no longer existed.

After she opened the invitation, Nora grabbed her yearbook and began cataloging her friends in the face book that Nicky had given her. She started off furiously, with the zeal of a manic artist, copying names, analyzing hair color and eye position. She made a note to ask Claire for the guest list so she could include everyone from their high school in order to begin memorizing features as soon as possible.

Jason Levy (ex-boyfriend):

Porcelain skin

Underbite

Pear-shaped mole on side of neck

Jenna Raines:

Gap in top two front teeth

Cupid's-bow lips

Perpetually rosy cheeks

She had to be prepared; a maid of honor had to know faces and names, had to greet people. She would have to make a speech, referencing people in the room and hugging and kissing family and friends. But she wasn't sure she was capable of all that. And apparently, she wasn't the only one.

The buzzer to the apartment went off, startling her thoughts. “It's Claire,” the tinny voice from the other end echoed through the speaker. Thank goodness for that announcement, Nora thought. It prepared her for who was about to step through the doors of the elevator. Her best friend stepped into the foyer, holding up a bag with the logo from the French bakery in Little Italy, an anomaly of a shop that had clung fiercely on amidst all the tourist-trap, Bolognese-bearing restaurants festooned with red, white and green flags ever since they had both attended preschool down the street.

“Surprise,” Claire said. “I come bearing butter in pastry form.” The two settled on opposite ends of the broken-in couch in the comfortable den, leaning against the arms with their legs entwined. Nora held her camera in her lap, feeding film into the spool.

“Ready for your close-up?” she asked. Claire brushed the crumbs off her lap and stood up. “Let's go near the window, where the lighting is best.”

Photography was a relatively new endeavor that being a part of the group had introduced to Nora, though it was not for art's sake itself, but so she could literally put a face to a name. At the Chuck Close exhibit she'd attended with the group the month before, she'd learned that the artist suffered from the same disorder that they all did. It turned out that he was one of those annoying people who wouldn't allow a disability to just be. Close fought through it, forcing himself to paint faces so that he had to confront his demons head-on.
No pun intended,
Nora thought to herself. But the exhibit turned out to be helpful. Just like Chuck Close, Nora realized that a face wasn't so intimidating when it was two-dimensional, when it was capable of being flattened on a canvas or a photograph. She took Arthur's old Pentax out of retirement from his office desk drawer and began cataloging her social and familial circle.

“Listen,” Claire said, as Nora rewound the film before placing it in a canister to be developed. “This is by no means me retracting my invitation for you to be my maid of honor, okay? But I completely understand if it's too much right now. There's absolutely no pressure. I know you have a lot going on, and the last thing I want to do is to add to it.”

“I'm fine,” Nora said. “Or at least I hope to be by December 12.”

“Really?” Claire cocked her head.

Nora pressed her thumb into the flakes left behind from a
pain au chocolat.
She poked her tongue around the corners of her mouth. She willed herself not to get upset. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to know? It's been over a year, Claire. Do you think I'm doing any better? Be honest.”

“Well, that's why I don't want to add any more stress.”

“I promise I won't embarrass you,” Nora said, pulling her legs down to the floor and crumpling up the paper bag. Tiny pastry shavings scattered to the floor like snow. She looked at her friend, whose face was twisted in concern. Nora stared and stared at Claire's heart-shaped hairline, the tiny freckle on the end of her nose, the indent at the tip of her chin. Other than the fact that she knew that her best friend was sitting on this couch, she couldn't identify her at all.

“It's not that, Nor,” Claire said.

“I said I'd be fine.” One of the many awful aspects of prosopagnosia were that people treated her like a baby, as though it was more than just faces that she didn't know. They acted as though she'd forgotten how to live, how to behave around people anymore, that she couldn't remember how to hold a spoon or how to locate her nose.

The other end of the spectrum was that people thought she was antisocial. They translated her avoidance of making eye contact as unfriendly and rude. No matter how many times she explained her condition she came away feeling as though it wasn't a disorder but just an invalid excuse.

Claire stood and hugged Nora and let herself out. The air was tense in the moments after she'd all but retracted her invitation to Nora to be her maid of honor, but Nora had to admit that she couldn't blame her. It was more than a title. She would be responsible for ushering in the bridesmaids, ensuring that they were dressed and ready. And she certainly couldn't do that if she wasn't able to identify any of them.

For now, she wasn't sure what she would do. Nora sat on the couch as the room darkened from the sun's descent behind the Hudson River. She held the invitation in one hand and her notebook in the other, as though her hands were a pair of scales.