The Faces of Strangers (2 page)

“Nico, man, we'll figure it out,” Mason says softly, breaking into Nico's thoughts. “But I can't cover your ass properly unless I know the truth.”

“But this is insane. There's no proof of anything. I knew her when I was sixteen. It was a lifetime ago. I didn't even start it.
She
...she used me.” There are a thousand things to say, and Nico is saying them all at once. When he closes his eyes again, Mari has disappeared, but the infamous Latin term flashes in his vision like an LED sign:
ignorantia juris non excusat.
Ignorance of the law does not excuse.

“So you
did
have relations with her.”

“Stop talking to me like some Clintonian. It's not like that. It's not like anything!”

Ivy is searching Nico with her eyes and she sits on the armchair facing him on the bed just as he slams the laptop shut.

“Look, I think it's best if you forget about the photo op for now. Lay low for a few hours until I figure some things out. Promise me you'll stay put.”

Nico promises. Mason hangs up, but Nico keeps the phone to his ear. He wants to keep this to himself for as long as he can. The moment he puts the phone down, Ivy will rush in and insert herself into the situation, demanding to know every last iota. But there is nothing Nico can do now to stave her off. She will find out eventually. She'll try to make sense of it all calmly and rationally at first, like the lawyer she's been trained as, but eventually her anger will mount and she will erupt like a steam kettle. And just as Ivy will find out, so will everyone else: the whole city and constituency, his family, Paavo.

He thinks back—it's been what? Over eleven years since he was in Estonia for the Hallström program, a third of his life ago. He has memories of Estonia, the long bovine vowels that make up the language, the burn of Viru Valge as it traveled down his throat, and of course, Paavo, his exchange partner. He hasn't spoken to Paavo in a few years. There'd been a rift, and while Nico had tried to understand and repair it, things just got so busy. He was writing speeches, and then he was making speeches, and before he knew it, he met Ivy and she was encouraging him to run for city office. Which he's doing now. Or at least he's trying to.

He feels a cold chill run through his entire body, as though he's sitting on a roller coaster and it has just peaked at the top of its parabolic climb and is about to tip over. Is this what his sister Nora wanted to talk to him about a few months ago? That must have been it. Unlike him, Nora has stayed close to Paavo. Their bond—once created when Paavo had first come to New York those eleven years ago—has strengthened over the years, and Nico is ashamed to admit that she now knows more about Paavo's life than Nico does of his own exchange partner. Nora knew, and despite the code of therapist-patient ethics to which she usually steadfastly adheres, she had suggested rather intently that Nico reach out to Paavo and Mari. Until now, Nico had no idea as to why.

But he'd tried, hadn't he? He'd emailed and called. He'd even gone to Estonia to meet with Paavo face-to-face and when Paavo hadn't been there, Nico had returned to New York City and thrown himself headfirst into schmoozing with politicos and potential donors. He got too busy mobilizing field organizers and wooing supporters to follow up. He's been too busy cozying up with Ivy in trendy restaurants with overpriced cocktails. He's been too busy choosing his bespoke suits and neckties.

He stares at his suit where it hangs on the rack, looking shameful and despondent. It, along with the other beautiful garments in various shades of gray that he'd had to learn upon their purchase—charcoal, ash, smoke, birch—has cost hundreds of dollars. It feels like such a waste, like everything else he has worked toward: the campaigning, the speeches, the countless hours he has spent on his public image. It is all about to come crashing down. He clutches the phone to his ear and nods, concentrating on a spot on the floor. If he can carry the farce on a little longer on the phone, he can buy some time before he's forced to face Ivy. If he continues pretending that nothing is wrong, maybe he can start believing his own lie.

But he can't deny what happened in Estonia all those years ago. He can't help but catapult his mind back to his junior year of high school when he stepped off a plane onto a sliver of land half the size of the state of Maine. It had been an experience, as he told his mother it would be when he had signed up for the exchange program. But apparently this experience has stretched far beyond the year that the program was supposed to take place. Nothing could have prepared him for how the Hallström student exchange program would change his life.

August 2002

HEADLOCK12 would like to chat. Accept?

HEADLOCK12: Hi...is this Paavo?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Yes. Is this Nico?

HEADLOCK12: It's actually Nicholas.

EESTIRIDDLER723: In Estonia, the name is Nico.

HEADLOCK12: I kind of prefer Nicholas. Anyway, Ms. Rothenberg sent me your screen name, so I thought I'd say hi. How's it going?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Hi, it is nice to talk to you. I look forward to coming to New York.

HEADLOCK12: Same. And I'm excited about Tallinn.

EESTIRIDDLER723: So you are a wrestler?

HEADLOCK12: Yep, I'm on the team at school. I've won my division a few times. But mostly it's just nice to be a part of a team.

HEADLOCK12: What about you? Do you play any sports?

EESTIRIDDLER723: No. I am more intellectual.

HEADLOCK12: Ouch.

EESTIRIDDLER723: Oh, I did not mean to offend you. Perhaps I should say that I am not much of an athlete.

HEADLOCK12: Gotcha.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I'm actually quite poor at sports. My father was always trying to get me to play football—what you call soccer. And I was always trying to be the goalie so that I didn't have to run. I'm more into riddles.

HEADLOCK12: What, like, why did the chicken cross the road?

EESTIRIDDLER723: That's a joke. I mean brainteasers. Like, when you see me, you don't see anybody. When you see everybody, you can't see me. What am I?

HEADLOCK12: I give up. What?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Fog.

HEADLOCK12: Ah, I get it.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I'm as big as a house, as light as a feather. What am I?

HEADLOCK12: I'm not very good at these. What?

EESTIRIDDLER723: Smoke.

EESTIRIDDLER723: So is New York like it is in the movies?

HEADLOCK12: I guess that depends on the movie. But it is the best city in the world. No offense.

EESTIRIDDLER723: None taken. I can hardly compare the likes of Tallinn to a bustling metropolis like New York.

HEADLOCK12: Your English is very good.

EESTIRIDDLER723: Thank you. In Estonia, we take lessons since the first standard. It's compulsory in all schools here. I have been reading English books all summer.

HEADLOCK12: You really are a bookworm. :) It's cool that you read in English too.

EESTIRIDDLER723: I am fluent in Russian as well. It was compulsory until 1991 but I speak it because my father's parents are originally from Russia. They don't speak Estonian.

HEADLOCK12: This might be a stupid question, but is Estonian hard to learn?

EESTIRIDDLER723: I don't really know. I grew up speaking it. But I will help you. You will take a class while you're here.

HEADLOCK12: Cool. Hey I gotta run, but I guess I'll see you at orientation?

EESTIRIDDLER723: A free trip to Berlin. No complaints from me.

HEADLOCK12: Yeah, totally. See you then.

HEADLOCK12 signed off.

EESTIRIDDLER723 signed off.

NICHOLAS

New York
City
September 2002

The morning that Nicholas Grand set off for a semester in Estonia was like every other. At the table, his father, Arthur, chugged coffee in an effort to use the bathroom as the first step in his morning ablutions. His mother bounced around the kitchen like a pinball, pocketing a ring of keys, absently fingering the same gold-starred studs in her ears that she wore every day as she sorted through a stack of bills. His sister, Nora, pulled at a stray thread in the tablecloth, mussed and unsettled by the anticipation of the first meeting of a support group for other people just like her.

Although it was only eight o'clock, the air was already hazy and hot—an unseasonable September morning. Nicholas could feel perspiration collecting in his armpits as he sat slumped in a chair like the melted butter that was pooling in the dish on the table. Stella swooped in and collected the butter crock, depositing it in the fridge.

“Mo-om,” Nora bleated, her tone echoing a pair of bellows fanning a fire. “I kept that out on purpose. I hate hard butter. My toast always tears.”

“That butter was Dali-esque—practically drinkable,” Stella admonished. “Nicholas, did you eat? It's a long flight.”

“There'll be food on the plane, Mom.” It took effort just to speak. Nicholas felt as if he was talking through a bowl of tepid soup; the humidity had already risen to unspeakable levels. One of the few comforts of going to a place as random and as far north as Estonia was that the country scarcely appeared to even have a summer at all.

Stella paused in her undulations to place a maternal hand on Nicholas's shoulder. Her hand hung like a wet mop against his damp T-shirt. “Are you sure you don't want me to go to the airport with you?”

“The program is sending a car. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

Stella pinged over to her daughter. “Nora, don't be late for your first day of group,” she said. “First impressions are lasting.”

“It's not like they're going to remember who I am,” Nora said. She collected her wet hair into a tight, tidy cocoon against the nape of her neck with one hand and stroked the little black notebook by her side with the other. “It's downright cruel, making us sit around learning new faces when we can't remember the ones we are supposed to know.”

“Remember what Dr. Li said about seeking support from others who understand,” Stella said, putting her other hand on her daughter's shoulder. “It'll be good to have some cohesion and routine to your week. I'm sure it'll get easier.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “I better go get ready,” she said. “Have fun in Commieville, Nicky.”

“STD!” Nicholas shouted gleefully.

“Seriously? You're actually going to call that out every time?” Nora asked.

“Ste-re-o-typed. STD. Every time you make a generalization about Paavo, yes, I will. In fact, anytime anyone makes a generalization about him. It's not fair. We don't know anything about him. So be nice.”

“What kind of a name is Paavo?”

“STD!”

“That's not a stereotype,” Nora pointed out. “It was a question of clarification. If you're going to shout out that offensive acronym every time, at least let it mean something.”

“Whatever,” Nicholas said. “I better head down, too.” The family clustered around him, administering kisses and hugs.

“Try everything once, Nicholas,” Arthur advised. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I wish I'd had the chance to do this at your age.”

“Call us when you get there,” Stella said. “Maybe we should have gotten you a cell phone.”

“Mom, I'll keep in touch. I'm sure the Sokolovs have a telephone. It's not like I'm going to the Amazon or something.” Nicholas crawled his way out of the huddle. “I'll see you guys in December.”

* * *

Nicholas had been hoping to catch his breath on the drive to the airport. His mother had insisted on coming down to the street to see him off, and he'd been embarrassed when she pulled back from the hug that had lasted a few beats too long to see tears shimmering in her eyes. He reminded Stella—again—that he would only be gone for four months. But once the driver of the shiny black Town Car deposited his suitcase in the trunk, he was surprised to feel the tiniest lump in his own throat. He'd even gotten a little emotional the night before, hanging out with Toby and his wrestling buddies. In the den, Carmine's eyes were already glazing over from the pot he had smoked before arriving at Nicholas's house. He was a large, lunkheaded boy with an exceedingly good nature. From the moment Nicholas had met him, he'd reminded him of Lennie from
Of Mice and Men
.

“Hey, Lefty, you gonna wrestle over there?” he asked Nicholas, prodding him in the side with his elbow.

“I don't know,” Nicholas said. “Paavo said his school doesn't have a team, but that he thinks there are club teams around the city I could join. Though I gotta say it doesn't seem worth it.”

“I bet your coach would be happy if you kept it up,” Toby pointed out. He grabbed a handful of potato chips and fed them to himself one at a time somewhat daintily, rubbing his hands together to shed the excess grease. “Though in a country of a million and a half people, the odds of finding another left-handed wrestler in your weight class are pretty slim.”

“Forget wrestling; I bet the girls are smoking,” Chen said.

“What about the sister?” Carmine asked. “Didn't you say she's a model or something?” He tried to sit up slightly but his heavy shoulders pulled him back into the sofa.

“That's what Paavo said. But that doesn't mean she's hot,” Nicholas pointed out.

“Lefty, please,” Toby said, grabbing another handful of chips. “Of course she's hot. Estonia has more models per capita than any other country.”

“Why and how do you know that?” Nicholas asked.

“Common knowledge,” Toby shrugged. “And
Maxim
.”

“Yeah, but Estonia has like, a million people,” Nicholas said.

“Exactly. And with that statistic, it means that a higher percentage of them are hot. The odds are in your favor.”

“Yeah, go give up your V card, tiger.” Carmine growled, and the boys joined in, ribbing and poking him.

“How do you know I still have it, jackass?” Nicholas shot back. He still did, of course. Though he'd dated a modest number of girls, he hadn't gotten anywhere near losing his virginity. He had to admit, the prospect of starting new in a place without a shared history was exciting. He'd be the new kid, an exotic American. He could use that to his advantage.

Nicholas looked around at his friends and felt a pang of sympathy that they would be left behind in the drudgery of the eleventh grade at the Manhattan School of Science while he went forth into the world to learn new things and gain invaluable experiences. Who knew if they would ever be the same together again—shrewd, calculating Chen; sharp but lazy Carmine; and affable, overachieving, ever-loyal Toby. Even saying goodbye to them had been a strange departure from their straight-faced, unemotional relationships. Nicholas felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and turned his head away to take a long swig of soda, but the bubbles released up his nose and pressed upon his tear ducts even harder. Chen had even hugged him properly instead of issuing the closed-fist punch trademarked by adolescent boys who refused to show any form of emotion.

* * *

But Nicholas had to be strong. He couldn't walk into this new experience weak-kneed and watery-eyed. He stepped into the car, welcoming the time and the space during the ten-hour flight to Tallinn to gather his thoughts and expectations, but he realized he wasn't alone.

Barbara Rothenberg was pressed compactly behind the driver's seat, her stilt-like legs crossed at the knee. Her perfectly coiffed static helmet of silver hair curled just beneath her chin and neckline, defining her as one of those women people called “handsome,” especially with her judicious use of pantsuits. She reached over to Nicholas and pressed his biceps with her hand, as if assessing him for a fight. It was a strange greeting: a cross between a hug and a handshake. Despite having met her a few times, the director of the Hallström program remained a complete mystery to Nicholas.

“Aren't you excited?” Barbara asked, her keen gray eyes glistening. “Aren't you positively bubbling over? How are you? How are you feeling?”

After that setup, Nicholas thought, you weren't really allowed to feel anything else. “I'm good,” he said. “I think it's going to be great. I'm really stoked for the experience. But I didn't realize you were taking me to the airport.”

“I escort all students on the first day of the semester,” she said, using her index finger to scrub at some lipstick that had strayed onto her incisors.

The last time Nicholas had seen Barbara had been at the home visit this past June. He had skipped wrestling practice and headed home to find Stella frantically tossing throw pillows into what she hoped would appear to be an intentionally haphazard pile, collecting magazines into two teetering but thoughtful towers flanking the coffee table and slicing lemons into circles before the doorbell rang. Barbara not-so-surreptitiously gave Stella a startlingly disparaging once-over from head to toe before she stepped inside. The home visit, she had told Nicholas, would be a mere formality since his grades had already been vetted, he'd passed all three of his one-on-one interviews, and now they just had to meet the members of the family who would host one very lucky boy from either Estonia, Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic or Russia. Nicholas would go to his home for four months, and then he would come to stay with the Grands for the remainder of the school year.

It had been clear that Barbara was trying to remain solemn, but the pretense fell immediately after she walked through the entryway that led from the elevator into the apartment. Nicholas always steeled himself when friends visited his home for the first time. He knew that the apartment that his parents had purchased many years ago, when New York City was considered a den of iniquity, had been a wise decision. The soaring ceilings took breaths away, the cavernous foyer was the size of most people's entire apartments, and the fact that his home had three living rooms awed most visitors to the Grand home into silence. When the elevator door opened to deliverymen, Nicholas watched them peer past him into the living room as though they were taking in a Victorian room replication in a museum. Nicholas watched Barbara's eyes travel the length of the molding along the edges of the ceiling and into the center, where they stood.

“This is lovely,” Barbara said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you,” Stella said. Nicholas could anticipate exactly what his mother would say next and nearly mouthed the words along with her. “We bought it a long time ago and we got lucky. Who knew Flatiron would blow up like it did? You should have seen this neighborhood when we first moved in. We were scared to walk down the street.”

“Indeed. Our fair city has come a long way.” Barbara stared, quite unselfconsciously, even though this was against one of the tenets of the program.
We're all different,
Nicholas had heard Barbara chant on more than one occasion,
and there's no reason to stare or to wonder. So ask the question rather than keeping it in. It's why we're all here—to learn about one another, about the differences in our cultures, and why we eat and wear what we do and why we prefer and believe in certain things.

“Please, come in. I'm Stella. And of course, you know Nicholas.” The three settled on the pair of couches in the formal living room, a plate of water crackers, a crumbling wedge of Parmesan and a perspiring pitcher of iced tea between them.

“I have to tell you, Stella. We love Nicholas at Hallström. He's the perfect candidate. He has an impeccable school record, and he's a varsity athlete, well-spoken, conscientious. I've conducted countless interviews for these coveted spots, and there aren't many youngsters that tick off so many of the traits we like to see in our exchange students. You've got a bright one on your hands.” Barbara pressed her hands into her lap and forged onward before Stella had a chance to acknowledge the compliment. “We make these home visits to ensure that your family has the capacity, ability and desire to host a student from another country. Other than the permission slip, we have no idea whether candidates' families even
want
to be a part of this program. Why—” and here she tittered “—a few years ago, before we implemented home visits as protocol, a young woman arrived from Warsaw without anyone to pick her up. When I drove her back to the program's office—poor dear felt so abandoned—to call her host family, the candidate's mother hadn't even known her daughter had applied and gotten into the program. What a mess that was.”

“Can I choose where I get to go?” Nicholas asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Barbara said. “We match candidates up with who we think they are best suited, personality-wise. It's not really a question of where you're going, because you'll have a chance to travel in Europe on sponsored trips to visit Prague, Budapest, St. Petersburg, Tallinn or Warsaw. The focus is on getting to know people from another culture. It's about letting someone in. These are things that you can't pick up in books or movies. They are life experiences, nothing you can study or learn. Regardless of where you go, Nicholas, you will learn invaluable lessons about your exchange partner, his culture and about yourself during your time in the program. Herman Hallström, our founder and benefactor began the program in the post–Cold War era, to attempt to create an understanding between the United States and the countries of the Soviet regime, forging connections and creating ties between countries that had previously been enemies. Mr. Hallström wants to recognize the students, the children of the next generation who will become the politicians, the teachers, the lawyers and the champions of the future to take charge of this change. It's no longer the Cold War era, thank goodness, but it is about making the world smaller. It's about bridging the gaps between us in this great wide world in which we live.” Everything Barbara said sounded like a rehearsed speech or as though it was being dictated from the FAQ section of a brochure for the program.