The Faces of Strangers (6 page)

“What do you think, Nico?” Paavo asked.

“Nicholas,” he said under his breath. Nicholas wasn't sure at what point it would become awkward to correct everyone about his name, though he felt as if he'd passed that point already. It was too early to concede, though in a few days, it would get too frustrating to correct everyone at school, and he would only be referred to as Nico from that point forward.

“It's refreshing.” The room deflated, as though it had been holding its breath. Even Leo, who had gripped the steering wheel tensely and barely glanced at Nicholas during the drive, seemed to have engineered himself a new, scowl-free face. The table was silent as Vera reheated the pots on the stove one by one, lids rattling as steam pressure built up beneath them.

“Where's, um, Marie?” Nicholas took another sip of
kvass
.

“Mari,” Leo corrected. “She is model.”

“She has been in St. Petersburg for the past few days for some new fashion magazine. She'll be back tomorrow,” Paavo said.

If Nora felt like the spotlight on her life had gone out, Nicholas felt as though there were three trained on him. He had fumbled Mari's name, been unable to correct the Sokolovs about his own and could feel the drilling intensity of three pairs of eyes since he'd set foot into the kitchen. He felt exposed and naked, as if he was wandering the streets in a dream. As he looked around him, he realized that the contours of this room were all he knew in this country. He didn't know his way around this town, or even around this house. Nicholas felt as though he had been set loose in a place that could consume him unless he was very careful. Leo pulled him out of his thoughts by plunking a clear bottle down on the table.

“Here is good stuff,” he proclaimed. “Now we make you good Estonian man with hairy chest.”

“Viru Valge,” Nicholas read aloud. “Vodka?”

“Your initiation into Estonia,” Paavo said, grinning at his father.

Standing at the sink with her back to the table, Vera raised her voice like a dagger in the air, stabbing with its elongated vowels. Paavo responded in English.

“No, of course, Mama. He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to.” Paavo looked at Nicholas. “You don't have to if you don't want to.” Nicholas shrugged; while the vodka might rankle Vera, this appeared to be the way to Papa Leo's softer side.

“I'll try it,” he said. Leo grinned, revealing stained teeth as though they had been steeped in tea, frozen in sepia for posterity. He lined four tumblers along the edge of the table.

Vera shook her head.
“Mitte minu jaoks.”

“Oh, come on, Mama. Just one to welcome Nico.”

She sighed and turned to face them, closing her eyes as she held her hand out for the glass, as though she were receiving a rap on the knuckles in penance. Nicholas looked around at the faces, Vera's resigned and tired, Paavo's shining and expectant, and Leo's suspicious and taut.

“Terviseks,”
Leo said, raising his glass and looking Nicholas squarely in the eye.

“Terviseks,”
they echoed obediently. Nicholas let the liquid slide down his throat like a luge. The burn in his throat wasn't new; he had done shots at parties before, but never with adults as chaperones, as instigators.

“More?” Leo asked, lifting the bottle.

“It's very good,” Nicholas said, holding his glass out.

“No,” Leo said as he tilted the bottle into Nicholas's tumbler. “The best.”

Vera placed the dishes in the center of the round table. “Okay, enough drink. Now we eat. As we say,
head isu
. Eat well.”

Paavo reached for a plate of dark sliced bread. “Have some homemade
rukkileib
. And there's pork and potatoes in that dish over there. And you must try the
sult.
It's very Estonian
.
” Nicholas was passed a clear, jelly-like substance wrapped around chunks of white, fleshy meat. The dish quivered as though it were terrified to be consumed.

“This all looks wonderful. I'll start with the pork, I think,” Nicholas said. “I need something hearty to stick to my bones.” Vera gave him a tight smile as she passed him the platter of pink meat with a hard shell.

“The skin's the best part,” Paavo said, tapping his knife against it. “It's Mama's specialty. No one can get it like her.”

“Nico, tomorrow after school, Paavo and I take you for ID pickup from city office,” Leo said. He hadn't touched his plate, but had refilled his vodka tumbler three times since they had sat down at the table.

“I believe Hallström has already applied for one on your behalf,” Paavo said. “So we just have to pick it up.”

“What do I need the ID card for?” Nicholas asked.

“Every Estonian has one, including visitors who will be here for a long time. You need it for everything—voting, parking, transportation,” Vera said.

Paavo shoveled
sult
into his mouth. Nicholas could barely stand to watch him. He reminded him of Figaro, Toby's cat, lowering his lynx-like head to lap up food from a bowl on the floor. He turned his head to watch Vera and Leo, who took large forkfuls in silence, the clicking of their jaws and soft clash of teeth the only sound in the room. From somewhere in the hallway, or the living room, Nicholas presumed, there was the gentle ticking of a clock. The warm meat and the doughy potatoes stabilized his stomach but weighed down his head. His eyelids felt as though they were dripping vodka. He shouldn't have had that third glass.

“I'm so sorry to be rude,” he said, breaking the silence. “But I just can't keep my eyes open anymore. Could I—”

“Sauna!” Paavo cried. “It's going to help you sleep through the night. It helps with jet lag.”

“Not tonight, man,” Nicholas said. “I want to try it, but I'm so tired.”

“Don't bully him, Paavo. Let the boy sleep if he wants to sleep,” Vera said.

“I will turn steam off,” Leo said. He got up from the table and disappeared into the backyard, letting the door slam behind him.

“Come on.” Nicholas followed Paavo down a long hallway. The streetlamp outside cast long amber strands of light into the darkened room, so that Nicholas could see an armchair, a bookshelf and a computer table without a computer tucked into the corner. A sofa bed was opened out already and sheets were tucked into the mattress with tight, crisp corners.

“Don't even bother turning on the light,” he said to Paavo. “I just want to sleep.”

“Don't you want to brush your teeth or change your clothes? I can loan you some pajamas if you don't feel like unpacking.”

This was not the time to let Paavo know that Nicholas slept in the nude. “Sleep,” Nicholas said.

“Unfortunately, this room doesn't have a door. It is our family room, but we put this curtain up for you,” Paavo said, pulling a dark piece of what looked like blackout curtain from where it had been tucked behind a rod. “Whenever it's closed, no one will come in or disturb you.”

“Thanks, man.” Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed and felt the ropes of sleep tugging at him to lie back. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well, my friend,” Paavo said. “I will be right upstairs, the first door on the left. Knock if you need anything.” In his dreamlike state, Nicholas understood a whole new meaning to the term nodding off.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Nicholas awoke, regretting his refusal to sauna before bed. He lay awake in the dim darkness, the hazy gleam of the streetlights filtering through the gauzy curtains. The ceiling was pockmarked, and Nicholas stared at the constellations of stains above his head. The bed had been comfortable for the first few hours of sleep, but once the jet lag had begun steaming off his warm body, he'd wrestled against the lumpy mattress. Poking a tentative foot outside his blanket, he pulled it back in. The air was frigid outside the little cocoon he'd spun in the sheets from tossing all night. He peered at the electronic clock in the corner of the room, its glaring red numbers mocking him. He threw the covers off and began searching for the light. Ten minutes passed before Nicholas realized that there was no light switch in sight, not behind the curtain rod, not anywhere a light switch should be found. The streetlight would have to suffice. He located his suitcase where Paavo had placed it under the window and pulled out a fleece and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. His room didn't appear to have drawers or even a closet, so Nicholas began stacking his clothes beneath the window in short towers of T-shirts, sweaters and jeans. He left his boxer shorts in the bag; he wasn't sure how private this den without a door really was. As he moved to build his fourth pillar of clothes, he sensed something. He peered out into the street, but all that was there were the dust-smeared Lada and other quiet houses with formidably shaded windows. He cocked his head and listened hard. There was something on the other side of the blackout curtain.

“Hello?” He wasn't sure how far his voice would travel in this house, so he spoke barely above a whisper. He felt silly being afraid, but he also felt silly being here in the first place. He should have stayed in bed, in the warmth, in his unconscious. He should have stayed in New York.

“Tere?”
a voice called back, filling in the darkness. The curtain was swept aside, and all Nicholas could see were a pair of milky-white legs shining in the light. He felt momentarily blinded before he could follow the slim line of a body up to a face.

There were dashes of color. The girl's lips were too pink to be naturally colored—her lipstick appeared to have faded over time. But her blue eyes were bright and glistened like jewels, accentuated by striking teal eye shadow in the deep crevices of her eyelids. Her hair was just as light as Paavo's, though it had been bronzed with golden streaks. It was pinned in fat whorls which had probably at one point been strategic, but now pieces of it were falling down and onto her shoulders, giving her a shipwrecked look. She wasn't as pale as Paavo; her complexion was more olive, similar to Leo's tinted skin. The rest of her was clad in a skintight black skirt and top. Other than her pale legs and face, Nicholas couldn't tell where the black curtain ended and she began. In the dim streetlight, the girl stepped down into the den, coming into full view. “You are Nico,” she said. “Welcome to Estonia. Sorry to frighten you.”

“Mari?” he asked, forgetting to correct her on the pronunciation of his name. “It's nice to meet you.”

“And you.” She was like a cat stalking its prey, surrounding him on all sides with her bright, azure eyes even though she hadn't moved. “Did you have a nice flight?”

“Can't complain,” he said. “I fell asleep pretty early. But it seems like jet lag is getting the better of me.”

“It always does.” She smiled. She reached her long fingers behind the bookshelf and flicked a switch, flooding the room with light. Nicholas flinched and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mari was perched on the corner of his bed. “Don't let me interrupt.” She gestured toward his open suitcase. But she was a tigress, and Nicholas knew better than to turn his back on a tigress unless you wanted to be hunted. He felt vulnerable as he stooped into the case, feeling the broad stretch of his tense shoulders and back and how his fleece tugged at his waist.

Mari rubbed at her eyes, as if trying to rid them of their color. She yawned widely and unselfconsciously. “I took an earlier train back,” she said. “The session was brutal. I just wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

“I know the feeling,” Nicholas said.

“Day one, and Yankee Doodle is homesick already?”

“I'm just tired.” Nicholas furrowed his brow. He began folding his T-shirts with more care than he would without an audience. “So you're a model. What's that like?”

“Exhausting. Demoralizing. Disgusting.” Mari looked as though she should be holding a cigarette between her slim fingers as she spat the words.

“So why do you do it?”

“Because it's so fucking glamorous,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Since you're up, you'll be the first to find out. I'm going to Moscow in the spring.”

“Cool. Have you been there before?”

“Of course.” Mari rolled her eyes and sucked in her breath. “But this isn't a vacation. It's work. I've been chosen to move there, to model full-time. Moscow is a stepping-stone to Paris. And Paris...well, you know Paris.”

“I know Paris,” Nicholas said. He spoke slowly and clearly, so as not to stumble and say something else that might make him sound ignorant. “But I'm guessing Paris means something more than just the Eiffel Tower in this case?”

“The Eiffel Tower is so gauche,” Mari said. She pulled at a loose thread from the sheet on the bed and it came loose in her hand. She offered it to Nicholas, and he accepted it in a cupped hand. “Paris is the start of everyone's career. If you're sent there, you're practically made already.”

“Made. Like, into a model?”

“Yes.” Mari sighed. This wasn't going well. Mari already seemed exasperated with him, and she had only been home for fifteen minutes. Time passed between them. It was quieter in Tallinn than it was back home. Nicholas yearned for a siren or a car alarm, some semblance of life outside these four walls.

“What do you think of our fair city so far?”

“I haven't really seen any of it,” Nicholas said. “We just came straight from the airport and had dinner. Your mother is a great cook, but that vodka really packs a punch. I could barely keep my eyes open.”

“Well done. You probably passed Papa's test by having a drink with him. I have to say that you're more of a sport than I had you figured for.”

“What do you mean?” Nicholas stopped folding and sank down on the bed, facing her.

“I'm impressed that you are here in the first place. That you're trying something out of your comfort zone.” Mari inspected the underside of one of her manicured nails.