The Faces Of Strangers

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.

“Well, we’re delighted to host a student, wherever he’s from,” Stella said. “Let us show you the rest of the house.” They took Barbara through the other two living rooms that extended from the first: a casual television den and then an office/library, with a computer and shelves of tightly packed books. In this room, Barbara stared extra hard at the framed Saul Steinberg New Yorker poster with its view from Manhattan as the center of the world.

“You might consider taking that down,” she said, strolling past Stella. Sometime during the tour, Barbara had begun leading the way, and Nicholas and Stella had been relegated to following meekly behind her, feeling guests in their own home. She stopped in front of the foyer and thanked them each formally before pressing the button for the elevator.

A few weeks later, she’d called the house and Nicholas picked up the phone. Barbara had been simultaneously bubbly and composed on the other end, a cheerleader on Park Avenue. “I have some exciting news for you, Nicholas,” she’d said. He could hear the clacks from her strings of pearls as she fussed with them against her neck. “First of all, you’re in. We have officially accepted you to the program. And second, I have your assignment for next year. You’re going to Tallinn!” All he could think about was the fact that he didn’t want to be kicked out of the program for his ignorance; where the heck was Tallinn?

“Oh,” he’d responded. “That’s cool. Tallinn...”

“Estonia,” she finished for him. “Can you imagine?” Nicholas had already started imagining the whimsical steeples of Prague or the onion domes of St. Petersburg. Tallinn had been the furthest option from his mind.

“Why, uh, why Estonia?”

“Remember, I make my matches based on people, not on places. This partnership is one of my favorites. You’re going to love him.”

“What’s his name? The guy, my partner?”

“Paavo. Paavo Sokolov, and I think you’re going to get along really well. You remind me a lot of one another. I think there’s going to be some common ground. I can’t wait for you two to meet.”

Nicholas pictured the Estonian as the Beast from the Disney movie, hulking and wrapped in furs, brooding in a corner. STD, Nicholas thought, mentally rapping himself on the knuckles.

“Same,” he responded. “I’ve never been to Estonia. It should be a good experience.” That was the key to handling Barbara; approaching everything as an experience and welcoming everything that life handed to you, including hours of studying, constipation, a strange assignation in an exchange program. As soon as he’d hung up, he’d dashed off for the World Atlas and located Estonia, a tiny nostril of a country overlooking the Baltic Sea. It felt as remote and punitive as if he were being sent to Siberia, another fictional-sounding place that Nicholas couldn’t locate easily on a map. But backing out at that point would have appeared shortsighted, against everything the program stood for. The explicit agreement Nicholas had made when he handed in his application to Hallström had included accepting any assignment he would be granted.

So he was stuck with Estonia and he was stuck with Barbara spouting her enthusiastic rhetoric on the ride to the airport. It felt as if this trip was already off to a bad start.

PAAVO

Tallinn

September 2002

As far as Paavo was concerned, the Hallström program was off to a terrible start. He’d been paired with a wrestler, someone with whom he couldn’t imagine having the slightest bit in common. His parents—particularly his father—didn’t seem to have any interest in hosting a boy from New York in the least. All Leo seemed interested in lately was spouting anger toward the Estonian immigration authorities. He seemed to be getting sourer by the day. And it seemed as if he was drinking more, too. Most importantly, Paavo was disgusted with himself. He’d applied for the program thinking it would help—anything had to help. Paavo was growing more skittish and cowardly by the day. If he continued like this, there was no way he was going to survive the program to the very end. Paavo opened the sofa bed in the den and pulled a fresh pair of sheets over the creaky mattress, taking care to tuck each corner in tightly. Nico’s flight was scheduled for on-time arrival, and Paavo wanted everything to be perfect. He wanted to erase the first impression of the program from Nico’s mind. He wanted everyone to forget what had happened at orientation. Not that Paavo could forget it himself. It kept repeating itself over and over in his head like a broken record.

In the last week of August, Paavo had flown into Berlin along with the rest of the students participating in the Hallström program. Rolf, a diminutive Hallström employee, met Paavo at the gate, looking almost as blasé as a teenager himself. Rolf herded Paavo through Brandenburg Airport, landing him in front of a dormant baggage carousel and telling him he’d have to wait there while Rolf collected the other European students from their flights. After speakers had gurgled something about a flight arriving from New York City, the gaping mouth of a conveyor belt began spitting out bags and Rolf herded the rest of the European students toward them. Barbara Rothenberg, the program director, who had interviewed Paavo for the program the previous semester, was leading the New York students. The Americans were moving in slow motion, having arrived in Germany that morning, red-eyed and jet-lagged.

“Come, come,” Barbara said, gathering them all together in the wingspan of her arms. Paavo could barely tell the difference between the Europeans and the Americans. He knew there were two girls and two boys from each continent. There was one boy wearing a bandanna around his neck—Paavo thought he might be Russian—who caught his eye. The boy’s nostrils flared before he looked back down at the floor and then at Barbara, who was starting what appeared to be another rehearsed speech. Paavo felt a shiver down his spine, an all-too-familiar feeling. He had a flashback of fleeing down Toompuiestee, his knapsack banging against his back in the hopes of losing the gang.

“Students, welcome to the Hallström program. As you know, you have been selected carefully by a group that judged your academic record, your character and your moral persona to be of great value to the future of relations between America and each of your respective home countries. This is the first day of what should be a very exciting year ahead of you all. Today you meet your counterparts, those young men and women who will become your brothers and sisters for the next nine months. You will go to classes together and learn together, join activities together. You’ll make friends with one another and introduce each other to new and unique experiences. You’ll learn about one another’s cultures and have an insatiable desire to teach your friends back home what you learn. It’s just the beginning. Let’s do introductions.”

Paavo knew it was irrational but he hoped the boy with the flaring nostrils wouldn’t be Nico. He fixed his stare on another boy. This boy was all lean muscle, which he wore well. He was strong without appearing formidable. He seemed confident in his stance, though he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. When he looked up and saw Paavo looking at him, he smiled, and Paavo looked away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Barbara extended her right hand toward the bandanna boy, who turned his head away although it appeared that she was going to start with him. Paavo could see a crisscross of holes in the boy’s left ear, leading up to the helix of his earflap, as if something very tiny had been digging for treasure and hadn’t quite hit the spot. A trace of a tattoo caressed the nape of his neck like an extra piece of cloth or a thatch of hair that hadn’t been brushed away after a haircut. Paavo bit his lip and steeled himself for the introduction.