The Faces of Strangers (15 page)

“Paavo! Oh, right, the one with the hot—” Nico shot Carmine a glance and shook his head. “P-Train. How long are you going to be here? You gonna wrestle with us?”

Paavo didn't seem sure how to proceed. He'd thought he might watch from the bleachers but now that he was in shorts and a jersey, he felt more on display than ever.

“I will try.”

Carmine's face became very still and he recited, “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” He guffawed and slapped Paavo with his huge bear paw. He whooped and ran back to the rest of the team, who were filtering into the gym. “P-Train's joining the team.”

Nico was about to say that Paavo was going to mostly observe, when Paavo spoke up in a Yoda-like voice.

“Yes, help you I will,” he said, his voice gravelly as he bowed down. “But I must warn you that I am leaving in a few months so I won't be able to win the championship for you.”

Carmine's laugh was deep and throaty. “Oh, I like you all right,” he said. He grabbed Paavo in a gentle side headlock and rubbed his head.

“All right, boys, suicides all around. Let's go,” Coach called.

Along with the gentle ribbing that accompanied all athletic camaraderie, Nico was grateful for these practices. For those two hours, he didn't have to think, because Coach thought for him—how much weight to lift onto his shoulders, how many push-ups to do, how far and fast to run—the banter was easy, too. His teammates were all easygoing boys. There wasn't much to their conversations: sports, girls, breasts and weight—their own. Except this time he would have to babysit Paavo, make sure he was comfortable, that the other boys didn't overwhelm him. The fact was, Coach barely allowed him time to think about Paavo, or Mari for that matter.

By the end of the session, Nicholas was spent. Every single tendon in his body hurt. Every joint, every muscle. He flexed and relaxed his fingers, which were singing after he'd gripped the bench press with all his might. It didn't help that he hadn't been lifting all the previous semester. He felt the flesh where his fingers connected with his palms; the calluses had softened since last year but would harden with a few more sessions, as reliably as weeds.

His lips curved into a smile. These were the signs of a wrestler, that he was dedicated to his craft. And now he could go home, attack his homework with the same intensity, inhale dinner before he fell into the pillows of his privileged lifestyle and pass the fuck out. That was another reason he loved it. Coach helped you forget everything you had on your mind—whether you were failing precalculus, the girl you'd been seeing started seeing one of your teammates, or your parents were being dicks. Coach overrode your troubles with core work, intense drills and so many turns of the jump rope that whatever was plaguing you before practice became a warm, fuzzy memory at the end.

Paavo, on the other hand, wasn't sure he believed that his fears could be sweated out. Throughout that first session, he jogged alongside the rest of the team, falling back and leaning over his knees as though his laces constantly needed retying. Nico shot him quick glances to ensure he'd be okay as he traversed the track. But Nico was impressed by how hard Paavo pushed himself. The long wet stain that started at his neckline was nearly at his navel by the end of that first practice.

On the train ride home, both Nico and Paavo were wrung out like dishcloths, damp and weak. They rattled home side by side, slight smiles on both their faces as their heads bobbed in rhythm to the cars over the rails, lulling them into silence and sleep.

PAAVO

New York
City
January 2003

Paavo had to take a proper nap when he got home. He'd spent the first morning at Nico's school in a haze, wandering hallways to figure out where classrooms were. The school was about four times the size of Eesti High School, and he'd gotten lost a few times before finding the class and slipping into the back and finally realizing that seats were assigned in each one. And then there was wrestling. Without a base to start such intense exercise, he felt like an impostor amongst the boys who all knew which weights to lift, to only wear wrestling shoes on the mat because your street shoes were dirty, to pull the deltoid bar in back of your body not in front.

By the end of the semester, Paavo would lift, stretch, push himself harder than he'd ever done before. He'd learn to mirror Chen and Carmine and even Nico on the mats. His nimbleness would prove to be an asset to his wrestling; before anyone knew how, he would wriggle out of a clutch and have his opponent in a hold. He would become Coach's assistant, keeping track of points at meets, once catching a referee error that would otherwise have lost MSS a title. His body would fill out as though a balloon had been completely filled with air, and long, vine-like muscles would attach themselves to his bones. His deltoids would come into existence. But that would be at the very end, just before Paavo returned to Tallinn with a new physique that would inflate his confidence and keep the gang at bay.

But right now, he felt like those seagulls on Fifth Avenue; wearing another costume, in another era. He needed to be more like a pigeon, blending into his surroundings, silently floating from one class to another, taking care not to draw attention to himself. As good as his English was, Paavo made sure to think each time he spoke. In class, he was deliberate with his sentences, shaping them like pastry, delicately, lest they fall apart from too much handling. Estonian spewed forth from him more naturally; for that matter, so did Russian. He used his English with his friends at school, or at times with his sister, Mari. Part of him felt a little defeated; he'd boasted to Nico about his English skills, but it was exhausting trying to think in the language. It was a different exhaustion than the one that had followed him around Tallinn. In Tallinn, he'd been constantly trying to escape the threats, the prospect of the gang of boys waiting for him around corners. But no one was after him here. He didn't have to avoid anyone.

He fell into his nap as if he was sinking into a warm bath, sleeping intensely for two hours. When he awoke, he could hear clattering from the kitchen and the dull, metronomic clunk of a knife against a cutting board. He had a crick in his neck. He reached behind his head to massage his nape, and his fingers hit something. A notebook. He turned on the bedside lamp and opened it to the bookmarked page.

Paavo Sokolov

Dirty blond

Crooked incisors

Bowl haircut

Skittish; scared rabbit expression

He flipped to the first pages.

Nicholas Grand

Stella Grand

Arthur Grand

It continued on from there. Names and features filled the pages, notes on hair and eye color. It seemed like a catalog of everyone Nico's sister Nora knew. He pushed himself off the bed and walked down the hall toward her room. The door was slightly ajar and Paavo could see Nora lying on her stomach, pawing at a small black device.

“Hi,” Paavo said through the slit in the door. Nora looked up. She had been scrolling through her MP3 player in an attempt to create a good, throbbing, beat-forward playlist for the gym, one that she liked enough to keep her moving through the music and wouldn't allow her to jump off the moving conveyor of the treadmill as it raced beneath her. She turned her head and assessed quickly in her mind—bowl hair, crooked incisors, chapped lips. She felt something click in her mind, like a slot machine aligning three screens of cherries, and she smiled.

“Hey, Paavo. Come in,” she said, sitting up and folding her legs underneath her.

Paavo took a few tentative steps into the room, as though approaching a wild animal.

“How was your first day?”

“Good. Wrestling was difficult. But I am glad that I went. It is good to feel...alive.”

Nora smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So you are in college?”

“Taking some time off.”

“Do you not like your university? Nico said it's beautiful in Vermont.”

“It is.”

“Nico said you're taking some time off.”

“That's right.”

Paavo waited as Nora looked off into the distance. When it seemed clear she wasn't going to speak anymore, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the black notebook. “In any case, I found this, and I think it belongs to you.” Nora's eyes widened and she gasped as she practically pounced upon Paavo, tearing the notebook from his hands. “I... I thought I lost it for good. I've been running around like a crazy person...thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Paavo stood and walked toward the door.

“Hang on. You have to let me explain.”

“It doesn't matter, Nora,” Paavo said. “It is your own business.”

“Paavo...wait.”

He froze at the door, pivoting slowly as he turned back toward her.

“I have a condition.”

“A condition?”

“Yes, it's...it's hard to explain, because it's so...esoteric.”

Paavo furrowed his brow.

“So...strange,” she said.

“It is okay. I am also a bit strange.”

Nora smiled and looked down at her hands. “I was in a car accident last year. I hit my head, damaging the part of the brain that's responsible for facial recognition. I have trouble identifying people's faces. Even people I've known my whole life: my parents, Nicholas, my best friends. God, it sounds like some
Onion
story or something.”

“Onion?”

“Forget it. I just mean that it sounds ridiculous.”

“No,” Paavo said. “It's not ridiculous. Does it hurt?”

“It did. I was in the hospital for a few weeks. But the condition doesn't
hurt
, per se. Well, not unless you count the constant bruising of my ego, or the fact that I can't be sure that I will recognize my own family when I wake up in the morning, or my closest friends. And sometimes I'm not even sure I know my own face. And so...well, yeah, I guess you could say that it hurts.” Nora looked down at her hands again.

“And so the notebook,” Paavo said. “It's a...”

“A cheat sheet,” Nora finished. “A reference guide.”

Paavo nodded. He looked around the room, as though searching for something. He sat back down on the bed. “Does it help?”

“Sometimes. But you probably don't even realize it, but when you see someone your mind makes a split-second decision about their identity. It gets clumsy to constantly have to check a handbook before deciding whether to say hi to a colleague or a classmate.”

“Yes, I can see this. Is this why you don't want to return? To Vermont?”

Nora nodded. “I'm scared to see people I know but not know them. But I feel so uncomfortable all the time. I guess the best way to put it is that I'm scared of making friends and seeing old ones.”

“Why is that something you would feel badly telling me?”

“I don't know. You're new here. I can't imagine life has been easy since you landed off that plane. I can't imagine you have stepped into MSS and made dozens of friends.”

“It isn't so bad,” Paavo said. “To be honest, I'm not as alone as I was when I was back home.”

“Really?” Nora said. “How's that?”

“That, too, is a long story.” Paavo grinned.

“Fair enough.” There was a knock at the door before Nico popped his head in.

“Mom called dinner a while ago.”

“Sorry. I didn't realize it was so late.”

Nora and Paavo exchanged glances and tight smiles as they rose from the bed.

“I have only one more question,” Paavo said as he halted at the door frame. “Is that really how you see me? What you wrote? That I am a scared rabbit?”

Nora colored. “No, I mean, it's just...like first impressions, you know? It's just a stupid thing I keep for myself.”

“Nora—” Paavo lowered his voice and leaned in toward her “—I'm not offended. It is interesting to literally see yourself mirrored in someone else's eyes. It can be...an awakening.”

NICO

New York
City
February 2003

Looking back, Nico was embarrassed that the trip to Ellis Island during the second semester of the Hallström year had been an awakening. America had always been the center of his world, and the fact that he hadn't realized it until now made him feel insulated and ashamed. Years later, when Nico ran for office, he would understand that this had been the pivotal moment when he recognized that there was more to this country than world domination. He would look back on this day as he listened to an immigration council present a package that would support education for new immigrants to New York. He'd support that package, explaining that this country was so great because of the people that came to it from outside its borders.

But during that program trip, the group huddled together at the tip of the city, a gate preventing them from falling into the waters of the Hudson below. Even though the temperature was unseasonably mild for February, the wind whipped back and forth and Malaysia and Anika held on to the spiny metal posts to keep from gusting over. Barbara was counting them in pairs, and then by countries and then by boys and then girls when Nico and Paavo raced to join them.

“Boys, when I say nine fifteen, I expect you to be here at nine fifteen,” Barbara admonished. She began her count over again. Paavo shot Nico a look, which Nico ignored.

“Tickets,” she exclaimed brightly, satisfied with her tally. She walked down the row as the students had obediently lined themselves up by partner. Nico was tempted to call Pyotr
Peter
to see what would happen. Evan stood apart from Pyotr, as though he didn't want to be associated with him. He clutched his ticket in his hand as the group filed toward the ferry terminal.

“This is the place, right, where all the immigrants from all over the world came to this country? Ellis Island? It seems inspiring,” Paavo said.

“I guess,” Nico said, yawning loudly. “I've never been.”

“Really? Why not?”

“It's for tourists.”

“So? It's an important place. You don't think it's worth visiting?”

“I guess you take these kinds of places for granted. You get used to them. Real New Yorkers have never been to, say, the Empire State Building.”

“That's silly. You're missing out on so much of your own country.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?”

“Suit yourself,” Paavo said. “I think you're being silly.”

As they waited for the ferry to arrive, Nico felt his anger build up toward Paavo. He was tired of being nice to him all the time. He was tired of tiptoeing around him as if he was walking on thin ice. He didn't want to take him to wrestling practice anymore. He felt like arguing, starting a roaring fight so they might not speak for the rest of the day. He wondered if Barbara might break them apart and partner him with Pyotr instead.

“I certainly hope you didn't feel that way about the Twin Towers,” Paavo continued, jerking his chin toward the gaping hole a few blocks from where they waited. “Because that's a shame if you never saw the view from the top before they fell.”

“I used to hang out in the mall at the bottom of the World Trade Center during my lunch period. I felt no need to ride to the top and gawk at the city like a seagull,” Nico said.

“You never went up the Twin Towers? That's so sad. What kind of New Yorker are you?” Pyotr asked, sidling up to them. “And what's with the faggot hats?”

Nico's patience was thinning. It was one thing to be upset with his exchange partner, but now this Russian goon was clearly starting something. He felt as if the whistle had just been blown on the mats and he had to be the first to pin his opponent, the air pushing through his nose like a bull's. It was all he could do not to paw the ground with his feet. “I'm a born and raised New Yorker. Even though I never went to the top of the World Trade Center, I miss the hell out of those towers every day. I miss glancing downtown—I miss the dependability of seeing those two buildings rising up out of the skyline. My country, no, my city was attacked that day. And you can never take that away from me. What do you know about it anyway?”

“I know the rest of the world has been feeling and going through this shit for years, centuries even. So for you to sit there telling me that your country is going through so much pain is bullshit,” Pyotr said. The Czech girl—the pretty, brazen one in Paavo's English class—had joined them.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“
You
tell them, Sabine. Tell them how fucked-up it is that Americans think they're immune from it all, that they haven't had to deal with the hell of terrorism when the rest of us are pretty much sidestepping it and praying each day that we don't have to lose someone.”

“Aren't you from St. Petersburg?” Nico asked. “What kind of terrorism are you dealing with on a daily basis?”

“Are you sure you want to get into this conversation?” Pyotr asked. “Be very sure. Because it's going to be a long, messy debate, and you're going to lose. I don't care whether or not you are on the wrestling team or whatever it is, because this is an actual political discussion and you need to get
your
facts straight.” Nico could see Barbara out of the corner of his eye, poised to jump into the circle, but also wanting them to handle it on their own.

“What facts? What terrorism have you had to deal with?” Nico challenged him.

“Do you mean to say that just because I wasn't there to witness bomb blasts and mass murders in person that they haven't had an effect on me or my family?” Pyotr narrowed his eyes incredulously. “That being an eyewitness is the only thing that matters? Because there's a fair amount of trauma associated with secondhand war. Paavo, come on, man. Tell him. Tell him about Siberia. Tell him about your grandparents.”

Nico swiveled toward him. “What is he talking about? What about your grandparents?”

“It's nothing. Guys, let's just drop it. It's a nice trip. Come on, be civil.”

Nico pushed on. “What
about
Siberia, dude? Tell me.”

Paavo sighed. “It's not something we
like
to talk about. My father's parents are Russian, as you know. They moved to Estonia during the Soviet occupation, when the Red Army was trying to get Russians to be the majority in the Baltic States. And my mother's parents, well, they were Estonian nationals. And during the Communist times, during the culling, the NKVD tore into their home, arrested them and sent them to the work camps in Siberia. Where they died. I never met them. Luckily, Mama was visiting a cousin in Germany at the time. Otherwise, I would never be here.”

Nico felt heat spreading across his face. He swallowed hard and put his hand on Paavo's shoulder. “I didn't know, man. I'm sorry.”

“So, see? You aren't the only ones that ever suffered.” Pyotr spit the words out.

“There's no need to be so harsh about it, Pyotr,” Paavo said. “Nico didn't know. Aren't we here to teach one another?”

“There's no need to protect him, Paavo,” Pyotr said. “Our entitled all-American hero could stand to learn a thing or two. After all, that's what this whole
experience
is for.”

Oh, irony of ironies,
Nico thought to himself.
If only Pyotr knew the truth about who was protecting whom.
He took a breath and quelled the anger that was rising in the pit of his stomach. “Dude,” Nico said, measuredly, as he glanced toward Barbara. “Pyotr or Peter or whatever the hell your name is. I don't know what you think you know about me, or what you've decided is true. I'm not entitled. My parents—both of them—work hard and pay taxes. They deserve the home they have built for us. Just because they haven't had to fight in wars or flee the country doesn't make them any less deserving citizens.”

“It's not your family who makes you entitled. It's your country,” Pyotr said. He turned up the collar to his jacket, worn leather with deep creases and cracks running across it like arteries and veins. He moved away then, grumbling in Russian under his breath. Although the wind continued to whip through the slotted gate and blew litter in tidy little circles around their feet, Nico could sense the tension hovering over them like a rain cloud. He looked at Paavo and smiled tightly.

* * *

On the train ride home, the boys were silent as they sat shoulder to shoulder, swaying as the train car pitched and yawed. Just as Paavo's drowsy eyes were about to succumb to the soothing rhythms, Nico spoke, his throat raw from being silent for so long.

“Does the rest of the world feel like we got what was coming to us?”

Paavo opened his eyes as if remembering suddenly where he was. “I won't say 9/11 was justified. But your country doesn't have a good history of being a nice guy on the campus.”

“You mean we're the big man on campus.”

“Yes, of course, but also not so nice. There is much resentment toward your country, Nico, because your troops come in, do what they want, take what they want, no questions asked, no consequences. And after 9/11, all we hear from the US is revenge, revenge, revenge. 9/11 was a terrible day. I won't contest this. But I am in agreement with Pyotr when he says that the United States conveniently ignores the fact that this sort of behavior has been going on each day, for decades, for centuries, in other countries. But from an American perspective, it's new.”

Nico nodded, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I hope I haven't offended you. I just want to be honest with you, and help you understand where Pyotr and a lot of the rest of the world is coming from.”

“You haven't offended me,” Nico said. “I'm feeling schooled. Enlightened. And incredibly embarrassed.”

Nico would go home and begin fervent research on America's foreign policies. Of course, all he'd learned in school had cast his country in a favorable light, but for the first time, the students in the Hallström program had made Nico understand that his country had a long way to go in order to make things right in the world. When he entered the political world in a few years, America's public image and everything he wanted to do in order to right it would become one of his personal hot buttons on every campaign he would ever work on. But for now, it was time for him to make up for lost time and educate himself on how little he knew about the way the rest of the world viewed him.