The Faces of Strangers (8 page)

“Wow,” Vera said, leaning back against the sink with her mug and surveying Leo. “You have managed to be incredibly insulting in the past fifteen seconds. That's a record, even for you.”

Leo frowned. “I am just trying to keep her safe. It worries me, Vera. This situation, it's not easy for me. The fact that she's beautiful is a gift, and it's a blessing that she's able to make some money from it. But that doesn't make it any easier to digest the fact that she may be traipsing about town with God knows who doing God knows what. Not to mention what people might be saying about her.”

“So what do you suggest—that we stop her from modeling? She's making good money from it, you know. At least it keeps her out of trouble and away from loitering with her useless friends in Freedom Square.”

“Fine. Fine. Let her make money. If she's talented, she's talented.”

“I have a great solution,” Vera said. Leo leaned in toward her. “Trust her. How about that?”

“‘Trust' is an interesting request from someone who just made me an appointment behind my back,” Leo retorted, his nose in the air. “I just don't have time to worry about this, Vera. I have enough to worry about with Mari. And then there's Paavo. The boy spent the whole summer reading books. I don't think he went down to the football pitch once. I don't think he ever met friends. He needs to leave the comfort of his own backyard.” At this, he looked back through the screened-in porch. The fluff was still floating about, as though a chicken were plucking itself on his roof and sending the feathers cascading down below them, an early snow day in September.

Vera shrugged. “It's a phase, Leyva. He will spread his wings. New York may be very good for him. Go and take a shower before the boys wake up. And Levya, please don't stress about the test. I'll help you. We all will. Besides, I think you know more than you realize.”

Leo took in a deep breath. He hesitated before leaning over and kissing his wife gently on the lips. “Have a good day,
armastatu
.” Vera smiled at his use of the Estonian word. She tried to pepper their Russian conversations with as many Estonian words as she could, but it was especially poignant when he made the effort on his own. At least he was trying.

PAAVO

Tallinn
September 2002

There is no try.
At some point in his life, Paavo had lived by the
Star Wars
credo. He'd once been capable of everything, or at least he'd possessed the self-confidence to think he was. He'd approached each experience and opportunity fearlessly and was prepared to fight whatever he thought might come in the way. But since the gang had started its advances toward him, his confidence had run for the hills of Narva, its tail between its legs. At first, Paavo figured he would just avoid the boys, make sure that he stayed out of their way. But it appeared that it wouldn't be that easy.

Now it was the first day of school, and Paavo had to venture back out there once again. The best part of participating in the Hallström program was that Nico was here. Well, Nico and really, that Sabine girl from Prague. When he'd passed out in the bathroom and Pyotr had run back to the conference room and announced that the Estonian boy had passed out, Sabine had been the first one on the premises. Paavo was just opening his eyes when he heard her enter the bathroom, taking tentative steps toward him, and then kneeling down on the cold tile floor next to his head. She'd made a pillow from her cardigan and placed it gently under his head. She put her hand over his mouth, testing for the warm puffs of air that emanated from his lips. She put her own fingers over her lips, guiding him not to move, even though his hands instinctively moved toward his waist as she tugged his belt off, whispering, “Relax. I'm just easing any restriction.” Then she reached down and lifted his legs a few inches off the ground. Paavo had been awed by Sabine, how she'd taken charge without waiting for an adult or further instructions and by her serene, methodical manner. How had she known that the fear of walking back into the conference room pained him more than his ankle where he'd turned it on the bathroom doorjamb? “Don't worry, your pride can be healed,” she'd whispered. Paavo would repeat the mantra to himself over and over in the years to come. Barbara and the EMT had found them there—Paavo lying back and Sabine elevating his legs as she encouraged him to take deep lungfuls of air. The EMT had commended Sabine in a thick German accent—raising Paavo's legs above his heart had been exactly the right thing to do. “From verr did you learn zis? Das ist perfekt tek-neek.” By that time, of course, the blood had rushed back into Paavo's system, and he sat up and promised a very stricken Barbara that he was fine—he just had low blood sugar and needed to eat something, that he would be able to continue on with orientation. It was just too bad that Sabine lived four whole countries away. It felt good to have an ally for once.

But Nico could be an ally, too. Paavo's heart leaped a little, thinking of his presence here. He wasn't sure whether or not they might get along, but at least he had a travel companion to get to and from school. He didn't have to be alone anymore; there was strength in numbers. And Nico was a wrestler. It was as though the Hallström program had provided him with his very own bodyguard.

Paavo sat straight up in bed, gripping the edge of his blanket with his stubby fingers, the nails bitten down past their keratinous whites. The bluish haze of night was still settled over the world outside the window, blurring the outlines of the houses and cars across the road. He could hear motion from the kitchen just below his room. Leo and Vera were up, communing, combining, collaborating. Paavo could hear the grinder's powerful blade come to a shuddering halt and Vera's breathless curses. It was
kasha
for breakfast today; the fatty fragrance of melted butter and hot rough-cut buckwheat seeped into his room. He should rouse Nico in case he wasn't already awake. After all, they couldn't be late on their first day.

Not that Paavo was particularly looking forward to it. He washed his face in the hall bathroom. His face looked wan and pulled. He had no idea whether the gang would be waiting for him with the start of the school year; he'd hardly given them a chance to bully him over the summer. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper and headed downstairs.

Nico was already sitting alone at the table, mixing a bowl of groats rather aggressively with a spoon, as if it would somehow magically transform into ice cream or chicken noodle soup like that fable that Babu used to tell Paavo as a child. Paavo watched from the doorway as Nico sliced off three more pats of butter and dissolved them over the steaming buckwheat.

“Unfortunately, that's not going to help,” Paavo said, smiling. “Butter just makes them soggier. They take some getting used to.” Nico turned toward him, his eyes still droopy with sleep.

“They're not so bad,” Nico said. “It's kind of like oatmeal.” He spooned some into his mouth, swished it around with his tongue and took a long chug of coffee before swallowing the whole thing down.

“Try this,” Paavo said, opening a shelf over the sink. He handed Nico a bar wrapped in red-and-orange plastic.

“Kamatahvel,” Nico read. “Chocolate?”

“Kind of,” Paavo said. “It's a candy bar. Mama and Papa ate it when the Soviets were in power and chocolate wasn't easily available. Break some off and let it melt over the
kasha
. How did you sleep?”

“Okay,” Nico said, looking sheepish again. “Though, you were right. I woke up in the middle of the night and had trouble falling asleep again. I guess I'll try the sauna tonight after school.”

“As I said, it's a religion here,” Paavo said. “I'm sure you will be a convert.”

“I got to meet Mari, though,” Nico said.

“So I did hear her come in last night. I thought I was dreaming.”

“You and me both,” Nico muttered.

Paavo sat down at the table and broke a few splinters of Kama bar into his bowl. He looked up at Nico, who was looking back at him. It felt so awkward, having this stranger in his home. Barbara had told Paavo how perfect she thought the partnership was between these two boys, but so far, Paavo wasn't sure where their common ground might lie. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. On the second day of orientation, Paavo had blanched when Pyotr met him near the coffee urns at the back of the conference room. But Pyotr's face had softened as he put his arm on Paavo's shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I'm sorry I ran out of the bathroom like that. I was worried about you. I wanted to get help. I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of everyone.” Paavo shook his head, concentrating hard on the piercings in Pyotr's ear and said it was nothing—that he was glad that Pyotr had gone for help, what if he'd hit his head or worse, that Pyotr had done the right thing. Pyotr wasn't such a bad guy after all.

“We should leave as soon as we finish. Are you ready to go?” Paavo said.

“I thought my Estonian class starts earlier than the rest of school. Your dad said he'd drop me on his way to work.”

“I don't mind going early,” Paavo said, shoveling
kasha
into his mouth. “I will help you find your way.”

MARI

Tallinn
September 2002

Mari had definitely found her way. At least, that's what her booker Eva told her each time she called to tell her that she had scheduled a go-see.

“This is your calling, pussycat,” Eva said on the phone, her voice raspy from cigarettes. “You were born for this work. That face and that body... I'm just sad we missed out on the few years we had with you before Viktor found you.”

But even though she was a verified, certified model, Mari had never considered herself beautiful. She knew she had a “look,” which was what Viktor had told her the first time he'd seen her in Freedom Square. She knew she had a set of killer cheekbones, because her friends commented on them often and with great reverence. She knew she had height, because she towered over most of the boys in her twelfth grade class. And once she'd completed puberty, her lithe body had settled itself into a very comfortable size thirty-four, an enviable figure for anyone at the age of seventeen. But it still surprised her, the way that casting agents looked at her when she walked into a room, as though golden beams radiated from her body. It surprised her that people wanted her to wear clothes in an effort to get others to want to wear them, that people wanted to watch her walk down a long, narrow strip only to turn at the end and go back. It astounded her that she got paid for such simple tasks.

A few hours after she returned from St. Petersburg and met Nico, Mari lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. She could hear her father approaching on the stairs, his heavy footsteps nearing her door, and then pausing just outside. She tensed as the floorboards creaked. He continued down the hall toward the good bathroom. She glanced over to her desk, where the framed certificate leaned against a stack of books. “Highest Honors for Eleventh Year of Studies,” it read
.
“Mari Sokolov.” Not that it mattered.

The fact was that Tallinn was over. Estonia was over. Every year, the situation got bleaker and more desperate. There were barely any jobs available, unless you wanted to work in mining or the information technology sector, and Mari didn't want to do either. Instead of discussing makeup and clothes and boys, Mari and her friends discussed exit strategies. What could they do to get them out of Estonia? What path would they take that might lead them to the opportunity that would escort them out of the country? They spoke of politics, of studying abroad, dreaming up grandiose inventions that might bring them glory and fame outside these borders. A few students from the class above hers had succeeded. Laine Laanemaa's grandfather had left an inheritance so he could attend university in the United States, and Terje Raud's family had a printing factory in Riga, so she'd left to work there shortly after graduation. Everyone else had stagnated around the city, applying and reapplying for the same handful of jobs. And the gender gap was widening. Mari had read that Estonia had the highest gender pay gap in Europe; men made twice what women did for the same jobs. With the combination of lack of opportunities and only a fraction of the pay, what was the point in even staying here?

But Mari would soon join the ranks of Laine and Terje. Last October, she and her friends had been hanging out in Freedom Square when a man had approached them. He had been watching them—her, mostly—and she had a raw feeling in the pit of her stomach as he neared.
It's happening
, she thought to herself.
All those kidnapping drills and no talking to strangers when I was little and it's finally happening now that I'm seventeen.
The man was immaculately dressed, in a blazer that stretched cleanly across his shoulders and lambskin gloves that looked soft as butter as he peeled them off and reached into an inner pocket to retrieve a card. He extended it to her as he stood there amongst her friends and they giggled and whispered around him.

“I am Viktor. I own a modeling agency in Moscow. Will you come see me for a test?”

“What kind of a test?”

“A screen test,” he said, gingerly putting his gloves back on as though he couldn't stand to touch any surface with his bare hands. “I want to see how you walk.”

“Why do I need a test for that? I can walk right here. Watch.” She stood up and grabbed a book from a friend's lap and balanced it on her head. She took a few unsure steps, but willed herself forward, walking almost the whole way to St. John's Church, where she regained her confidence, sashaying her hips back and forth and waggling her pert bottom to the hoots and whistles of her friends.

“It's a bit ungainly. And you are slightly pigeon-toed,” Viktor said. “But I can train you to fix that.” Mari felt a flush spread across her face, and she looked down at her feet, straightening them like alpine skis.

“Listen, only call me if you're serious,” Viktor said. “I don't have time to play games. I need the next Carmen Kass.” That caught her attention. Mari revered Carmen Kass. She was a Järva girl and had been the face of Dior for years. Mari loved the way Carmen floated upon a golden pond in the ads, her face, hair and skin aglow as though she were made of gold herself. Now that was a girl who had figured things out.

He left then, and Mari shoved the card into the pocket of her jeans, deflecting the attention away from her by joking around with her friends, mimicking Viktor's pristine gloves and dainty hands. She'd forgotten about the card for the evening, and it made a trip through the washing machine, emerging wrinkled and worn like an artifact, but the numbers were still legible. That business card was Mari's ticket out.

One afternoon, she decided to make history. That was how she thought of the call years later—just as Gavrilo Princip had decided to load his Belgian-made semiautomatic on the morning that he fatally shot the Archduke and set the first great world war spiraling into action. Only this time, there was no motorcade preceding her decision, no pomp and circumstance. The only sound was from the drone of the Cyprus-France football game projecting up the stairs from the den below. She could hear Paavo's quiet but insistent protests against a poor pass muffled beneath Leo's more aggressive jeers. She smoothed the card under her palm and dialed the number before she could change her mind. That call spurred the trip to the Mustamäe office, which was nothing more than a few square white rooms with a desk, a video camera and a still one perched on a tripod. This was his makeshift office, Viktor told her. He wasn't hoping to have to spend much time in Tallinn. It was a tertiary market. Milan, London, Paris and New York were where all the action was. Even Moscow trailed behind. He hoped to find the next Carmen Kass, he reminded her. He hoped it might be her.

In his temporary office, Mari did in fact perform a series of walks in front of Viktor and his discerning assistant, Eva. “Be nice to Eva,” Viktor warned Mari from the beginning. “She's rough around the edges, but she's my booker. You'll have to bend over backward to make her happy so that she sends you to the right places to make
you
happy.” Mari was filmed walking in a straight line with a book on her head, holding stacks of them in her arms and again while wearing high heels. She was measured: height, waist, bust.

“Very good,” Eva said without a trace of satisfaction, scribbling the numbers onto an index card. “A ten-inch difference between waist and hips. Maintain that, and you're golden in this business.” Eva positioned Mari in front of the open window so that Viktor could scrutinize her face from every angle. He stood so close to her that Mari could smell his tangy breath. It felt as if he'd been staring at her for hours. Was he counting her pores? This is the best light, he told her. Natural light. No lighting designer can replicate it.

She hadn't told her parents anything about any of it. Not the fact that she'd been approached or that she'd followed up. She returned from the office triumphant and glowing, wielding a thin stack of stapled papers in her hands. Once she signed on with Viktor and his team, they would coach, shape and polish her facets so that she sparkled like the diamond he knew she could be instead of the one in the rough he had seen in Freedom Square. But since she was underage, the contract had to be cosigned by a parent. It had taken a few days to convince Leo to even look at it, but after some negotiations on Mari's part, he put on his reading glasses and studied the papers line by line.

“There's no way you're working your first assignment for free,” he thundered. “You have to repay him after you've earned the overhead? What kind of business is that? So help me, Mari, if I ever even hear the word
nude
, I will pull the plug on this whole operation. Do you understand me?” Mari had nodded, but it wasn't enough. Leo had insisted on accompanying Mari to meet Viktor in Mustamäe so he could show off his breadth and the crushing grip of his handshake. Leo ensured the contract had been amended to his liking, and then Viktor, true to his word, had gotten to work, sending Mari out into the world.