Pia Padukone - The Faces Of Strangers

“Thank you. It’s good to be here.” He accepted the flowers, clutching them in his fist and expecting to be enveloped into her chest. Instead, she stepped aside so he could enter the house.

He had imagined a warm, cozy gingerbread-like house with antiques on the walls and framed black-and-white photos yellowed with light. But the decor was minimalistic; the white walls provided little dimension to the room, the dining table took up as much room as it needed and while there were casserole dishes and pots on the table, everything else was concealed behind cabinets and drawers. He had only been in Estonia for an hour, but Nicholas furiously missed the chaos of his home.

The same lump that had arisen in his throat when Stella had hugged him goodbye appeared in his throat again, but he swallowed it back. There was no way he was going to cry now. But his body was bucking being here. The tears he blinked back had sent some kind of signal to his stomach and it rumbled like an approaching storm. He had slept through the meal services on the plane, and he was ravenous. He swallowed the saliva that had been collecting in his mouth. He felt light-headed, as though he might faint right there on top of the table.

“Would you like to eat first, or sauna?”

“Sauna?” Nicholas looked around, bewildered.

Vera swiped an errant piece of hair away from her forehead and placed her hands on either side of Nicholas’s shoulders. “And will you have coffee or kvass?” Nicholas spun around to Paavo, who was stepping through the door, lugging his suitcase with him.

“I... I don’t know. What’s kvass?”

“We have a sauna out back,” Paavo said, breathing heavily from the weight of Nicholas’s suitcase. “It was actually the first on our street, but since then, the neighbors have been building their own. It’s sort of like our religion. In Estonia, we believe any bad day can be made right with a sauna. It’s absolutely best after a long flight. Unless you’d like dinner first?”

“I am pretty hungry.”

“And kvass, is like nonalcoholic beer. Papa makes his own. It’s delicious. You should try it.” Leo had already poured a stein, which he held out to Nicholas.

“And Nico,” Vera said. “What would you like to—”

Paavo interrupted. Nicholas was able to decipher the difference between the Russian he had spoken in the car to his father and the Estonian he spouted out now. Both had been delivered rapidly, and both had left Nicholas wondering how in the world he was going to catch on in four months’ time. Vera pursed her lips and spouted something back. Paavo shook his head. “Lõõgastuda, Mama,” he said, pressing his hands in downward motions like undulating waves. “Lõõgastuda.”

“My son is telling me to relax,” Vera said. “You, too, Nico. You relax. Okay?”

“Sure,” Nicholas said, though the instruction made him tense a bit more, his back going rigid against the chair.

Vera began carting dishes to the stove, ticking the burners on one at a time. Nicholas sat at the round table in the middle of the kitchen, gripping the mug of kvass with both hands. The ale had a pale yellow tint with tiny effervescent bubbles escaping to the top of the glass every so often. He lowered his mouth to the lip of the mug and took a sip as Leo and Paavo watched. Caraway seeds and yeast filled his mouth, as though he were drinking a loaf of rye bread.

“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.