Pia Padukone - The Faces Of Strangers

“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.”