Pia Padukone - The Faces Of Strangers

“Cool. Have you been there before?”

“Of course.” Mari rolled her eyes and sucked in her breath. “But this isn’t a vacation. It’s work. I’ve been chosen to move there, to model full-time. Moscow is a stepping-stone to Paris. And Paris...well, you know Paris.”

“I know Paris,” Nicholas said. He spoke slowly and clearly, so as not to stumble and say something else that might make him sound ignorant. “But I’m guessing Paris means something more than just the Eiffel Tower in this case?”

“The Eiffel Tower is so gauche,” Mari said. She pulled at a loose thread from the sheet on the bed and it came loose in her hand. She offered it to Nicholas, and he accepted it in a cupped hand. “Paris is the start of everyone’s career. If you’re sent there, you’re practically made already.”

“Made. Like, into a model?”

“Yes.” Mari sighed. This wasn’t going well. Mari already seemed exasperated with him, and she had only been home for fifteen minutes. Time passed between them. It was quieter in Tallinn than it was back home. Nicholas yearned for a siren or a car alarm, some semblance of life outside these four walls.

“What do you think of our fair city so far?”

“I haven’t really seen any of it,” Nicholas said. “We just came straight from the airport and had dinner. Your mother is a great cook, but that vodka really packs a punch. I could barely keep my eyes open.”

“Well done. You probably passed Papa’s test by having a drink with him. I have to say that you’re more of a sport than I had you figured for.”

“What do you mean?” Nicholas stopped folding and sank down on the bed, facing her.

“I’m impressed that you are here in the first place. That you’re trying something out of your comfort zone.” Mari inspected the underside of one of her manicured nails.

“Isn’t that the whole point of Hallström?” Nicholas asked.

“Well, sure. I just think it’s laughable that it’s an exchange with Americans. You probably already think you’re hot shit.”

“I... I don’t,” Nicholas said. Although he’d never considered himself particularly patriotic, he could feel the pride—or was it anger?—bubbling inside him and threatening to rise to the top. “I don’t think I’m anything.”

“Please. I’ve been on countless shoots with models from the US. They stand separately from everyone, constantly looking in the mirror, appraising and judging everyone with their eyes.” Mari was standing on the other side of him now, her legs as slim as stalks of sugarcane.

“Are you sure that’s not just a model thing?”

“Maybe,” she said, a curl swinging in front of her face. She made no effort to swipe it away. “Maybe not.” She moved toward the curtain where she turned and smiled sweetly. “I can warm you some piim to help you sleep.”

“Piim?”

“Milk.”

“No thanks. There’s no need to babysit me,” Nicholas said, turning to face her fully for the first time.

“I just want to make sure you have everything you need. I’m your host sister, after all,” Mari said. In the austere glare of the overhead light fixture, her makeup looked clownish. “Maga hästi. That’s ‘sleep well.’ Hope you’re taking notes. There’ll be a test, Nico.” She winked and stepped outside the room, pulling the curtain closed behind her. Nicholas blinked in the light. He could hear the tip-taps of her heels ascending the stairs and the door closing gently overhead.

Then it was silent again. It was as though she’d never been there in the first place. Nicholas felt for the light switch behind the bookcase and snapped the light off. He lay back in the bed. The entire encounter had felt like a scene out of a movie, where a siren appears to completely distract the hero from the task at hand. He leaned his head back, feeling the pillow accept his weight, as he considered what in the world he’d gotten himself into.

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