The Faces of Strangers (3 page)

“Well, we're delighted to host a student, wherever he's from,” Stella said. “Let us show you the rest of the house.” They took Barbara through the other two living rooms that extended from the first: a casual television den and then an office/library, with a computer and shelves of tightly packed books. In this room, Barbara stared extra hard at the framed Saul Steinberg
New Yorker
poster with its view from Manhattan as the center of the world.

“You might consider taking that down,” she said, strolling past Stella. Sometime during the tour, Barbara had begun leading the way, and Nicholas and Stella had been relegated to following meekly behind her, feeling guests in their own home. She stopped in front of the foyer and thanked them each formally before pressing the button for the elevator.

A few weeks later, she'd called the house and Nicholas picked up the phone. Barbara had been simultaneously bubbly and composed on the other end, a cheerleader on Park Avenue. “I have some exciting news for you, Nicholas,” she'd said. He could hear the clacks from her strings of pearls as she fussed with them against her neck. “First of all, you're in. We have officially accepted you to the program. And second, I have your assignment for next year. You're going to Tallinn!” All he could think about was the fact that he didn't want to be kicked out of the program for his ignorance; where the heck was Tallinn?

“Oh,” he'd responded. “That's cool. Tallinn...”

“Estonia,” she finished for him. “Can you imagine?” Nicholas had already started imagining the whimsical steeples of Prague or the onion domes of St. Petersburg. Tallinn had been the furthest option from his mind.

“Why, uh, why Estonia?”

“Remember, I make my matches based on people, not on places. This partnership is one of my favorites. You're going to love him.”

“What's his name? The guy, my partner?”

“Paavo. Paavo Sokolov, and I think you're going to get along really well. You remind me a lot of one another. I think there's going to be some common ground. I can't wait for you two to meet.”

Nicholas pictured the Estonian as the Beast from the Disney movie, hulking and wrapped in furs, brooding in a corner.
STD
, Nicholas thought, mentally rapping himself on the knuckles.

“Same,” he responded. “I've never been to Estonia. It should be a good experience.” That was the key to handling Barbara; approaching everything as an experience and welcoming everything that life handed to you, including hours of studying, constipation, a strange assignation in an exchange program. As soon as he'd hung up, he'd dashed off for the World Atlas and located Estonia, a tiny nostril of a country overlooking the Baltic Sea. It felt as remote and punitive as if he were being sent to Siberia, another fictional-sounding place that Nicholas couldn't locate easily on a map. But backing out at that point would have appeared shortsighted, against everything the program stood for. The explicit agreement Nicholas had made when he handed in his application to Hallström had included accepting any assignment he would be granted.

So he was stuck with Estonia and he was stuck with Barbara spouting her enthusiastic rhetoric on the ride to the airport. It felt as if this trip was already off to a bad start.

PAAVO

Tallinn
September 2002

As far as Paavo was concerned, the Hallström program was off to a terrible start. He'd been paired with a wrestler, someone with whom he couldn't imagine having the slightest bit in common. His parents—particularly his father—didn't seem to have any interest in hosting a boy from New York in the least. All Leo seemed interested in lately was spouting anger toward the Estonian immigration authorities. He seemed to be getting sourer by the day. And it seemed as if he was drinking more, too. Most importantly, Paavo was disgusted with himself. He'd applied for the program thinking it would help—anything had to help. Paavo was growing more skittish and cowardly by the day. If he continued like this, there was no way he was going to survive the program to the very end. Paavo opened the sofa bed in the den and pulled a fresh pair of sheets over the creaky mattress, taking care to tuck each corner in tightly. Nico's flight was scheduled for on-time arrival, and Paavo wanted everything to be perfect. He wanted to erase the first impression of the program from Nico's mind. He wanted everyone to forget what had happened at orientation. Not that Paavo could forget it himself. It kept repeating itself over and over in his head like a broken record.

In the last week of August, Paavo had flown into Berlin along with the rest of the students participating in the Hallström program. Rolf, a diminutive Hallström employee, met Paavo at the gate, looking almost as blasé as a teenager himself. Rolf herded Paavo through Brandenburg Airport, landing him in front of a dormant baggage carousel and telling him he'd have to wait there while Rolf collected the other European students from their flights. After speakers had gurgled something about a flight arriving from New York City, the gaping mouth of a conveyor belt began spitting out bags and Rolf herded the rest of the European students toward them. Barbara Rothenberg, the program director, who had interviewed Paavo for the program the previous semester, was leading the New York students. The Americans were moving in slow motion, having arrived in Germany that morning, red-eyed and jet-lagged.

“Come, come,” Barbara said, gathering them all together in the wingspan of her arms. Paavo could barely tell the difference between the Europeans and the Americans. He knew there were two girls and two boys from each continent. There was one boy wearing a bandanna around his neck—Paavo thought he might be Russian—who caught his eye. The boy's nostrils flared before he looked back down at the floor and then at Barbara, who was starting what appeared to be another rehearsed speech. Paavo felt a shiver down his spine, an all-too-familiar feeling. He had a flashback of fleeing down Toompuiestee, his knapsack banging against his back in the hopes of losing the gang.

“Students, welcome to the Hallström program. As you know, you have been selected carefully by a group that judged your academic record, your character and your moral persona to be of great value to the future of relations between America and each of your respective home countries. This is the first day of what should be a very exciting year ahead of you all. Today you meet your counterparts, those young men and women who will become your brothers and sisters for the next nine months. You will go to classes together and learn together, join activities together. You'll make friends with one another and introduce each other to new and unique experiences. You'll learn about one another's cultures and have an insatiable desire to teach your friends back home what you learn. It's just the beginning. Let's do introductions.”

Paavo knew it was irrational but he hoped the boy with the flaring nostrils wouldn't be Nico. He fixed his stare on another boy. This boy was all lean muscle, which he wore well. He was strong without appearing formidable. He seemed confident in his stance, though he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. When he looked up and saw Paavo looking at him, he smiled, and Paavo looked away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Barbara extended her right hand toward the bandanna boy, who turned his head away although it appeared that she was going to start with him. Paavo could see a crisscross of holes in the boy's left ear, leading up to the helix of his earflap, as if something very tiny had been digging for treasure and hadn't quite hit the spot. A trace of a tattoo caressed the nape of his neck like an extra piece of cloth or a thatch of hair that hadn't been brushed away after a haircut. Paavo bit his lip and steeled himself for the introduction.

“Everyone, this is Peter,” Barbara announced, as though he was her own son. “He's from St. Petersburg.” Paavo realized he'd been holding his breath; he released it slowly and took in cool sips of air. This boy would not spend the next four months in his home with his family. Paavo would not be sent across the ocean to be raised by this boy's mother, who, it seemed, didn't appear to be doing much mothering at all. Paavo cupped his elbow with his palm, congratulating himself with this victory.

“And,” Barbara continued, “this is Evan, who will be your program partner.” Evan stepped forward in unsure, jerky movements as though he'd just learned to walk.

“Hi, Peter. It's nice to meet you.” Evan said, holding his hand out. Peter scowled while shaking his hand.

“It's Pyotr,” he said in heavily accented English. “Peter is so common.”

“Pe-eter.” Evan smiled, pleased with himself.

“Pee-ott-urr,” the boy said, shaking his head and knotting his eyebrows. “Roll the
r
.”

“You'll work on it,” Barbara said, ushering them to the side together. The girls and the other boy were appropriated—Sabine to Jess and Anika to Malaysia. Barbara guided the boy who had smiled at Paavo toward him as her finale.

“Nicholas, everyone,” she said. “You're paired with Paavo from Tallinn.” Nicholas smiled broadly at Paavo, who remained tight-lipped and nodded his greeting toward his host brother.

“Once everyone has located their luggage, it's time to head straight to orientation. We have a busy few days ahead of us before the semester starts.” Barbara herded the combined group out, with Rolf bringing up the rear.

“How was the flight?” Nicholas asked. It looked as though his face would cleave into two parts from the breadth and strength of his smile.

Paavo's face remained stoic and unchanged. “Unfortunately, quite bumpy the whole way. These Polish pilots don't know what they are doing half the time.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows and licked his lips. Apparently Estonians had STDs of their own. “You ready for orientation?”

“I suppose so. What are they going to tell us that we don't already know?”

* * *

The Hallström program orientation was scheduled over two days, with a few hours scattered here and there for sightseeing and getting to know one another. The Berlin Hallström corporate office was an imposing metallic building that glinted so brightly in the sun's rays that it was impossible to look straight at it with the naked eye. Rumor had it that when the architect was drawing the plans, Hallström himself had insisted on using the most reflective steel in order to create an edifice that dominated the skyline in more ways than one. However, the building was so lustrous that it had succeeded in causing arson; on more than one occasion it had set fires in a few surrounding buildings, melting plastic chairs and beach umbrellas that had been placed on nearby rooftops. Hallström resolutely refused the fire department's suggestion to sandblast the facade, digging in his heels when the matter was taken to the city council.

The conference room reserved for the orientation was located on the corner of the forty-ninth floor of the building, with light striking against the sharp angles of the balconets so that Paavo had to squint upon entering the room. A long slab of wood constituted the table, the knots still visible but the grain polished and buffed. Around the table sat the Czechs, the Poles and the Russians in that order, geographically from West to East, congregating like a tiny Eastern European Bloc. The American counterparts bookended the Bloc in designer swivel chairs, each of them guarded and their spines straight as they waited for orientation to begin. Barbara had disappeared once they'd arrived, but Paavo could hear her in the hallway, delegating the staff and ordering more ice and soft drinks.

In her seventeen years working as the coordinator of the Hallström program, Barbara had ushered in all types of students. With her keen sieve-like manner, she had succeeded in plucking the right type of student for the program, though their shared characteristics were invisible to the untrained eye. They were all model students, their grade point averages vetted and culled from a stack of applications by a team hired expressly for this mundane responsibility. The students have arrived in packs, or alone, with overstuffed suitcases as though they had been summoned to an expedition down the river on the Amazon instead of into the conveniences of cosmopolitan cities. They have arrived wielding only a simple backpack, causing host parents to worry about hygiene or whether they might have to coax their exchange student to change their undergarments. They have been sent home early for misconduct, which mostly consists of smoking pot or excessive drinking. They have received commendations, accolades, and have been recommended for honors programs at universities. They have been preppy, athletic, rebellious, lazy, overweight. They have come with eating disorders and autoimmune diseases. They have come with clean bills of health. They have come resplendent in designer clothing, exuding riches from every pore and orifice. They have come needy, some almost destitute, but no matter, because entering the hallowed fold of Hallström levels the playing field. They have all come with open minds, with open hearts, of that Barbara is sure. They have come with good intentions, the desire to lead, to fulfill the common Hallström goal.

As he stood upon the threshold of the room, Paavo couldn't imagine these ten people having anything less in common, not to mention how uniquely disparate he felt amongst them, like a lamb amongst wolves. Paavo glanced at each of the students already seated; the Polish and Russian girls flanked the Czech boy on either side. Pyotr's face appeared sour, as if he were constantly being forced to chew on lemons. Paavo made his choice to settle directly across from the Russian girl, a decision he immediately regretted because of her hair. It was so long and ratty that he almost wished he'd sat next to her so he could pick apart the tangles with his fingers. Nicholas settled in next to him and reached over immediately to the small bowls of snacks placed in a straight line like a dividing border between themselves and the rest of the group. The room was eerily silent, waiting with anticipation for their leader to enter the room. Barbara entered the room squinting, and held her hand up to her forehead like a visor.

“Looks like we're all here.” Though she smiled, there was something chilling in her look, as if even though everyone had made it into the Hallström program, she was still constantly assessing and appraising every one of her recruits, to ensure that she had made the right decision.

“Now,” Barbara said, standing in the front of the room and gripping the chair back in front of her, “let's reintroduce ourselves to one another, just in case we have forgotten names or faces.” Paavo was secretly glad for this, as he had forgotten everyone's name except for mawkish Pyotr, who sat sullenly between the girl with the unkempt hair and Nicholas.

One by one they were reintroduced as partners: Pyotr-Evan, Sabine-Jess, Tomas-Justin, Anika (Unkempt Hair)-Malaysia, Paavo-Nicholas. Each time Malaysia's name was mentioned, whether it was during a roll call or introductions, Paavo found himself stumbling over the concept of her. Malaysia was a slender black girl, with hair that puffed out around her head like a cloud of spun sugar. Her skin was darker than any Paavo had seen before. He hadn't encountered anyone quite like her, and not just because black people were few and far between in Estonia. What kind of a name was Malaysia, he wondered. She was clearly not from the country; their people were tawny-skinned with eyes that seemed to screw together at the corners. He had to force himself to stop looking at her; as if she could sense his gaze, Malaysia lifted her head and shifted her body to face the opposite direction.

Paavo stifled a yawn behind his hand and sat up so that his spine pressed against the back of the seat. It was the only way that he was going to get through this session. He could feel the creep of sleep start behind his eyelids and he twitched his mouth and licked his lips, willing himself to wake up.

Barbara was warming up. She looked out over her audience as though surveying her kingdom. It appeared that there was something there that just wasn't right. She honed in on something—someone—seated in the center of the table, and before Paavo knew what was going on, she was walking toward Evan. She held her hand out expectantly and Evan looked up.

“Give that to me
now
, Evan,” she said, her voice like stone. Paavo leaned forward. What did the boy have in his possession? A cell phone? Cigarettes? Drugs? How had she even seen what he'd held in his lap? All the students leaned forward and craned their necks to see the contraband in Evan's hands. He handed over a small book and looked up at Barbara, his eyebrows knitted with confusion. Barbara held it up in front of her chest. It looked like a guidebook. The words
Understanding Russian Culture
were typed across the front in a firm, Communist font. “
This
, ladies and gentlemen, will
not
be tolerated. Do you understand?” Some of the students nodded, though Paavo didn't understand; perhaps it had a false cover and was hiding something else. But Barbara held the book over her head and marched to the front of the room, shaking it so that the pages flopped from side to side.

“This is poison,” she said, her voice rising an octave above its normal pitch. “This type of book is what CliffsNotes is to literature. It's demeaning, it's degrading and it's uncalled-for. Hallström is about understanding. It's about bridging the gap between cultures that have for the past few decades been estranged, unfriendly and misunderstood. It's about breaking down all the stereotypes that books have printed or movies have compounded. If I see anything like this again, we're going to have serious words about your future here. Is that understood?”