The Faces of Strangers (7 page)

“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.

LEO

Tallinn
September 2002

Leo had gotten himself into a holy mess by marrying an Estonian citizen and staying in the country after independence. He'd committed himself to a life in a country that didn't even recognize him. He looked around, shaking his head. All around the yard small pieces of white fluff floated in the air, as if dozens of dandelions had been blown and the seeds danced about the grass. The sun was barely up; his family was still asleep upstairs as he assumed the American boy was in the den. He yawned and stepped into the yard, gripping his cup of tea as though it were a lodestone. A syrup-like layer of dew coated the grass. He pushed his feet into the lawn, his feet dampening with the moisture as he approached a clump of the fluff.

“Damn it,” he growled under his breath in Russian. “Damn those damned birds.” He stalked to the fence and peered over the boards, some moldy and chewed away by termites in places. He made a mental note to speak to Kunnar about the fence, but he weighed the other topic in his head, as well. What was more important—the fence or the chickens? One had to choose their arguments; ensure the priority. Perhaps it was the fence, so essential to demarcating his property. But those chickens made such a ruckus as well as a stink. They had to go.

Leo had become quite proficient in choosing his arguments. Each day's Russian-language newspaper reported a new slew of insults toward his people. In his heart, he felt Estonian, but when policies were created stating otherwise, separating the Estonian wheat from the Russian chaff, he couldn't help but feel rebuffed by the country in which he'd spent most of his life. The small gray passport that lay side by side with the three other red passports in the vault in the master bedroom was like a spit in the face. When the family had traveled to Riga for the children's school holidays last summer, and previously across the sea to Finland for a long weekend, the border guards flipped through its pages searching for visas while impatiently waving the rest of the family through. It appeared that the country—his country—was doing more and more to make him feel insufficient, unnecessary. He felt like the outsider in the family. There was a game he used to play when Mari and Paavo were small—which one of these objects doesn't belong with the others? It was always him, glaringly. He could barely stand to look at the newspaper anymore. It was ripe with arguments waiting to explode over the breakfast table that continually minimized his presence in Eesti, if he was even allowed to call it that anymore. The night before Nico arrived had been the penultimate clue that he was wearing his family's patience thin. He had sat down in his chair at the dining table, glowering over the layered tower of
kasukas
salad of smoked salmon that Vera had prepared especially for him, and grabbed at the sliced
rukkileib
she'd placed beside it. With his other hand, he tossed the newspaper onto the table. He'd folded the pages to frame an article that proclaimed that six thousand Estonian-born Russians had failed the citizenship test to date.

“There,” he'd sneered in Russian. “And I'm supposed to compete with those numbers?”

Vera served herself and passed the platter to Mari, who took a modest dollop of
kasukas
on her plate. Vera settled back, chewing her food meticulously while Mari picked at her already-meager portion. Lately, his daughter seemed to want nothing to do with them. Leo was disappointed that his eldest had grown into a full beauty. She had piercing blue eyes and a dainty mouth and a figure that he ensured was well attired when she left the house. Leo had not wanted a beautiful daughter. Nor did he want a homely one, but there had to be something in between. Beautiful daughters were nothing but trouble, and this one was poised for it. At least she had funneled her beauty into something concrete; Mari's modeling career was beginning to take flight and her ads had appeared in
Anne & Stiil
and
Naisteleht
and her face had taken up prominent real estate on the side of bus shelters. Leo had swallowed the silence that followed his indignant proclamation and thrown the paper under his feet in disgust.

Leo watched the chickens now, clucking and pecking. A few of them bobbed toward him, cocking their heads hopefully. Leo stalked the length of the gate, noting where the paint had scratched away or where the wood needed to be replaced, never once taking his eye off the chickens, which also followed him as he moved. He bent down where the fence led toward the back of the long yard, where the wood had truly corroded, and ran his hands over the decaying boards. Behind him, the walls of the sauna he had built by hand when they had first moved into the house were still solid; a gentle breath of eucalyptus and birch bark puffed through the slats of the wood, aerating the insides of the sauna and perfuming the air. Leo crouched and shook his head at the base of the fence, where a hole as big as two fists allowed him to see the birds in Kunnar's yard, bobbing and searching in vain for any scraps that might have lingered in the dull grass. That's when he saw it: a single egg, nestled amongst the crocus bulbs on his side of the yard. He startled at first, as though a tiny little bird beak might begin to press through its porcelain shell. But then he knelt down, set his teacup down in the grass and scooped the egg up in his palm. It was still warm, as though the hen had just lifted her bottom from it moments before. He cupped it within his fingers, imagining it as a butterfly or something that might take flight.

His family would have been shocked to see him hold something so delicate. Leo made quick, definitive movements, rarely lingering, barely faltering. He declared decisions before he'd necessarily even made his mind up. To have been caught cradling an egg as though it was an infant might have lost him years of curmudgeonly credibility.

Inside the house, he held the egg up to the sun that was just beginning to stream in through the kitchen window. The egg was dark in this light, impenetrable to his naked eyes. He rifled through the kitchen drawer and found the stovetop lighter that Vera used to relight the pilot light when it went out and held it up behind the egg. Immediately, it lit up like a bulb. Leo could see the dark yolk within, strands of tissue that held the yolk and its gelatinous membrane together. He peered at it as though through a microscope, taking in the contours of the goop inside, how it formed itself around the yolk and floated there formlessly. It was safe.

Leo listened for signs from upstairs but there was complete silence. He took a bowl out from the cabinet over the sink and looked at the egg in his cupped palm. He moved his wrist up and down, flexing and stretching. Leo had one chance at this. His wrist felt ready, so he held it poised over the bowl.

The egg white dripped down the side of the bowl, but the yolk had found its way into the bottom of it. Leo smiled, pleased with his technique but twisted his lips at the mangled carcass of shell in his hands, which he slipped into the wastepaper bin. He fished out a shard of eggshell from the bowl and turned on a small skillet. A pat of butter melted effortlessly; the fat sizzled as it spread out across the pan. A purist, he slid the egg into the pan and let it cook on its own, the butter bubbling around the sides as the yolk took shape and form.

He had never tasted anything like this before. He understood the allure of fresh eggs now. It tasted like morning had burst open in his mouth; the woodsy, farm-like flavor couldn't be bought in the cardboard egg cartons Vera brought home from the store. This was natural and real. This was how eggs should be eaten. He savored every single bite until it was gone. It wasn't until after he had finished that he realized he hadn't even used any salt or pepper for flavoring. He could hear footsteps from overhead now, so he rinsed the bowl in the sink and set more water on the stove for a second cup of tea.

Vera creaked down the stairs, her steps heavy with sleep. She appeared in the kitchen, her hair mussed, her robe pulled loosely over her shoulders. She smiled at him. She had once again forgotten to take her makeup off the night before, and there were shadows of the black kohl she used to edge her eyelids smudged in the hollows beneath her pupils.

“Have you made yourself breakfast?” she asked in Russian. “What a surprise.”

“I didn't know when you'd be up, so I made myself an egg,” Leo answered.

She opened the fridge and stared into it, as if an answer would form before her eyes. “We were out of eggs.”

“Oh.” Leo couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth, not after he had lambasted the chickens in the yard for weeks. “There was one...in the very back...in a bowl.” With her makeup smudged like this, Vera resembled an angry raccoon. Her lips were so tight they appeared sewn together.

“Levya...” she trailed off, watching Leo's face carefully.

Leo's face paused over his teacup, the darks of his pupils watching her like an animal. “Yes?”

“Don't be upset.”

“At what? What did you do?” Leo lowered the teacup to the table and placed it a few inches away from him. He planted his feet firmly into the wooden floor, bracing himself for her to speak.

“I didn't want to say anything last night in front of Nico, but I got you another test date. For citizenship.”

Leo felt his head expanding. He pursed his lips and was grateful that the porcelain cup wasn't between his fingers. He was sure his grip would have otherwise shattered it. “Why—Vera, why would you do that?”

“It's time, Levya. It's been a few years since you took it last. You can't avoid it forever. You and I both know that you're as much of a citizen of this country as any of us. You've lived here for forty years. This is home. Just because our asinine government decides to make a stupid law shouldn't make you a pariah.”

“Pray tell, my Estonian goddess,” Leo sneered, leaning back against the stove. “When am I scheduled to participate in this little charade?”

“You have time,” Vera said, approaching him. She patted his arm as though she were about to administer an injection. “It's not until November.”

“November?” Leo snorted and turned away from her, pouring more tea and spooning a glob of blackberry jam into the cup. He stirred it vigorously, sugary liquid slopping around the outside of the rim. “I'm supposed to learn this godforsaken language in three months?”

“Oh, don't be like that. You already know a great deal,” Vera said. “We just have to soften your pronunciation, polish the edges. I'll help you.”

Leo shook his head, hunching his shoulders up around his ears. Vera stepped behind him, letting her arms envelop his stocky figure, allowing her hands to trace the elastic waistband of his pants, dipping a finger beneath the drawstring. Leo tensed against her touch.

“Remember when we used to play Defector?” she murmured into his broad back. “Remember how innocent we were? How we had no idea what it meant?” During the Soviet tightening of the borders, a handful of rebels slipped through the cracks. Ballerinas, chess players, fighter pilots—they all sought lives outside the Iron Curtain. While the Soviets tried to keep the news of defections under wraps lest others get ideas, the news inevitably traveled fast, inspiring excitement, support and very often jealousy amongst those who remained in Soviet-run countries. Defection was easily translatable into a children's game. All you needed was someone to flee, someone to assist and someone to pursue and ultimately banish them to Siberia, a chalk-drawn square demarcation in which miscreants had to sit for the rest of the game if they were caught.

Vera had been a petite child, and therefore an obvious choice to play the Defector attempting to flee the oppressive Soviet regime. She was nimble and could fit into suitcases, squeeze into bicycle baskets and wooden boxes, contort her limbs to accommodate any mode of transport. It was mostly other girls who were forced into Aider/Abettor roles, pushing the wheelbarrow, riding the bicycle or “driving” the getaway car. When boys played the role, they impatiently hoisted Vera onto their shoulders or cradled her in their arms, clutching her desperately as they weaved and dodged their pursuers. Burly Leo was always cast as a KGB Minder, keeping a lookout for those on the lam. It was in the small courtyard behind the imposing block of gray concrete apartments where both Vera's and Leo's families lived that Leo literally first began to chase his future wife. Paavo and Mari cherished their parents' love story—their romance that began as a game and blossomed into reality.

“So?” Leo asked, his voice gruff with annoyance. He was well versed with Vera's tactic of tapping into his soft side, which she managed to locate from time to time underneath the hard armor that appeared to have toughened over the past decade.

“Remember how you used to chase me? I miss that,” Vera said, letting her voice drop into its husky timbre, a pitch that usually brought Leo to his knees.

“That was a long time ago. When we were young and stupid,” Leo said. “When the KGB called the shots and we stood to attention. When I was a citizen. When I had rights.” Leo tensed his body against hers.

“That's not quite how I recall those years before Independence,” she said, releasing her hands completely from around him. He turned to face her. “In fact, I remember some pretty miserable times. Or have you conveniently forgotten them?” Leo looked down at his hands and shook his head.

“I don't have time for this right now. I have to go to work. That is, if they haven't found a red-blooded Estonian to configure bus schedules in my absence,” Leo said, clearing his throat. “Did your daughter come home?”

“She's my daughter now? What did she do?” Vera smiled, attempting to break the tension as she dabbed at the spilled tea with a dishcloth.

“As long as she's that pretty, she's your daughter. I will reclaim her when her looks go.”

“Levya! That's terrible!”

“It may be, but I can't deal with a pretty daughter gallivanting around town. It's dangerous. Beautiful things don't ask for attention. You damn well know what I mean. You need to have those talks with her. You know, the ones about the fine balance between flaunting her body and not letting men have what they want.”