Читать книгу The Faces Of Strangers - Pia Padukone - Страница 12

NICHOLAS

Tallinn

September 2002

When Nicholas’s plane departed after the hour-long stopover in Stockholm, the light had already been waning, highlighting islands floating like clusters of paint chips. Tiny crystals of ice spider-webbed across the glass window, splintering the dark outside into tiled mosaics of uncertainty. With the plane starting its descent over Tallinn, the sun was completely gone, and Nicholas felt the darkness seeping into his chest and sticking to his insides, eclipsing light and hope. He had considered that he might be homesick, but he was more fearful of the unknown, of the foreign, of the discomfort that might await him. He stretched his arms overhead, his fingers striking against the light and air panel. As the plane circled over a postage-stamp-sized tarmac, the fear saturated him completely like a sponge. He focused on shaking it off with the same concentration he used to approach a wrestling match: fiercely and with conviction. But fear clung to him like a straitjacket, pinning his arms to his sides and rendering him helpless.

As he stepped through the doors of the plane, warm air whipped through the slats of the air bridge, attacking him like another fold of ammunition. Even the immigration hall with its warm halogen lights didn’t soften the pall that seemed to have settled over him. He handed over his passport with his Estonian visa plastered inside. The control guard scarcely glanced at him or the pages inside before stamping it heavily and passing it back across the divider. Nicholas felt warm and turgid from the compression of the plane as he made his way down a long ramp that led to Arrivals. The hall was practically empty; just a few limp businessmen holding laptop bags and searching for their drivers; flight attendants walking briskly past him, their heels clicking against the floor as they wheeled their bags away from the airport as fast as they could.

Either the passengers on his plane had been incredibly fast to collect their belongings, or no one had checked in any bags. Nicholas’s suitcase was the only one making a plaintive, circuitous path, and as he pulled it off, he noticed Paavo walking toward him. Paavo was even wirier than Nicholas had remembered, as though the slightest flick of a finger might upset him. His fine, blond hair was so light that he appeared bald. He remembered how Barbara had mentioned her pleasure with this partner match, how much she had thought Paavo and Nicholas would have in common. Nicholas could hardly believe that he would share any common ground with this boy. He remembered how skittish Paavo had been at orientation, how pale and wan he’d looked, and how that hulking Russian student had come bursting into the conference room to announce that the Estonian boy had passed out in the bathroom. Paavo had been all right—mostly dazed and extremely embarrassed. But Nicholas couldn’t help but think that he’d gotten the short end of the exchange student stick.

“Nico,” Paavo said. “Welcome.”

“Nicholas.” He gripped the handle of his suitcase and put his hand out. “Paavo. Good to see you. You feeling better?”

The boy nodded and looked away. “It was nothing that day. I hadn’t eaten.” He took Nicholas’s hand and reached for the suitcase handle with his left. “Was the flight all right?”

“It was long,” Nicholas said, stifling a yawn.

“I hope you are hungry. Mama has been cooking all day for your arrival.”

“I’m starving. I slept through the meals.”

“Come,” Paavo said, turning toward the door. “Papa is in the car outside.”

“I forgot how good your English is.”

“I told you—mostly everyone in Estonia speaks English. After all—” Paavo turned around to face Nicholas, who stopped short behind him “—it is easy when there are only three words in the English language. What are they?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a riddle.”

“Oh. I give up.”

“The English language,” Paavo exclaimed triumphantly. “Get it? One—The. Two—English. Three—Language?”

“Right,” Nicholas said, forcing a smile.

“Anyway, you’ll pick up some Estonian while you’re here. I think you’re taking a class at school. But I can teach you some things, as well.”

“I’d love that.” Secretly, Nicholas wanted the information, vocabulary and pronunciations to travel by osmosis from Paavo’s brain to his own so they could skip all the embarrassing times when Nicholas would feel inferior to Paavo, when he would feel beholden. Nicholas had a good ear—that’s what Senora Hall told him in Spanish II—but he wasn’t sure where his talents lay in a language that sounded as though it had more vowels than consonants.

Nicholas followed Paavo meekly toward the door, feeling as though he were being brought to the gallows. In the small embankment outside baggage claim, the brisk air sent a shiver down his spine. Was it still September in Estonia? It felt so much colder. He zipped his jacket up to his nose, breathing in the salty, damp flavor of his unwashed self. He squinted at the streetlights; their contrast against the inky sky was blinding. A small brown Lada chugged at the curb, streaked with gray stripes of dirt as though it were aging. Paavo swung his suitcase into the trunk and nodded toward the passenger seat.

“Please sit in the front.”

Nicholas opened the door and ducked his head, folding his legs in front of him. The car was warm and smelled like petrol and peppermint. “Papa, Nico. Nico, this is my father, Leo.” The man in the driver’s seat looked nothing like Paavo. He was broad and brown and hairy, reminding Nicholas of a big Russian bear. Leo grunted and grimaced, which Nicholas translated into a greeting and a smile. The evasive Estonian smile would emerge eventually. Coaxing it out of Leo would be one of Nicholas’s first challenges in the Sokolov household. Paavo’s father pulled at the gears, squeaking the car out of the airport road and onto a slip of a highway.

“Don’t mind the car,” Paavo said. “Papa refuses to trade in his trusty Russian beast for something a bit more modern.” Leo threw off a few long sentences into the air. Nicholas tensed at the sound. Was that English? He couldn’t be sure. Paavo sighed from the backseat and spun off a few of his own, ending with, “Papa, English please. For Nico.”

“Nico, I am saying,” Leo said, shifting the car into the next gear, “that this car has been with us for the past fifteen years. There is no problem with it.”

“It’s actually Nicholas,” he said. “And hey, I’m with you. If the car gets you from point A to point B...” he said.

Leo glanced at him. “How was the travel? Are you wanting tired? Wanting sleep?”

“I’ll be okay,” Nicholas said, though the moment he uttered the words, he found himself stifling a yawn. “What time is it anyway?”

“Eighteen thirty. We’ll take it easy tonight. Mama’s made dinner and you can go to bed early. There is a mall where we shop.” Paavo pointed. “And they are building a market there. And another mall there.” Shadowy, mountainous structures sulked in the recesses of deep parking lots. Silhouettes of cranes stood out against the harsh blaze of floodlights. Nicholas could see large pits below them, which would eventually be filled in with cement and the foundations of more shopping centers.

“You’ve come at an interesting time,” Paavo said. “The city has finally begun to fix some of the damage done by the Soviets, so there’s a lot of building and renovating going on.” The land was otherwise flat, but punctuated every so often with a slightly taller structure in the process of being overhauled. There were cranes and heaps of construction material all along the side of the road. The entire city was in a state of flux.

“They have made the old salt-storage building into a museum of architecture, and we have a new multiplex in the city with eleven screens,” Paavo said. “I’ll have to take you there.” Nicholas nodded, deciding not to share the fact that there were numerous movie theaters in New York City that boasted multiple screens. Old brick buildings that had been factories, storage space, silos, were being converted into retail space, lofts and offices. In ten years, when independent businesses would start to do the same to factories and large building spaces in the outer boroughs of New York City, it would be considered “hipster” and all associated retail and services would be priced at triple their actual value.

Tallinn didn’t look very different than Queens, especially near the airport. The existing buildings—from what he could tell in the darkness with intermittent streetlamps shining through—were monstrous industrial edifices, looming in the background as the trusty little Lada zoomed down the road. There was a cloak of darkness settled over everything, as though in September, the country had already settled into hibernation.

Nicholas had been anticipating a long drive, like the one from JFK to Manhattan that could take more than an hour. But the industrial-sized buildings began to shrink in stature, the road narrowed, and soon they were driving over cobblestones.

“We live in Kadriorg,” Paavo said. “One of the nicest neighborhoods in all of Tallinn. We are very near the park, where there is a castle and a pond and most importantly to most Europeans, a football pitch.” Modest wooden houses began to flank them on either side of the road, making Nicholas feel as though he was entering a fairy-tale village. The houses differed in color, size and design; they’d just passed a moss-green cedar-planked one across from a humble mauve ranch-style. Nicholas found himself disappointed when Leo parked the Lada in front of a plain brown wooden cottage, turned the engine off, and the three sat in the silence as the muffler slowly ticked to a halt. Nicholas dreaded going back into the darkness, but Paavo and Leo had unloaded his suitcase and were waiting for him on the driveway.

“Come, come,” Leo said. “We will be late for dinner.” He held his arm out toward the front door, where a tall woman stood. Her hair was either so blond it looked silvery or so silvery it looked blond. Her rosy cheeks were the only color she wore. Her lips held the trace of a smile, but her head was erect and alert as though she had been trained not to slacken her facial muscles. Nicholas had studied the Dust Bowl in United States History the year before; that famous photo of the woman staring into the distance with children clutching at her shoulders reminded him of the woman’s hardened face.

“Tere,” the woman called to him. “You are welcome.” She nodded, as if she were calling a puppy home from its romp outside rather than her new adopted son for the next four months. Nicholas approached her, and at the threshold, wafts of cooked meat mixed with the stark coolness of outside air. “I am Vera, Paavo’s mother. Welcome to Tallinn.” She held out a small posy of orange marigolds. “This is the traditional welcome here in Estonia. You are very welcome to Tallinn and to our home.”

“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.

“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.”

“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.