Читать книгу The Faces Of Strangers - Pia Padukone - Страница 7

NICO

New York City

November 2013

The day begins wrong. Instead of the bright sunlight that usually breaks through the slats in the blinds and filters playfully across the bed, ominous shadows stand sentry in the corners of the room. Instead of the sharp fragrance of coffee, the earthiness of sweat fills the air. Nico won’t notice the difference until later, when he sits alone in his living room staring at a paper cup of coffee long gone cold. Normally, he will reach for his BlackBerry before he reaches for anything—or anyone—else. He will have been alone in the bed for at least an hour anyway, as Ivy will certainly have left early to get in a run or a sunrise Pilates class. Normally, he will brush his teeth with one hand while scrolling through emails with the other. But this morning, he allows himself to lie back against the pillows as he smiles up at the ceiling.

This is where it all begins, he thinks to himself. I wonder if presidents ever just take a moment to reflect. It’s a few minutes before he notices the silence. Usually at this time, the students entering the school directly across the street will reach a deafening crescendo. This morning, there is only the constant ping-buzz melody from the BlackBerry on the bedside table.

But today, the messages can wait. Nico wants to luxuriate in the day, in the anticipation of what is sure to be a landslide mayoral election. This morning—the morning that will change his entire life—Nico wants to take his time. He stretches his limbs carefully, one by one, listening for the telltale crack in his lower back that has lingered since his very last wrestling match in college. He showers, taking care to wash between each toe, over the points of his pelvic bones, massaging the tender dip at his temples. He flosses—a rare occurrence, but he wants to feel clean right down to his gum line. He shaves carefully in front of the foggy mirror, marveling that he has managed to make it this far without checking his email, voicemail, the news. He concentrates instead on his sideburns, recalling Ivy’s insistence that he edge the razor at an angle, shaving half an inch shorter than normal so as to give his youthful face a sense of gravitas.

Never underestimate the importance of appearance, Ivy has stressed. People need to trust you. They need a strong, secure man to lead them. Physical appearance is half the battle. Don’t forget that infamous Nixon-Kennedy debate. Nico has drunk the Kool-Aid. How you look matters almost as much as what you stand for. He has allowed Ivy to tote him around town, spending thousands of dollars on bespoke suits and fitted shirts. He is, frankly, embarrassed at the amount of money he has spent to clothe himself, wondering each time he handed over his credit card for a new suit for a photo op or a speech, whether he should have gone into high-end fashion instead. He has allowed Ivy free rein to ensure that he presents himself with his best polished Italian handmade shoe forward. He has allowed for haircuts at abhorrently inappropriate prices, a straightedge razor shave by a hip Hasidic Jew on the Lower East Side, once even a manicure in a cheap Korean salon with bright fluorescent lights in Queens. He has allowed these changes for the betterment of his public image. But he has his boundaries.

One afternoon, Nico had been standing statue-still as a tailor measured his inseam.

“I was thinking,” Ivy had said, holding a teal-and-brown-striped tie against Nico’s jaw. “Maybe you should think about reverting to Nicholas. Nico is who you were as a little boy. Nicholas is stronger, more masculine. It stands for something. I looked it up. It means people’s victory. How perfect is that?”

At this, Nico had shaken his head adamantly until the tailor had asked him to hold still. For the past eleven years, he has been Nico Grand. The name is a vestige from the semester he spent in Estonia as an exchange student. He was dubbed from the moment he’d set foot in the Sokolov household.

“No,” he’d told her, surprising himself. “I’ve always been Nico. People trust Nico. He’s down-to-earth. He’s a people person. I’m not Nicholas anymore. I’m running as Nico Grand.”

Ivy had shrugged. “Suit yourself. No pun intended,” she’d said, turning back and busying herself with the carousel of ties. Nico knows he is lucky to have Ivy, but if he’s honest with himself, he feels stifled by her intense motivation for him to succeed. He has wondered whether she would have given him a chance if he hadn’t been in the limelight from the start of their relationship; whether or not he would have been interested in her in the first place. Sometimes he thinks of Ivy as an accessory: a beautiful, sparkly thing to wear on his wrist like a charm bracelet or good luck amulet.

When they’d first met, at that very first press conference, Ivy had shown genuine interest in his politics. As a representative from the comptroller’s office, she’d asked several follow-up questions about the Navy Yards, the project Nico had invested in on behalf of the Housing and Parks Protocol. When would the project be completed? How could they ensure that the neediest causes would receive priority access? Had they done their due diligence to determine the lowest income threshold? She’d been engaged and ardent, and Nico had been drawn to Ivy like a magnetic pole.

He can’t pinpoint for sure when the change happened exactly, but at some point, the impetus to represent the people began to dissipate into Ivy’s desire for status and power. Nico didn’t originally enter politics for the fancy clothes, the beautiful girl or even the prestige. No, in fact, it was the other way around. Once he realized he had the charm and the charisma he needed to lead, he made the decision then and there to use it for good. Upon his return from his high school semester abroad in Estonia, the confidence he’d gained gave him the strength and conviction to run for student body government and truly make a difference. Even at age seventeen, he had set up an anti-bullying initiative, lobbied to introduce school-issued ID cards that could be scanned upon entry in order to monitor and incentivize attendance, and had even set motions in action to challenge the caliber of standardized testing in public schools across the city. At that age, he wanted to be the voice of the people—high school people—and he had worked tirelessly throughout the remainder of his time at the Manhattan High School of Science, into college and his first job on a real city campaign that would set the stage and prepare him for his future. Now the city knows Nico Grand, mayoral candidate, tireless crusader for the underdogs and hopeless, who won’t sell out the middle class or anger the one percent in order to make a dime or prove a point.

Nico hears the front door open and Ivy’s heels click against the floor until they reach the bathroom door and her keen gray eyes meet his in the mirror. “Here,” she says, holding out a paper cup of coffee. “Your machine broke this morning.”

“Thanks. Can you put it on the sink?”

“My hair’s going to get all frizzy in the steam,” she says. Nico puts down his razor to take the cup from her. “Are you almost ready? There’s already a line of photographers waiting outside for you to cross the street and cast your vote.”

Of course: on Election Day there is no school. There are no clusters of schoolchildren across the street, no thunk of a handball as it ricochets off the narrow alleyway, no squeals of children as they’re tagged by It.

“The obligatory photo op.” Nico sighs. “What do they think—that I’m not going to do my civic duty by voting for myself?” He rubs some pomade from an oversize tub he has purchased from the Hasidic Jew into the roots of his hair.

“Just play the game,” Ivy says. “It’s your day, baby. You’re here.”

Nico sips at his cup. “Thanks for the coffee,” he says. “Come here.” He reaches for her but she arches backward as though about to dip under a limbo stick.

“Your hands are all tacky from the gunk,” she says, grimacing.

Nico returns to the mirror, raking the razor across his face to make tracks in his stubble.

“You’re ringing,” Ivy calls from the bedroom.

“It’s probably Mason,” Nico says. “I’ll call him back.” But Ivy has already pressed the answer button and hands the phone to Nico. She lingers nearby, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom, taking diminutive but deliberate sips from a bottle of water. Nico bristles each time she raises the bottle to her lips. He has extolled New York City’s tap water as some of the best tasting in the world, yet Ivy always insists on drinking bottled water. It’s irresponsible and wasteful, he argues, and he makes a mental note that he has to change her ways once and for all now that as a public figure, his—and his girlfriend’s—every move will be scrutinized, dissected and judged.

“Mason, can I call you after my vote?” Nico tucks the device under his ear and hops into a pair of boxers. Somehow, through the crispness of fall, a large black horsefly has found its way into the apartment and is buzzing lazily through the tepid air that hangs like a cobweb as steam drifts out of the bathroom. Nico waves the fly away, irritated at this potential blemish on this otherwise felicitous morning.

“Dude, where have you been? I’ve been trying for an hour.”

“I’m just trying to get a little Zen over here before what is sure to be a big day. What’s up?” Nico tugs at the dry cleaning plastic that sheathes his victory suit, as Ivy calls it. He can feel his impatience mounting. He yearns to be calm and controlled today.

“There’s an issue.” Nico’s press secretary, melodramatic on the best of days, speaks in a tone that can only be described as shrill.

“Unless you’re calling to tell me that your numbers were all wrong, let it go, Mase. We’re golden. Five-point spread, remember? It’s the magic number.” Nico counts to ten before releasing his breath. Perhaps coffee isn’t necessary today, he thinks to himself. Adrenaline is enough. He is a shoo-in. Polls taken days before elections are rarely wrong.

“Well, we’re going to need more than magic today. When were you going to tell me that you have a kid? With some European supermodel?”

“This isn’t the time for jokes, Mase. I’m tightly enough wound as it is.” Nico dodges the fly that swings toward him in the mirror. He adjusts his tie and smiles at himself. Appearances.

“Tell me you didn’t know about this. You didn’t know, right?” Mason’s breath catches between his words.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Nico pushes air out of his nostrils and swats at the fly as it veers toward him once again.

“It’s not a joke, Nico.” The words hang in the air; Nico feels like swatting them, too. “Some bored paparazzo decided to do some sleuthing on you. And he had absolutely impeccable timing.”

“Paparazzo? Sounds like a dirty Guzman ploy to me. I can’t believe they’re playing at this on election morning. Give that asinine campaign advisor of his a call and tell him that a supermodel is just cliché. And remind him—ideas, not incumbency. Just to drive it home.”

“Cliché or not, it’s all Channel 1 is talking about. Turn it on.”

“I don’t have time, Mason.” But Nico can feel something turning in the air. There shouldn’t be a horsefly in November. His coffee machine should be working. He should be able to breathe.

“Well, you have to find the time, Nico. As soon as you step outside your apartment, the cameras are going to be on you like stink on shit.”

Nico can barely squeak the words out. “What—what supermodel are they saying?” He finds his legs and sinks his tailbone onto the bed.

“Some Russian lingerie model—Maria? Marie?”

He can feel the blood drain from his face. He feels as though he hasn’t used his voice in days. “M-M-Mari. Sokolov. She’s Estonian,” he croaks.

“Potayto, po-fucking-tahto, Nico. Jesus Christ, it’s true? You’re her baby daddy?”

“No! For God’s sake, stop being so vulgar. I haven’t seen or even talked to her in something like ten years. She was my Estonian exchange partner’s sister. We barely even talked when I lived there. We just...” And then it hits him. Actions have reactions; isn’t that one of the basic laws of physics? Snippets of Mari’s body flash against the backs of his closed eyelids like a strobe light: curved ribs, pursed lips, steely gaze. When he opens his eyes, Ivy has moved toward him, but he holds his hand up to ward her away under the pretense of swatting away the fly that has become more brazen with its advances. Ivy’s eyes narrow in deep concentration as she attempts to read Nico’s face.

“It couldn’t be. There’s no way.” Nico hears himself say the words out loud, but the words that rush through his head are, Of course there is a way. Tucking the BlackBerry under his ear, he opens his laptop, angles it away from Ivy and types Mari Sokolov into the search engine.

The last time he’d Googled Mari, he’d been a junior intern on a tense campaign trail for a congressman who had no chance of getting reelected. Surrounded by take-out cartons in a nameless motel chain with the ghostly glow of the television flickering in the background, Nico had jerked off to her image on top of a morose bedspread. Back then he had needed to take the edge off a particularly grueling day of press dockets, speeches and a neck cramp from sleeping on the campaign bus. He’d found Mari parading around the internet wearing ethereal, lacy undergarments that left little to the imagination, but helped him perform—though rather perfunctorily—that night. He woke up the next morning feeling rejuvenated, but that had been the last of it. Now, the hits reveal that her promotion to a Victoria’s Secret Angel means that she will wear more clothes rather than simply lingerie.

Nico clicks rabidly as Ivy shifts and sighs loudly on the other side of the laptop lid. He alights on the celebrity gossip website DishIt.com.

Dark Angel Mari Sokolov’s ten-year-old daughter, Claudia, accompanied her mother to the Haute Couture Awards last Friday. Until recently, when Sokolov has been seen dining and yachting with Spanish media mogul Javier Pizarro, Sokolov has been notoriously single for the past decade, and has kept the identity of her child’s father confidential. Rumors of the father’s identity have included British multimillionaire Eric Rausch and Persian model Feni Rahman, though Sokolov has denied both counts. Both the Sokolov women wore Dior.

“Nico, man, we’ll figure it out,” Mason says softly, breaking into Nico’s thoughts. “But I can’t cover your ass properly unless I know the truth.”

“But this is insane. There’s no proof of anything. I knew her when I was sixteen. It was a lifetime ago. I didn’t even start it. She...she used me.” There are a thousand things to say, and Nico is saying them all at once. When he closes his eyes again, Mari has disappeared, but the infamous Latin term flashes in his vision like an LED sign: ignorantia juris non excusat. Ignorance of the law does not excuse.

“So you did have relations with her.”

“Stop talking to me like some Clintonian. It’s not like that. It’s not like anything!”

Ivy is searching Nico with her eyes and she sits on the armchair facing him on the bed just as he slams the laptop shut.

“Look, I think it’s best if you forget about the photo op for now. Lay low for a few hours until I figure some things out. Promise me you’ll stay put.”

Nico promises. Mason hangs up, but Nico keeps the phone to his ear. He wants to keep this to himself for as long as he can. The moment he puts the phone down, Ivy will rush in and insert herself into the situation, demanding to know every last iota. But there is nothing Nico can do now to stave her off. She will find out eventually. She’ll try to make sense of it all calmly and rationally at first, like the lawyer she’s been trained as, but eventually her anger will mount and she will erupt like a steam kettle. And just as Ivy will find out, so will everyone else: the whole city and constituency, his family, Paavo.

He thinks back—it’s been what? Over eleven years since he was in Estonia for the Hallström program, a third of his life ago. He has memories of Estonia, the long bovine vowels that make up the language, the burn of Viru Valge as it traveled down his throat, and of course, Paavo, his exchange partner. He hasn’t spoken to Paavo in a few years. There’d been a rift, and while Nico had tried to understand and repair it, things just got so busy. He was writing speeches, and then he was making speeches, and before he knew it, he met Ivy and she was encouraging him to run for city office. Which he’s doing now. Or at least he’s trying to.

He feels a cold chill run through his entire body, as though he’s sitting on a roller coaster and it has just peaked at the top of its parabolic climb and is about to tip over. Is this what his sister Nora wanted to talk to him about a few months ago? That must have been it. Unlike him, Nora has stayed close to Paavo. Their bond—once created when Paavo had first come to New York those eleven years ago—has strengthened over the years, and Nico is ashamed to admit that she now knows more about Paavo’s life than Nico does of his own exchange partner. Nora knew, and despite the code of therapist-patient ethics to which she usually steadfastly adheres, she had suggested rather intently that Nico reach out to Paavo and Mari. Until now, Nico had no idea as to why.

But he’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d emailed and called. He’d even gone to Estonia to meet with Paavo face-to-face and when Paavo hadn’t been there, Nico had returned to New York City and thrown himself headfirst into schmoozing with politicos and potential donors. He got too busy mobilizing field organizers and wooing supporters to follow up. He’s been too busy cozying up with Ivy in trendy restaurants with overpriced cocktails. He’s been too busy choosing his bespoke suits and neckties.

He stares at his suit where it hangs on the rack, looking shameful and despondent. It, along with the other beautiful garments in various shades of gray that he’d had to learn upon their purchase—charcoal, ash, smoke, birch—has cost hundreds of dollars. It feels like such a waste, like everything else he has worked toward: the campaigning, the speeches, the countless hours he has spent on his public image. It is all about to come crashing down. He clutches the phone to his ear and nods, concentrating on a spot on the floor. If he can carry the farce on a little longer on the phone, he can buy some time before he’s forced to face Ivy. If he continues pretending that nothing is wrong, maybe he can start believing his own lie.

But he can’t deny what happened in Estonia all those years ago. He can’t help but catapult his mind back to his junior year of high school when he stepped off a plane onto a sliver of land half the size of the state of Maine. It had been an experience, as he told his mother it would be when he had signed up for the exchange program. But apparently this experience has stretched far beyond the year that the program was supposed to take place. Nothing could have prepared him for how the Hallström student exchange program would change his life.