The Faces of Strangers

by Pia Padukone

  Mari remembered, and as a result, Claudia would be the end; she was sure of it. And when that same nurse came in after it was all over to check her vitals, she patted her hand and said, “What a short labor, lucky girl.” Mari didn’t have the energy to say anything. She lifted her arm weakly so the nurse could strap the blood pressure cuff onto it and turned her head the other way so she didn’t have to look at her face. What the hell did she know? The ten-hour ordeal had felt like eternity.

  When she’d felt well enough, Mari asked for her daughter to be brought to her room. A different nurse wheeled in a box with transparent plastic sides, like a jewelry case. Mari had stared at the tiny wrapped package nestled into the bassinet with suspicion. She’d been in a fog after she’d released the tiny body from her own. It wasn’t until one of the nurses brought the baby to her breast that she remembered Ginevre’s advice. She’d looked at Claudia, her daughter, mewling with all her might, her tiny pink mouth gasping for her nipple like a guppy, and Mari hadn’t had the strength to resist, saggy tits be damned.

  Mari would never admit that her daughter was named after a model; that was far too gauche. But that goldi-locked face with the perfectly horsey teeth had adorned her walls in her Tallinn bedroom, a role model in the truest sense of the word.

  Once she had regained the strength she needed to return home, and Claudia was blessed with a clean bill of health, Mari returned to her tiny apartment with her tiny daughter in her arms. It had been alarming how needy her cries were, how incessant, how little Mari could get done for herself and around the house even though it felt as if all Claudia did was sleep and nurse and cry. If not for the crying, Mari thought, perhaps she might have survived. But she was startled by the way that Claudia would bawl for what seemed like hours on end, and then gasp, her face turning red and then violet. After the harsh realization that she hadn’t spoken to another adult in two weeks, and a cursory glance at her dwindling bank account, Mari enrolled herself in a series of Pilates classes and tracked down Ginevre’s number.

  Ginevre was true to her word; models who barely looked as though they had birthed one or two children—in Sabrina’s case, three—clustered around a table in the back of the coffee shop where they assembled on Wednesday evenings. Mari tugged her stroller toward the circle, making sure to give each of them a quick once-over before she mentally committed. Luckily none of them resembled her in the least, a good sign that boded well for the future of their friendships. Model friends should never look alike, Mari had learned. You didn’t want to tempt the fates of competition, tears or cattiness. Ginevre had clearly spoken about her before, because they all fell upon her, holding their children on their hips, one brazenly breast-feeding her child under Ginevre’s critical eye as they welcomed her into the fold. It was the first time during her modeling career that Mari finally felt part of something. This was the community she’d been yearning for, not the snarling clutches of girls all vying for the same roles that she’d encountered so far. The group, composed of seven model mothers, was an eclectic bunch; Sasha, Yulia and Sabrina had founded the group three years earlier; Ginevre and Fleur had both left the ultracompetitive modeling world of Paris for Moscow since then, and Aisha and Jasmine had recently relocated from Cairo and Tehran, respectively, along with their daughters.

  Almost immediately, they began to teach Mari the ropes. In order to survive in Moscow as a model mother, you had to work under a few select agents. Ginevre advised Mari to dump Viktor as soon as possible and gave her the names of three acceptable agents who would make her rich, if not famous. Mari clutched the list so intensely within her fingers that the sweat made the numbers bleed into one another, so Ginevre wrote them down again. The other breast-feeding mother, Yulia, tutored Mari on how to protect herself from leaking when she went on go-sees. She instructed Mari not to think about her daughter while she was at calls lest her breasts seep dark clusters onto her dress. She showed her how to pad her bras with half a maxi pad in each cup, giving her the illusion of a woman more naturally endowed than she was.

  An unspoken rule of the group was that none of the models referred to or asked after the fathers. Mari didn’t even know if the fathers were in the picture unless one of the girls volunteered the information. Sabrina, with her brood of three, mentioned her boyfriend from time to time, much to the chagrin of the other mothers, whose mouths turned down in response to the mention of a man. It seemed that all the other girls were just as alone as Mari.

  In truth, Mari tried not to think about Nico. But frustratingly, Claudia was a constant visual reminder of her father. She had his short, stubby fingers and a mole at the side of her neck that Nico had on the back of his. She had his elfin ears and his pointy nose. Mari had read that babies biologically resemble their fathers upon birth; it was a natural instinct built into the birthing process so that male mammals wouldn’t eat their own kind, or abandon them in their time of need. But Claudia didn’t need her father. He wasn’t even in the picture. Why couldn’t her own daughter resemble her mother when she was all she had?

  She couldn’t help but wonder what Nico was doing over there on the other side of the world, not longingly but rather matter-of-factly. She was curious about that life, the one that if everything had moved more traditionally, she might be living. She wondered if she would ever crave the desire to pack Claudia up so she could see the foreign land that was technically partly her daughter’s.

  September 2004

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Nico, hello!

  HEADLOCK12: P-Train! Haven’t talked to you in forever.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I know. It’s been a while.

  HEADLOCK12: I’m at college. Got here yesterday.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Wow, college already. How is it?

  HEADLOCK12: New, different, overwhelming. All the things it’s supposed to be. Have you left for training yet?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I leave on the first of October. Why is it overwhelming?

  HEADLOCK12: Just massive, and everyone is always amped. It’s like they’re all on something. Who knows, maybe they are. I met my wrestling team at dinner. They were welcoming, which was nice, but you know, just a lot to take in.

  HEADLOCK12: By the way, Chen and Carmine say hi. Carmine is at Reed in Oregon, and Chen, the mama’s boy, is at NYU. :)

  HEADLOCK12: I haven’t seen you on here in a few weeks. Are you nervous about the service? I can’t believe Estonia has mandatory service. Haven’t you guys not been in a war in like, 40 years?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: It’s only for eight months. Peacetime training. But they’re taking volunteers for the Multi-National Force to Iraq.

  HEADLOCK12: Promise me you won’t even consider that. You’ll enroll in college, right? For next year?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Perhaps. That is still to be determined.

  HEADLOCK12: Wait, why?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I was working at this IT company called CallMe over the summer, helping them run subset analyses and simulations. It was really interesting work, and they asked me to stay on.

  HEADLOCK12: English, please! What does that even mean?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: They’re trying to bridge the gap between people across the world. Make the world a smaller place.

  HEADLOCK12: How are you going to do that?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: It’s a communications initiative. It’s in beta testing. I’m not at liberty to talk about it.

  HEADLOCK12: I see.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I’ll let you know about it when I can. But between you and me, I think it’s going to be important.

  HEADLOCK12: That’s awesome, as long as you’re happy. And you can always go to college next year.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Perhaps.

  HEADLOCK12: What does that mean?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Only that there are many variables. I will be a reservist once I leave the military. I might be called up. Or I might just join Call
Me full-time. My number got called in the army during a crucial few months within the company. I have received special governmental permission to continue work while I am here, during my free time, of course.

  HEADLOCK12: Wow, sounds like these people have some sway.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: As I said, I think the technology will change things.

  HEADLOCK12: Wave of the future and all, huh? Well done, P-Train.

  HEADLOCK12: How’s the family? I know your dad took the make-up test a few weeks ago, but I didn’t want to email him in case...

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Yeah, good you didn’t. He failed it. Again. It was a rough month, but nothing that couldn’t be salved with a bottle of Viru Valge. Mama promised him that he would only have to take it one more time, but he says they have already taken his dignity and refuses to re-enroll. Mama’s at her wit’s end with him. She’s not sure what to do.

  HEADLOCK12: Poor guy. I feel his pain. Estonian was the hardest class I’ve taken in my life.

  HEADLOCK12: So, how’s Mari?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Still in Moscow.

  HEADLOCK12: Wow, she must have hit it big.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: She said being closer to the action would increase her chances of getting booked. She always says she’s so busy, which I think is such bullshit.

  HEADLOCK12: Well if you talk to her, tell her I say hi.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: When is your first wrestling meet?

  HEADLOCK12: Next week.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Good luck.

  HEADLOCK12: Ha thanks. I’m probably going to get creamed. If you thought I was big, man... I’ll have to send you a picture of the guys on my team. They’re massive.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I am sure you exaggerate.

  HEADLOCK12: Maybe a little. :) But for real, drop me a line from time to time, ok?

  EESTIRIDDLER723: I will.

  HEADLOCK12: Speak to you soon. Night, bud.

  EESTIRIDDLER723: Good night. All the best.

  PAAVO

  Northeast Defense District, Tapa, Estonia

  October 2004

  The rumor spread during Paavo’s orientation at basic training that the previous year, a trainee had shot himself and died instantly. His entire troop had been given emergency leave and excused from the remainder of training due to trauma. But as Paavo entered the entry hall that led toward the barracks, it no longer appeared to be a rumor. As his troop marched forward, they passed a square portrait of a young man with the ghostly fuzz of a mustache perched atop his thin upper lip. The olive-green soldier’s cap on his head was slightly askew and his eyes were so piercing and luminous that Paavo felt as though he were being watched. In Memoriam, the plaque below read. Urmas Kul, 1987–2003. He would be certain to pay careful attention in Ammunitions, though they wouldn’t be handling weapons until more than halfway through their service. Paavo felt a sharp poke between his shoulder blades, and he straightened his posture mechanically.

  “That guy,” Priit whispered hurriedly from behind. “That guy offed himself last year. Remember hearing about it?” Paavo kept his eyes trained forward.

  “It was an accident,” Paavo said, murmuring out of the sides of his mouth like a ventriloquist. “He didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

  “That’s what they want us to think,” Priit said. “Think they’d have all these conscripts if word was that Eesti Kaitsevagi made you suicidal?” Paavo concentrated on following the shoulders of the recruit in front of him. The rough edges of the material of his jacket were scuffed and worn, probably passed down through the years. The group came to a halt as they allowed a man dressed in a Facilities jumpsuit to push a cart holding a large, bulky item covered in burlap through the hall ahead of them.

  “Wonder what’s in there,” Priit said. “Ammo, perhaps? Bodies?” In the introductory exercises, Priit had tried to partner with Paavo at every opportunity, but luckily they had been paired off alphabetically by last name so Paavo never had to deal with him. Priit was needy and desperate for attention, attaching himself like a leech to anyone he thought might be willing to listen. Perhaps if Priit were ignored, he would get the hint and fall back. Instead, goaded on by a silent and captive audience, Priit prattled on, unbeknownst to their captain, who was conferring with his senior at a heavy wooden desk in the middle of the long hall.

  Paavo had attended the mandatory physical checkup over the summer without a fuss. It had been Vera who had been a mess, wringing her hands and reminding him again and again that he had special skills that would likely exempt him from having to enlist.

  “It says here, Paavo,” she said, waving the sheet he’d received from the Defense Forces the previous week. “Look. I’m not making it up. It says, due to any exemplary displays in IT, commerce/business and technology. IT. That’s you. Just take them all your CallMe work from the summer.”

  “That stuff is confidential, Mama,” Paavo said, pushing his foot into a sneaker. “You’re not to tell anyone about it, and I certainly can’t be taking work out of that office. Honestly, it’s fine. Reservists have never actually been called up. Who knows—I might fail the physical altogether. They’ll probably think I’m too weak or out of shape and then I’ll be back behind my desk at CallMe, letting my muscles atrophy.” But Paavo’s senior year on the soccer pitch had strengthened his legs and toughened his core. His quads were like the thunderous ham thighs that hung in the butcher’s window in Raekoja plats, and when he wore shorts, his calf muscles bounced as though there were Ping-Pong balls encased within them. He was certainly fit to enlist in the Estonian Compulsory Military Service for the eight months of required stay. As their captain walked back to them, Paavo could tell he’d only recently been promoted, as he held his head high, but walked on the tentative, spindly legs of a newborn calf.

  “Recruits,” he yelped; it was unfortunate that his voice hadn’t been upgraded along with his status. Sometime in the past year, Paavo’s thin, reedy pitch had been replaced with the deep rumble of a bass drum, making Vera jump the first time she’d realized that it was her son and not an intruder answering her from his bedroom. “You’ll now be receiving your bunking orders. Step forward as I call your names and claim your sleeping kits.”

  Paavo’s bunk was underneath Ragnar’s, a hulking man with gray-fringed sideburns, and opposite Toomas, one of the hairiest Estonians Paavo had ever seen. His entire body was covered in a blond pelt; his cheeks were furry and thin, fine strands peeked out from the cuffs of his jacket onto the backs of his hands. Priit, luckily, was assigned to the far end of the tunnel-like barrack, where he would have to befriend an adjacent bunkmate to bother. Paavo tucked the sheets onto the insubstantial mattress and unfurled the thin brown blanket over it. He sat down over his work, wondering how many bodies had sat in this very spot over the years. The reservists had only been reestablished once Estonia had established its independence in 1991. Paavo could barely remember the day. There had been a celebration that remained rather fuzzy in his memory. The family had paraded to Toompea, to a crest on a hill overlooking their tiny, medieval city. Paavo remembered his father feeling grumpy about attending, but Leo had allowed Mari to stick a small flag with those three solid blocks of color into his cap and had walked down the path holding onto Paavo’s small hand. Vera had painted three stripes of color onto each of the children’s cheeks and Paavo had swiped at his nervously as they walked, leaving a big black-and-blue smudge down the side of his jaw. As they neared Toompea, the hill was already pulsating with people.

  “I thought we might have been early,” Vera said, astonished at the masses milling about, kissing one another, painting the ubiquitous three stripes of color on exposed skin, waving flags, cheering, shouting, and above all, mostly drunk.

  “I’m not sure about this, Vera,” Leo said.

  “Nonsense,” Vera scoffed. “This is history. We have to stay and be a part of it.” Th
ey settled against the metal fence, feeling invigorated by the parade that trailed beneath their feet and the hum of the crowd surrounding them. Bottles of communal vodka were being passed around, and Leo found himself holding one and then another.

  “In the spirit of the day,” he shrugged, and took two large swigs from each of them. Vera shook her head and concentrated on the crowds below, where majorettes were twirling batons and there was even a man shooting fire from a cone. She tried not to notice when another pair of vodka bottles made their way back around their way, and instead grasped Paavo’s and Mari’s hands with fierce focus.

  Sometime in the afternoon, Paavo recalled peeling himself off the fence upon which he’d draped himself when his legs were too tired. They were commemorating the extinguishing of the eternal flame that had been lit in front of the Bronze Soldier Statue during the time of Soviet power. The speeches had droned on; ancient women were being honored for having survived the dark trenches of Siberian labor camps and returning to their homeland to tell the tale. Dozens of garlands and bouquet after bouquet of marigolds were bestowed upon them, the stark orange of the petals searing bright against the black sea of their dresses. Paavo remembered wondering where the little old men were. He must have gone to Vera to ask her this when he found her standing, watching the masses of people below. Her cheeks were wet and she swabbed at her eyes before grasping Paavo’s hand in hers.