The Faces of Strangers

by Pia Padukone

  After patient number F78A’s jarring account, the woman exited SafeSpace, leaving Nora cloaked in the darkness, stunned beyond belief. Nora needed a drink. Eleven in the morning didn’t quite merit a slug of whiskey, so she settled for coffee. The state-of-the-art coffee machine that Nora had installed in her private office worked too well sometimes; she no longer had the excuse to step outside to grab a cup of coffee, take a walk around the block and clear her head. But she had to leave.

  The old-school diner stood on the corner like a lighthouse. Nora walked toward the counter, but she was distracted by a little girl’s voice speaking in French. The girl had her hands folded over a white ceramic diner cup, and her top lip was covered in whipped cream.

  “N’est-ce pas, Maman?” The woman had her back to Nora, but she could see the girl’s face clear as day as she dipped her head back down to the mug and took another sip. It couldn’t be. But it had to be. The girl’s face was not only clear as day, it was also as clear as her brother’s face. The girl had Nico’s face. The woman with her back to Nora had to be Mari, who had just left the office. But how could she recognize a face she hadn’t even seen before? What kind of prosopagnosia was this, where she recognized faces she didn’t know, but could also see other people within them? The whole thing was shocking: that Nico had a daughter, that she could see his face within hers. She didn’t know where to begin.

  The memory riled something in her, and she crouched farther over, allowing her hair to drip over her head onto the carpet below. Behind her, Shahid sat up, rubbing his eyes and his beard simultaneously, creating that wonderfully comforting scratching sound that Nora had come to equate with him.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice creaky with sleep. He reached over to catch some of the rivulets that were trailing down her back between his fingers. “What’s wrong?”

  Nora shook her head. “Just struggling with something from work. An ethical situation.” Shahid had heard this before, many times. Nora was as sensitive as they came, and she often adopted her patients’ challenges, dragging their depression home with her like a sack that she left by the door and glanced at from time to time while chopping vegetables at the butcher block in the kitchen. Sometimes she went into a trance-like state, staring at an invisible spot upon the ceiling, at which point Shahid had learned that she was just thinking about a particularly difficult patient and what she could say to help. He had learned quickly that the best way to support her was not to dig deeper and ferret around—that only made her more tense and snappy—but to be here for her, physically. So that morning, he scooted forward in the bed and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She felt the coarse, curly hair on his chest moisten against her back. She leaned into his embrace and felt his solidity hold her upright. She was so lucky to have him, she thought, to have someone who trusted so wholly the bizarre nature of her work, who inherently trusted her.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked, his lips against her shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Nora said.

  “Nor, you can’t carry it all on you all the time. Tell me.”

  “Okay,” she said, turning around to face him. “I need to talk about this. But no names.”

  NICO

  New York City

  April 2012

  Last night, the one name on everyone’s lips had been Nico’s. The entire theater had shouted for him, pounded their feet and demanded that he come forward and address them, the way he always had through another person’s voice. He’d stood back in the wings, completely overcome by the noise, his senses feeling overwhelmed like the one-and-only time he’d dropped acid in college. It was a rally for the announcement for mayoral candidates for the City of New York, and he’d been waiting in the wings, waiting for Mike Raimi to accept his nomination. Mike, simultaneously, had been climbing the ranks of state government, mentoring Nico along the way. But when the name was announced for the Democratic Party, Nico was stunned when he heard his name. Mike smiled at him conspiratorially from backstage, encouraging him forward. Someone pushed him softly out from behind the wings onto the platform, where a podium was set up and he was expected to speak. Somehow this had all happened so quickly; he hadn’t prepared anything. He was a speechwriter with nothing to say.

  As Nico pivoted himself out of bed using his buttocks as ballast, he could hear his BlackBerry buzzing from the bedside table. He must have slept through half a dozen phone calls and messages. He couldn’t do this anymore—sleep through things. He had to be on all the time, or hire someone to be on for him. Did he even have that power? Did he even have a budget?

  He lay back in bed, turning the little ball on his phone over and over, scrolling through messages of congratulations and messages of support and elation and offerings to help. There was one from the senator’s former chief of staff who wanted to come work with Nico; could they meet for coffee in order to discuss the details? There were dozens of inquiries from the press—they needed a comment from him, some quotes, anything to work with that they could sculpt into news. There was an email from his mom, from Toby, from Leo. He opened them all in the order he received them and read them hungrily.

  You’re doing it! We’re so proud of you. Call you later to find out how we can help, but we’re behind you 100%. I’ll force everyone in the office to wear the pins. Send some over as soon as they’re made.

  Love, Mom

  Dude, I could hardly believe the news. Mayor? As in Gracie Mansion, Secret Service, the whole shebang? Do you have time this week to grab a beer? I want to hear all about it.

  Toby

  Nico—Paavo phoned me this morning to tell me that you are running for the mayor of New York City. That is a very high title. I wish you all the best.

  Paavo is seeing a girl but he is being very secretive about the whole thing. From what little I have gathered, she was in the program with you all. He and his colleagues have been working like dogs for CallMe. It’s live now in Estonia, Prague, Latvia, Moscow and Lithuania and now they are talking about moving into Turkey. He may move to Istanbul to set it up. It all sounds very important, just like you.

  You know how I hate US politics. But knowing that you are on the other side of the ocean working for your country makes me believe that it’s not such a bad place after all, that maybe there is some hope for America. So do well. Get elected and show the rest of the world that you’re not all hopeless capitalistic pigs. (STD.) Did I use it properly?

  Affectionately, Leo

  And there was a voicemail. “Nico, it’s me. Call me. As soon as you can.” He replayed it. There was no element of excitement in Nora’s voice. It was as flat as a piece of paper. Her tone held no celebration in it, no congratulation in the least. In fact, it was almost didactic with elements of the priggishness she’d assumed when they were younger and she was put in charge when Stella and Arthur went out for the evening.

  Nico felt split down the middle, like the satyr painting at the top of the staircase in the MoMA that always made him feel edgy. One half of him was on fire—he was so prepared to accept this new political challenge—while the other half felt doused by Nora’s blasé temperament. He vacillated between responding to the emails and calling Nora back. He wanted to revel in the news, in the celebration, but there was something in Nora’s voice that made him dial her number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Where the hell have you been?” His sister was agitated. He could tell that she was pacing a worn path over the carpet in her office. “I called you three times.”

  “Relax,” Nico said. “I slept in. It was a late night.” He waited for her to ask why, in case she hadn’t turned on the news in the past eight hours. But she was silent. “Is everything okay? You feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Nora snapped before softening. “I mean, physically. I’m okay. Things have been nutty in the office. We’ve had a deluge of new patients because of
that article.”

  “That’s awesome.” Nico yawned and stretched his arms overhead. He didn’t like where this was going; the call was supposed to be about his professional successes, not hers. After all, the Grand family had gathered in the Flatiron loft and toasted Nora’s success the week before. “Really great news. I’m happy for you, Nor.”

  “I’m not calling to gloat. I’m calling because...ah fuck. I really can’t even, shouldn’t even be telling you this. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all. But... I have to tell you.”

  Nico felt his strength falter. This wasn’t Nora being dramatic or seeking attention. He remembered the same quaver in her voice when she had returned from the hospital and he had held her in his arms, allowing her to breathe in his scent and record the memory of her brother in the only way she knew how then. “What’s going on?”

  “Have you heard from Paavo lately?”

  “You know I haven’t. Not since that weird email and my desperate moves to get back in touch with him. He hasn’t even contacted me since I went to Tallinn. Why, what’d he say?”

  “Well, now I think I know why. It’s not really about Paavo, though. It’s...shit. Here goes. Mari is in New York. Mari Sokolov.” What other Mari was there? After Nico tumbled into bed after the celebratory drinks at McKeegan’s, Mari flashed across the television screen like a siren. She had been the last thing he’d seen before he passed out.

  “Really? Last I heard she lived in Moscow. She might even be back in Tallinn.”

  “Well, twelve hours ago, she was in New York City.”

  “She’s probably got a job here. What does it matter?”

  “It matters that twelve hours ago, she was sitting in my DR.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “She came to me as a patient. And I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but you’re my brother.”

  “Well, she probably saw your fancy article. I can imagine the number that modeling does on your psyche. She needed someone to talk to. Random that she found you out of all the psychs in the city.”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence, Nico.” On the other end of the phone Nora huffed an internal battle within herself. “Fuck, I’m going to get my license revoked.”

  “Oh my God, Nora, spit it out.”

  “I think you should look her up. You should meet. She’s modeling, working Fashion Week. I think you should just go find her and talk to her yourself. I can’t say anymore. It’s not my business.”

  “You’re sure as hell making it your business,” Nico growled. “Scale of one to ten, how important is this? Do you have any idea about my news? Do you have any idea where my career is headed? Do you even care?”

  Nora sucked in her breath. “That is so unfair, Nico. It’s just bad timing—it’s all happening at once. It took me aback. I saw the announcement last night, and I’m so excited for you, and I want to talk about that, I really do. But I’m having trouble dissociating from this news right now. Can you respect that?”

  Since the accident, Nico had learned to respect Nora’s feelings a thousandfold. Over the years, he’d often disregarded his own emotions and prioritized hers. He, after all, could recognize his friends and family. He didn’t need written clues, or a distinguishing mole to be the difference between a familiar face and a complete stranger. But perhaps he had conceded his feelings enough. Nora was a big girl; she was a psychologist. She took care of other people; why should Nico feel as if he had to continue to protect her? And the jargon that came with being related to a therapist—respecting me, hearing someone out, understanding your subconscious—he had learned to identify the language, but it didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

  “Life or death situation?”

  “Life.”

  Now Nico was taken aback. He’d meant the question to be answered with a yes or no. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the hair out of his face. His throat was closing in on him. He needed water, and then coffee, in that order. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Good or bad?”

  “Guess it depends on how you look at it.” Nora’s voice hadn’t lost its caginess. There were secrets trapped within its timbre. Aside from the frustration of wanting to know what Nora knew that Nico didn’t, Nico recognized how Nora’s ability to keep secrets had truly distinguished her as an exemplary therapist. She’d kept secrets from the start—as children, never ratting Nico out, learning tidbits about him as an older sister might that his parents never would and keeping them close to her heart through the ages. Of course, a psychologist had multiple strengths and skills—asking the right questions, helping people to feel comfortable, understanding human nature, for goodness’ sakes—but secret keeping was one of the main reasons that people sought out a complete stranger in whom to confide their deepest, darkest fears and thoughts. And her ability to not let her emotions meddle with cold, hard facts was what made her stand out.

  But timing was not one of Nora’s strong suits; she needed time to figure things out, to work through faces and identities like a tangled ball of yarn, starting with a dimple or a cluster of chin hairs, before she could narrow down a friend or acquaintance. And for Nico, time was essential. He had an instant to seize and create his career, to barrel through without a second thought. It was like Coach had drilled and trained into his boys—the reason for being so light not only on your feet, but quick to think was so you could seize the opportunity for a takedown the moment the window opened. It didn’t matter if you were faced with someone far more talented than you, someone better skilled, even someone who weighed more. If that someone sneezed, blinked or hesitated in the slightest, the window was open and it might close again forever. Nico had to seize this moment, this hesitation, this one time when the world was behind him. The opportunity was like an eclipse; he might never see it again. It wasn’t the time to delve into the past, or trifle with irrelevant matters. He could track Mari down once he’d begun putting things into place. He had a campaign to run.

  NICO

  New York City

  February 2014

  It is bad enough being late. Nico lingers by his apartment door for a good hour, running his fingers over the teeth of his keys and weighing the pros and cons of attending the Hallström 40th Anniversary Reunion Celebration. When he finally locks the door from the outside and makes the mad dash for a taxi only to sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic for what feels like an interminable time but is actually fifteen minutes, he feels the cons column climbing nearly as high as his cab fare. After an infuriating search by a lethargic security guard at the entrance of the United Nations, he marches down a long hallway toward the entrance to the General Assembly Hall.

  A buzzy blonde catches him subtly by the crook of his elbow. “Sir, can I get your name?”

  “Nico Grand.”

  She frowns, ticking her finger down a long list. “We have a Nicholas. Is that you?”

  Perhaps she’s too young, but he is relieved that she hasn’t recognized him or his name. She is standing next to a table that holds a few scant name tags. Nico scans the remainders and points.

  “That’s me,” he says.

  “You missed the welcome mixer and they’re about to start. From where are you joining us?”

  “Just downtown,” Nico mumbles.

  So it is bad enough that he is late, but worse that he has only journeyed a few miles north from his SoHo apartment, while most of the already-seated alumni have flown in from other parts of the country and the far reaches of the globe, negotiating borders and visas while he has only had to manage his conscience and his cowardice. He is late, and about to tiptoe upon the precipice of what could possibly become a major showdown. But Nora’s wedding is the following weekend; now is Nico’s chance to make things right.

  “I know things have been weird between you and Paavo,” Nora had said. “But he’s my friend, too, and I want him ther
e.”

  “Of course,” Nico had said. “He should be.” Five years have passed since the two men have spoken. So here he is, at the Hallström 40th Anniversary Reunion Celebration, desperately hopeful to make amends. Nico has sent multitudes of unanswered emails into cyberspace, left plaintive messages on Paavo’s voicemail until finally, the ultimate rejection pinged dolefully into Nico’s inbox, The following message to: was undeliverable, dropping Nico’s dignity like a deadweight onto his chest.

  “You can go ahead,” the blonde says, pointing to the solid paneled doors. He pauses outside, letting his breath condense against the cutout glass circles that peek into the imposing room. He has been here before, on a school trip in grade school and of course during the private guided tour that was set up by Hallström. It hasn’t changed since; the grand gold column with its embossed United Nations seal still sprouts from the center of the room like an oracle. The wooden paneling encircles the room for optimal acoustics. Great negotiations have been made in this space, peace kept in multiple missions, countries unified, heads of states honored. So there is no reason it can’t serve as the hub for two grown men to resolve their differences.

  Alumni of the Hallström program now occupy the seats that are usually filled with diplomats. As he slinks inside, Nico looks upon the sea of unidentified heads that face forward, watching a reedy gentleman in a perfectly fitted suit balancing awkwardly on the dais, tapping a microphone and shaking his head. Nico skims the room and thinks he spots the back of Pyotr’s head, and Malaysia’s and Anika’s and Tomas’s.

  Barbara Rothenberg has been given a throne in front. She hasn’t been associated with Hallström for years. With the new administration in place, Nico has read that she’d stepped down from the position at Hallström, and as she turns her head to glance not-so-surreptitiously at the audience behind her, Nico thinks he catches an air of resignation about her, as though her resignation hasn’t been her choice. Next to her is Herman Hallström himself, hoary yet dignified, his spine curved like a nautilus shell. He sits clutching an ancient wooden walking stick, its head carved like a lion’s, the mane smoothed and coiffed by constant handling. As a few sycophantic alumni approach him timidly, he raises his head regally and shakes their hands, nodding but remaining tight-lipped throughout the greetings. And there, at the end of one of the long tables in the middle, is Paavo. Next to him is an auburn head, which might be Sabine. Or perhaps it is Paavo’s wife. Nico will learn later that they’re the same person and feel a sharp twinge in his chest that Paavo hasn’t even told him they’d been dating, much less invited Nico to the wedding.