* * *
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.