“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,