The Faces Of Strangers. Pia Padukone
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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