The Faces Of Strangers. Pia Padukone
by the day. If he continued like this, there was no way he was going to survive the program to the very end. Paavo opened the sofa bed in the den and pulled a fresh pair of sheets over the creaky mattress, taking care to tuck each corner in tightly. Nico’s flight was scheduled for on-time arrival, and Paavo wanted everything to be perfect. He wanted to erase the first impression of the program from Nico’s mind. He wanted everyone to forget what had happened at orientation. Not that Paavo could forget it himself. It kept repeating itself over and over in his head like a broken record.
In the last week of August, Paavo had flown into Berlin along with the rest of the students participating in the Hallström program. Rolf, a diminutive Hallström employee, met Paavo at the gate, looking almost as blasé as a teenager himself. Rolf herded Paavo through Brandenburg Airport, landing him in front of a dormant baggage carousel and telling him he’d have to wait there while Rolf collected the other European students from their flights. After speakers had gurgled something about a flight arriving from New York City, the gaping mouth of a conveyor belt began spitting out bags and Rolf herded the rest of the European students toward them. Barbara Rothenberg, the program director, who had interviewed Paavo for the program the previous semester, was leading the New York students. The Americans were moving in slow motion, having arrived in Germany that morning, red-eyed and jet-lagged.
“Come, come,” Barbara said, gathering them all together in the wingspan of her arms. Paavo could barely tell the difference between the Europeans and the Americans. He knew there were two girls and two boys from each continent. There was one boy wearing a bandanna around his neck—Paavo thought he might be Russian—who caught his eye. The boy’s nostrils flared before he looked back down at the floor and then at Barbara, who was starting what appeared to be another rehearsed speech. Paavo felt a shiver down his spine, an all-too-familiar feeling. He had a flashback of fleeing down Toompuiestee, his knapsack banging against his back in the hopes of losing the gang.
“Students, welcome to the Hallström program. As you know, you have been selected carefully by a group that judged your academic record, your character and your moral persona to be of great value to the future of relations between America and each of your respective home countries. This is the first day of what should be a very exciting year ahead of you all. Today you meet your counterparts, those young men and women who will become your brothers and sisters for the next nine months. You will go to classes together and learn together, join activities together. You’ll make friends with one another and introduce each other to new and unique experiences. You’ll learn about one another’s cultures and have an insatiable desire to teach your friends back home what you learn. It’s just the beginning. Let’s do introductions.”
Paavo knew it was irrational but he hoped the boy with the flaring nostrils wouldn’t be Nico. He fixed his stare on another boy. This boy was all lean muscle, which he wore well. He was strong without appearing formidable. He seemed confident in his stance, though he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. When he looked up and saw Paavo looking at him, he smiled, and Paavo looked away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.
Barbara extended her right hand toward the bandanna boy, who turned his head away although it appeared that she was going to start with him. Paavo could see a crisscross of holes in the boy’s left ear, leading up to the helix of his earflap, as if something very tiny had been digging for treasure and hadn’t quite hit the spot. A trace of a tattoo caressed the nape of his neck like an extra piece of cloth or a thatch of hair that hadn’t been brushed away after a haircut. Paavo bit his lip and steeled himself for the introduction.
“Everyone, this is Peter,” Barbara announced, as though he was her own son. “He’s from St. Petersburg.” Paavo realized he’d been holding his breath; he released it slowly and took in cool sips of air. This boy would not spend the next four months in his home with his family. Paavo would not be sent across the ocean to be raised by this boy’s mother, who, it seemed, didn’t appear to be doing much mothering at all. Paavo cupped his elbow with his palm, congratulating himself with this victory.
“And,” Barbara continued, “this is Evan, who will be your program partner.” Evan stepped forward in unsure, jerky movements as though he’d just learned to walk.
“Hi, Peter. It’s nice to meet you.” Evan said, holding his hand out. Peter scowled while shaking his hand.
“It’s Pyotr,” he said in heavily accented English. “Peter is so common.”
“Pe-eter.” Evan smiled, pleased with himself.
“Pee-ott-urr,” the boy said, shaking his head and knotting his eyebrows. “Roll the r.”
“You’ll work on it,” Barbara said, ushering them to the side together. The girls and the other boy were appropriated—Sabine to Jess and Anika to Malaysia. Barbara guided the boy who had smiled at Paavo toward him as her finale.
“Nicholas, everyone,” she said. “You’re paired with Paavo from Tallinn.” Nicholas smiled broadly at Paavo, who remained tight-lipped and nodded his greeting toward his host brother.
“Once everyone has located their luggage, it’s time to head straight to orientation. We have a busy few days ahead of us before the semester starts.” Barbara herded the combined group out, with Rolf bringing up the rear.
“How was the flight?” Nicholas asked. It looked as though his face would cleave into two parts from the breadth and strength of his smile.
Paavo’s face remained stoic and unchanged. “Unfortunately, quite bumpy the whole way. These Polish pilots don’t know what they are doing half the time.”
Nicholas raised his eyebrows and licked his lips. Apparently Estonians had STDs of their own. “You ready for orientation?”
“I suppose so. What are they going to tell us that we don’t already know?”
* * *
The Hallström program orientation was scheduled over two days, with a few hours scattered here and there for sightseeing and getting to know one another. The Berlin Hallström corporate office was an imposing metallic building that glinted so brightly in the sun’s rays that it was impossible to look straight at it with the naked eye. Rumor had it that when the architect was drawing the plans, Hallström himself had insisted on using the most reflective steel in order to create an edifice that dominated the skyline in more ways than one. However, the building was so lustrous that it had succeeded in causing arson; on more than one occasion it had set fires in a few surrounding buildings, melting plastic chairs and beach umbrellas that had been placed on nearby rooftops. Hallström resolutely refused the fire department’s suggestion to sandblast the facade, digging in his heels when the matter was taken to the city council.
The conference room reserved for the orientation was located on the corner of the forty-ninth floor of the building, with light striking against the sharp angles of the balconets so that Paavo had to squint upon entering the room. A long slab of wood constituted the table, the knots still visible but the grain polished and buffed. Around the table sat the Czechs, the Poles and the Russians in that order, geographically from West to East, congregating like a tiny Eastern European Bloc. The American counterparts bookended the Bloc in designer swivel chairs, each of them guarded and their spines straight as they waited for orientation to begin. Barbara had disappeared once they’d arrived, but Paavo could hear her in the hallway, delegating the staff and ordering more ice and soft drinks.
In her seventeen years working as the coordinator of the Hallström program, Barbara had ushered in all types of students. With her keen sieve-like manner, she had succeeded in plucking the right type of student for the program, though their shared characteristics were invisible to the untrained eye. They were all model students, their grade point averages vetted and culled from a stack of applications by a team hired expressly for this mundane responsibility. The students have arrived in packs, or alone, with overstuffed suitcases as though they had been summoned to an expedition down the river on the Amazon instead of into the conveniences of cosmopolitan cities. They have arrived wielding only a simple backpack, causing host parents to worry about hygiene or whether they might have to coax their exchange student to change their undergarments. They have been