Chapter 1: Stockholm
[June 2010]
The first time I realized that my dad wasn't always right, I was eight years old. He told me that bullies always back down when challenged, and I found out that just wasn't so, or at least not when the challenger is about a head shorter than said bully and happens to be the shiest kid in third grade. Still, when I look back at that morning -- or maybe it was afternoon, not all the details are clear any more -- I'm kinda proud of the little guy lying flat on his back in the middle of the school playground and gingerly wiping his bloody nose and upper lip with the cuff of his sleeve. It was the first time I stood up for myself, showed everybody that I would not be pushed around, that I, Jordan Petersen, was a force, albeit not an overwhelming one, to be reckoned with.
I wasn't the only new kid in third grade that year. That was the nature of the American Community Schools in Athens. They were there to educate the children of soldiers and other American expats, who were posted in Greece for a period of time, so kids came and went all the time. For some reason, though, I was immediately tagged as an outsider. Maybe it was because I didn't speak English very well, or that I'd lived in Athens most of my life. I'd barely even heard of London or Tokyo, let alone of Patrick Henry Village. I'd never seen a game of football or baseball, not that I could remember, and at first I would respond in Greek when somebody spoke to me, not realizing that not everybody in the world switches between the two languages like I did with my mom and older sister (though never with my dad). I don't even know why my parents decided to yank me out of Greek school and send me to ACS in third grade; I think mostly because my Greek mom knew how happy it would make my American dad, who'd left everything familiar behind to be with her, to have a more American son.
Until the day of the incident, David Ives had more or less ignored me. Most kids had, at least until our teacher noticed that I was squinting to see the blackboard, told my parents, and I showed up that fateful day wearing glasses. A couple of kids made fun of me, then it seemed like they all did, even the ones that wore glasses themselves. At first the teasing didn't bother me, at least not much more than being ignored did, but by the time David picked on me, I'd had just about enough.
David was the biggest kid in third grade, a natural leader. I think his dad worked for a bank, rather than the military, and David could say hello in four or five languages. I don't think he was really a bully, at least not in the sense that he picked on the weaker kids, or stole their lunch money or anything. It's just that he knew his size was part of his advantage, and he wasn't averse to using it. When he teased me, I shoved him, both hands on his chest, barely pushing him one step backward, and he shoved me back, knocking me on my ass. He turned away, already having lost interest in me, not expecting me to come back at him. To this day I don't know why I did it; maybe it came from reading too many of my sister's comic books, and wanting to be a hero for once, like Superman or Captain America. I jumped to my feet and shoved him again, making him stumble forward. So he turned around and cold-cocked me.
I imagine that by the middle of fifth grade David must have been relieved to see the last of me. By that point, he was almost two heads taller than me, and we got into scuffles at least two or three times a month. For some reason, I'd concentrated all my resentment on him, all those hot feelings that I didn't know how to deal with otherwise, about being an outsider, about not being good at sports or even understanding the rules, about being shy and being made fun of for everything from my Greek accent to my glasses to the lumpy wool scarf that my grandmother had knitted for me and that my mom made me wear to school every day in the winter. When he'd see me approaching to pick a fight, he'd get a bored look on his face, almost like beating me up was just another school assignment he needed to take care of. One of the last times we fought, he even reached down to pick me up and set me on my feet and he patted me on the shoulder, as if to show me that it was nothing personal on his side. I like to think that what I saw in his eyes that day was reluctant admiration, instead of the firm conviction that he was dealing with a nut job.
One day David didn't show up. It wasn't uncommon for kids to leave in the middle of the school year, but we generally had a going-away party for them, and we'd have cake, and talk about the next place their dad was being sent to, and somebody would say that they'd been there, or had a pen-pal or something, and that it would be fun. Kids didn't just vanish from one day to the next like David did. Later somebody said that his father had died, and that his mom had taken him back to the States.
Sixth grade I begged my parents to send me back to Greek school, so that I could be with my friends from the neighborhood, and they did. There I found that, once again, I didn't quite fit in. Maybe it was the three years in a different school system, maybe it was my American name at a time when Americans weren't really liked in Greece, maybe it was something else entirely. Most probably, it was just me. I wasn't exactly unhappy, but I always felt that I had to compensate for the fact that I was somehow different than the others. Standing out, even in a good way, made me feel uncomfortable.
I haven't thought of David Ives in almost forty years, at least not as anything other than one small, though oddly significant, part of my childhood. It's certainly strange to be thinking of him now, as I stand against a wall in a ballroom in the Stockholm Sheraton, a strategic one-step distance from one of the open bars. I hate the inevitable networking events that follow the mind-numbing hours of power point presentations that pose as professional conferences, but since the company is paying for my attendance, I feel duty-bound to hang around and give anybody who wants to network with me the opportunity to do so. I've managed the last three of these events without exchanging a single business card.
At least there are two compensations this time. For one, there's a big bowl of wasabi nuts on the bar that I've more or less appropriated for my own consumption. I love wasabi nuts and can rarely find them, so this is a really a treat.
And there's The Guy.
I first noticed him this morning, while the conference coordinator was welcoming us to the event, pointing out the fire exits and asking us to set our mobiles on meeting mode. I was sitting in the first seat to the right of the center aisle, in the second to last row, and The Guy was several rows in front of me, in the first seat on the left side of the aisle. He was sitting sideways, his legs in the aisle, his back to his neighbor, so I could see his profile. He was furiously thumbing his BlackBerry, scowling at it, dark eyebrows knit together over a longish straight nose, mouth pursed. He was directly in my line of sight, so that I didn't even have to turn my head to check on him every so often. I liked the way a hank of wavy dark brown hair flopped over his forehead, how he combed his long fingers through it to push it back, how he gnawed at his bottom lip as he continued to pay more attention to his BlackBerry than to the speakers throughout the day. If somebody asks him tomorrow what the conference was about, I doubt he'll be able to tell them more than the title. I know that's all I'll remember, except for him.
I shift my position slightly, so that I can observe The Guy standing with a group of four or five men and women, leaning his elbow against one of the tall round tables placed around the room. For the first time I see him smiling, and I realize why David Ives has been on my mind. The Guy looks like what David might have grown up to look like, and it's odd that it would be his smile that allowed me to make the connection, because David Ives never smiled at me, not once in three years. The Guy scans the room as he raises a beer bottle to his lips, and he catches me staring, our gazes locking for an instant, before I turn away, heat climbing to my cheeks.
"Yordan?" I hear a voice next to me, the initial J pronounced the Swedish way.
"Jordan," I correct automatically, relieved to recognize a colleague from my company.
"Magnus," he points to himself, as if not really expecting me to remember. Just like me, Magnus doesn't appear to be a born networker or a natural extrovert, and we spend a happy half hour together bitching about downsizing and expense cutting initiatives, and assuring one another that the IT (his) and Accounting (mine) divisions are the only ones in our company that really know what they're doing. I try not to check too often on The Guy's whereabouts, but I'm aware of the moment he leaves the room, and I kind of wilt.
After Magnus takes his leave, and the bartender's glare makes it obvious that he doesn't intend to refill the decimated bowl of wasabi nuts just for me, I decide it's about time I headed home, as well. Even though it's after seven, we've got a full three hours of daylight left. Maybe I'll go for a run, shake out the cobwebs.
Unfortunately, instead of the sun I was expecting, I walk out of the hotel into a downpour. I own three umbrellas, but I never seem to get lucky with having one actually with me when necessary. It's two blocks to the Central Station, where I can catch the subway to my home, but I'm wearing one of my nicer suits, so I hug the side of the building, trying to make up my mind whether to go for it.
"Do I know you?"
I don't realize the question is aimed at me, until it's repeated, with a simultaneous light touch on my elbow. It's The Guy. Standing next to him, I see that he's maybe an inch shorter than my own 5'11" and his eyes are almost the exact same dark blue-gray as the sky over Stockholm right now.
