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The trouble with Anne was only, if perfection had a face- a representative, an icon- it might've well been her. The divine definition of feminine beauty in the twentieth century. Prancing and flouncing all in ruffles and curls, in pink and cream and silk and pearls. All in fluttering lashes and baby blues and harping soprano… What a magnificent sight. The apotheosis of it all, the concentrated, impossible perfection! Henrik couldn't begin to imagine.
She looked at him sideways, her face squirming and speaking with grimness befitting of the scene in front of her. "Oh, Henrik, dear. That's not what you're wearing to the country, is it? ...No, it's lovely! It's only-" She smiled beautifully, raising her hand to pardon her laugh. "You look as if you're wearing your father's clothing!"
Anne, of course, was correct. He did look an overgrown child in such expensive suits. It was a nice velvet fabric that shone just right, the deep blue a nice color, not too extravagant as to show off, yet not too conservative as to bore. Presumably tailored to perfection. Tailored to whom, Henrik was not quite sure, as it seemed fit for another man entirely. His father had said, with a heavy pat on the back, “it will look nice on you, son.” Nice.
Anne, of course, wore the money his father passed onto the both of them well. Very well. She even seemed to enjoy dressing up, workshopping her ideas aloud in preparation every time she left the house. Asking him, “Do you prefer the yellow, or the blue? No, don’t tell me- I’ll just do them both!” Laughing and twirling and having the time of her life.
And he already dreaded this, knowing just the reason she approached him now, holding the back of her dress in one hand. “Anyway, Henrik,” It was always this. “You wouldn't mind helping me?” Flashing her smile, baring her teeth. “No, of course you wouldn't.” Patting his back- not unlike his father- as if every touch didn't chip away at his sanity.
Sometimes he wondered if Anne knew what she was doing, when she did things like this. It was as if she were testing him, although she, herself, seemed blissfully unaware. Smiling and chattering on anyhow. Just like his father- The thought disgusted him- content to smile aimlessly, perfectly married and domestic. Nobody in this house seemed to have their head on right when it came to each other, and yet- They were all viciously keen whenever Henrik slipped up.
It was vicious , alright, what Anne did to him. So intent on dragging him down with her. As soon as Henrik thought he might’ve had any ground to stand on, as soon as he thought he might not be taking after his father, too…
Her back was exposed to him, extravagantly laid out all for him to see, so lean and healthy. He might have shut his eyes, if not for the risk of his fingertips brushing her skin while he buttoned up her dress. Her dress, dear God. Baby pink with delicate details done in embroidery or lace, what Henrik thought might be little pictures of flowers, or birds, or love-hearts. Of course. His hands shook, his legs felt wobbly beneath him. The suit felt too hot, too tight, its collar wrung around his neck. He began on the first button.
Anne was talking. “...It’s not too special. There are tons more like it. But, I thought, I’d better not put all my effort into what I’ll wear when I first get there, you know? You shouldn’t arrive in your best dress on day one, because, what about the rest of the days? First impressions are important, but you have to maintain that impression. Especially for this. It’s only three days. I’d better make it count.” She turned her head, suddenly, to wink at him. “I’m saving my favorite one for Saturday.”
He’d lost his hold on the third button. They were tiny, and his fingers were useless, jabbing at the fabric. He blinked, having to catch himself all over again. “That’s, um…” His voice came out thin, grown rusty without use. “The one with the- the sleeves. The off-white?”
Anne’s eyes lit up. “You remembered?”
Henrik took pause, cautiously meeting her gaze. “Yes.”
She let him linger there, and he thought he might have seen something amidst overlapping layers of blue. So enthralling, the intricate complexities he could never decipher. Brush strokes as in a painting of a vast blue sky, swallowing the Earth whole. She turned away, and it was gone.
“...Then, I think I’ll wear this green one Sunday. A nice, meadowy green. So I might blend into the grass! It’s not my favorite. It’s festive, but… well, green .”
He finished the third, fidgeted briefly with the fourth. “I think… they’re all nice.”
“And I suppose you’re the authority on this subject?” Anne laughed.
Henrik bit his cheek. Flown too close to the sun. He kept his head down, finished the final buttons.
Twirling away to test his work, Anne said, giggling, “Don’t worry, Henrik. I forgive you for your total wardrobe disaster-” Suddenly, frighteningly, she leaned in and pushed his glasses back up his nose from where they had fallen. “-Since you’re so very helpful with mine.”
Henrik blinked. She continued to admire herself. Henrik did so, as well, static and in solitude, stranded in the room supposedly his. “Don’t you have a mirror in here?” Anne said, kicking up her leg to see her skirt all around. “Perhaps that would help you with your problem, no?” She looked a shining star in the room bathed in relative darkness, light shut out by curtains long closed. Her baby pink more a stark ivory, commanding attention, the centerpiece of the scene. “Oh, Henrik. You’ve no idea how lucky you are to be a boy. Not having to worry about appearances like I do.” She stretched, so wonderfully, her back flexing, her arm extending outward. Henrik followed its length until he found its logical conclusion, his father’s wedding ring on her finger. “Though, I suppose I am fortunate, too…” She smiled again, one last sickening laugh- “I’d rather die than bore myself with all of your dusty old books!”
He might have bristled, but he hadn’t the spine to do so. He’d simply stand, solemn and alone, slouched over in his suit too big, body too tall. He’d hope in vain that Anne might find some part of him endearing, some part of his terrible form that cursed him at every turn. And this lame, impotent body of his would continue to rot away, sallow and old, something to be picked over by the crows.
In her world made of dresses and dinner parties and comedies at the theatre, he was fatefully bound to be left behind. And if his head did not make up for his physical manifestation, what then?
Perhaps if he were a little more like Anne. Nimble and able. Skinny and lean and graceful, like a dancer. Able to be draped in ribbon and lace, flowing and floral and somehow, beautiful. Hiding his dread in layers of petticoats and corsets, wonderful gowns in brilliant colors, swallowing his misfortune in pleats, drowning himself in loving corrugations.
He sat, finally, waiting for the last dreadful minutes before they called him up to the plate. His cello in its case stood right up, stack of books bound together beside it, his lone companions watching him expectantly. He pulled idly at his bowtie. He’d had to ask his father to help him tie it, as he had to every time. And every time, he watched as the hope for him drained away, and the look on Mr. Egerman’s face settled more on gentle pity. Now, he felt the urge to pull it apart all over again. Tear it away from his neck like the collar that kept him bound, bite the hand that feeds, watch it unspool and fall to the floor. He would not go to the country. He would run away. He could be free.
…But if not the country, then, where?
He closed his eyes and saw only her, the beautiful girl he’d been chasing his whole life, even without knowing her. Even without knowing himself. He was blind, stumbling forward without a clue where his path led him. And yet chasing, chasing, the light that flickered in his heart, soon to flicker out and find its helpless, hopeless way to death.