Elli

“Täydellinen.”

I twirl again, my cream-colored skirt catching all the hues from the light, sparkling with a surreal fire. My makeup is even from every angle, my silver-sparkling stilettos rotate on the floor without effort.

“Täydellinen.“ The voice I use in my head is deep and reassuring, like a Finnish advertisement, stressing the first syllable, making the word sound like a spell.

I pronounce the word again, this time in English, making the ‘r’ so soft it almost becomes inaudible: “Perfect.”

I leave the mirror, walk across the cramped greenroom. My heels clank on the concrete, my skirt bounces to the rhythm. Further down the corridor voices echo from behind shut doors, scales endlessly moving up and down. But this is the silent room, the one just behind the stage.

The metal door is shut tight, silencing most of the sound. I stop for the slightest moment to catch the tune, and mouthing the words, I walk over to my raincoat and bag thrown over a chair at the other side of the room. When I turn over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. My hair is still rolled to my head, tightly secured by twelve glimmering pins. But my silhouette is flawless, my stomach flat, my hips protruding just enough to give the dress shape.

For a moment, I stand motionless, closing my eyes to take in the sound world, an ambience I could spend the rest of my life in. The sounds from this greenroom—one singer awkwardly shifting position on the sofa, another getting more water from the sink, a third simply walking up and down, his footsteps hard against the concrete floor. Angrily. The way some react to this nervousness.

Further down, I can hear singers desperately warming up, some on their own, others coached by teachers or ambitious parents. We in the greenroom have already rehearsed. We are the ones next in turn, prepared to enter the stage one by one. Face the judges, the audience, the limelight. At exactly that moment, the applause begins. And exactly fifteen seconds later, the metal door lets one singer in and brings the next one to the stage.

I open my eyes and cast one more glance at the mirror. All right, it will soon enough be my turn. Better take care of my hair now…

When another, much larger metal door slams, it interrupts all my thoughts—and everyone else’s. The slam is accompanied by the depressing smell of Finnish November rains and the slosh, slosh, slosh of wet cross-training shoes. Yep. Training shoes in November.

Elli. I mean, who else could it be? Who else could be this late, this loud, this absolutely unconscious of how embarrassing she looks with her hair tousled under the neon colored raincoat. I mean, the door to the stage could have been open. And everyone would have heard her entrée. Stylish.

Elli smiles broadly to us all, stops by the coat rack—next to where I am standing—and starts taking off her dripping coat. She digs up the scrunched paper with lyrics from her pocket and stares at it for a moment, serious like a three-year-old solving a jigsaw puzzle. Her age always mystifies me. She has to be at least five years older than me. But she behaves—and chooses her clothes—as if she were fifteen years younger. A sweater? She is going to stand on that scene in a sweater? When she balances on her toes to place her soaked fisher hat on the top of the coat rack, it does not even cover her stomach. Ugh.

I discreetly pick up my bag and tiptoe around her to another corner. Has she always been like this? At least during the five years we have been taking lessons with the same teacher. One concert every autumn and one every spring. Plus, a handful of extra events. Like this competition. The first for both of us. The others are more experienced, but for me this is the first chance.

I glance down at my notes. Not that I will need them. But I bring my notes to every concert I sing at. To be able to take a reassuring look at them before entering the stage. To tell myself that I know this song, know it with my whole being. I have practiced it so well that the piano part starts to play in my head the moment I see the lyrics. My chest suddenly becomes warm with emotion. This song is more than words; it tells a story. My friends try to tease me into believing that musicals are not serious. But most of the time, I am still drawn to this genre. When you sing a piece from a musical, you enter the mind and the body of someone else. You start at one point and travel to the other end of the spectrum—from heartbreak to hope, from rage to resilience, from delight to darkest despair. It is a miracle every time, to see how the audience start to follow my story and breath together with me. I make people cry. Every single time I sing.

While Elli, for some reason, always has people hiding their laughter. She stomps up to the stage. She places her messy notes with highlights in at least five different neon colors on the stand. She drops them on the floor. She bends over to pick them up, accidentally revealing large parts of her back. She tips over the stand. She somehow gets it upright again, struggling with all the laws of gravity until her notes are where she wants them. Then she looks at the pianist and nods, ready to begin, completely oblivious of the first impression she has just given the audience. All the time smiling. While the audience is cringing in their seats. She does not even try. I mean, come on. It is not like it is hard. Already a quick glance in the mirror would help her. How hard could it be to just quickly comb her hair—I realize that my hair is still waiting for the last brush down and start digging in my bag for the hairspray and my brush.

I dig deeper. Find the brush. Start taking things out. Empty the entire bag on a chair and sort through the items again. As if the spray could still appear out of nowhere. Allow myself to believe it is just my eyes. It is there. It must be there. I just cannot see it. The truth dawns on me, and I let out a loud, helpless sob before I manage to control myself. It is not there. But I took it with me. Where is it? In my car? Out in the rain? But how…

“Everything okay?” asks the angrily nervous singer, the one next to sing.

“Have you lost something?” asks the boy on the sofa, the Russian prodigy who will sing after me and before Elli.

“I… My…” I try to keep my voice low, but it breaks down into another sob. The room is looking at me, and that makes me lose all the little self-control I had. Another sob shakes my body. I try to keep my breath, but now I can already feel my eyes watering. My mascara. How can I even think of crying now? I am ready for the stage—if only I could find the spray.

The boys glance at each other, not even pretending that they bought any girly hair stuff with them. The metal door opens, one singer exits and another enters the stage. My turn is next. I still wear my hair rolled up like a granny from the seventies.

“Dit you forget it at home?” asks the Russian.

“In … my … the … car.” Why can’t my voice behave? I need it tonight more than ever. I keep my breath, but that only tightens my stomach. When I very well know that a tense stomach means a tense jaw, which is the last thing you want as a singer. The first thing that will reach the judges’ ears.

“In your car?” Elli’s eyes are larger than usual with concern. “I can get it for you.”

“It’s raining.” I protest.

“Her turn is next,” says the Russian.

Elli bends over the chair. I let out a muffled cry to stop her from breathing on my things, but she has already picked up my car key.

“Don’t cry. I’ll get it for you.”

She will find it for me? I will get the hairspray for my performance?

“Yes,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

I am not sure whether she hears me or not. She is already out in the rainstorm. Without her raincoat.

After the hairspray and the brushing, my hair shines almost picture-perfect. Almost. I have been able to make it look better so many times before. If only I had just a couple of seconds more. If. only… I hear the metal door behind me; realize I am out of time. Not now. Not here. Please, please… I draw a breathe, gather my balance, walk to the door too fast, as if I were in a rush. My heart beats too fast. This was not the entry I had practiced.

The limelight blinds me. Play with my freshly sprayed hair, with my dress. The pianist plays the intro. I draw one last, invisible breath, fill my lungs with air, and join the music at the top of the scale. The tone is miraculous. Despite my breathing, my heartbeat, my shattered thoughts. Light plays with the hairspray in my hair. The smell is intoxicating, empowering. The music lifts me up. I can already discern a few pairs of moist eyes among the audience. Moist as the dark asphalt outside…

She gave up her own performance. It hits me right over my head. I lose the thread, find the right words again, realize I am already in the second refrain and missed the octave jump. The one I have practiced every night for two months. Elli is now soaked wet by the downpour. She has no extra clothes. She will not be able to perform. And she knew it when she grabbed my car keys and ran to the door.

Before I know it, the song is over. The piano falls silent, and the applause fills the hall. I was absent for a third of the song, with no memory of what I remembered or what slipped my mind. I might not make it to the next round. Might not. But one thing is sure: Elli will not make it to this one.

She stands in the corridor with the practice rooms, putting on her raincoat. When I come running down the hallway, she gives me her standard smile.

“Your dress is so lovely. Oh, and good night. I don’t think I will sing.”

Her lips tremble a little. She looks like a puppy that just realized she did something stupid. The fluorescent tubes in the ceiling drench her in an unflattering light.

“No!” I protest. “You must. It’s your first competition. You can’t give up on it now.”

“But I’m wet.”

That is when it hits me. How we could fix this. “I know. That will be your style. Come with me, over here!”

I lead her to the greenroom, fix her parting, divide the dripping hair in two and draw it over her shoulders. We adjust her sleeves, dry her hands but not the face, wipe away a few of the more awkward stains of mascara.

“Won’t I look stupid?” she asks me.

I bit my lips. She always looks stupid. There is no way to tell if this is really going to work.

“It’s up to your voice,” I say.

Frankly, I have no idea what her voice will sound like today. I have never bothered to listen. I realize that I am not even sure what her range is.

She enters the stage. I slip into the hall by the main doors, stand behind the rows of chairs and try to catch a glimpse of the performance. The wetness makes her look so vulnerable, almost Cosette-like. But the smallness—never in my life had I expected Elli to look small—brings out the bravery in her voice. The still, undefeatable hint of courage, the small and almost inaudible shivering vibrato at the end of each phrase. I break down again. All my anxiety, all my preparation for this one night crushes down on my shoulders. I sob silently, one hand pressed against my mouth. She is beautiful. Her voice holds such riches of nuance. And I had never even heard it before. I had not listened.

She makes a quick, awkward bow, smiles at the pianist, and walks to the greenroom door. She almost looks calm. I meet her backstage, let go of all my Finnish manners, throw my arms around her and sob together with her.

“Was I okay?” she whispers.

And I answer, my voice as shaky as hers, “Olit täydellinen.”