TWO :: PEREIRA SWALLOW-BIRCH

TWO :: PEREIRA SWALLOW-BIRCH Nov 25, 2013 16:25:35 GMT -5

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Post by Onyx on Nov 25, 2013 16:25:35 GMT -5

AGAINST THE MOST grave wishes of her mother, agoraphobic, anxious and completely superstitious, Pereira Birch wore pearls on her wedding day. Eight perfectly round orbs, like a grinning mouth opening at the prominent hollow of her pale throat, two shades of white duller than her ivory dress, they marked not only her defiance, but also her keenness to display her wealth at every opportunity. As she strutted down the aisle – made up in the atrium of her father’s large house – in a gown that flowed over her narrow hips like melted butter, the old woman wept. Here was a girl who had never been her mother’s child; not in looks, the dark, thick ringlets that held themselves with no support in comparison to the prematurely white goosedown that seemed to adorn the elder’s scalp, nor in interests, Pereira preferred what the magazines called ‘superluxury’ – this new craze for the best beyond the best, elegance as well as extravagance so endorsed by the Capitol elite, yet so abhorred by the Madame Birch and her own generation. Once, mother and daughter had had parallel personalities, but since father lost his sight, and mother her mind, the two have slowly re-emerged on opposite sides of the same coin.

It was this blindness, set in by working night shifts in the dim light of the Nut and emerging each morning to be ambushed by the brightness of sunrise-on-chalk every day for fourteen years, that sparked Pereira’s love for art. A majorly visual pleasure, the girl had found something that could make her feel, that she wouldn’t be able to share with the people she was closest to. Her father could have music, the heat of a fire in the hearth, but art belonged to Pereira alone, and only she could do what she liked with it.

At first mention of children, when Rutherford gazed longingly down their long, mahogany dinner table, with all its empty chairs, and mused about what it would be like to see them filled every night – not just on special occasions, Pereira cringed away. She’d seen other women become mothers – witnessed it even in her own family as her sister-in-law gave birth to an ugly baby boy who they named Cassius, a name which rung – in Pereira’s mother’s opinion – with bad omens of betrayal and death. Now, when the two women dined together, Pereira couldn’t help but notice how the other woman’s hand trembled slightly, how she eased herself into a chair without grace, how the seams on that beautiful day dress were stretching just a little too much. It wasn’t possible than there was anything worse than such a drastic loss of elegance.

However, as catty as she could get with other women, Pereira wasn’t one to be contrary with her husband, even over a matter such as her own body. She respected him, was grateful for him, and desired him, too. While she never thanked her stars for bringing her and Rutherford together, there was a certain tendril of pride that warmed her whenever she attended a public event on his arm. Besides, children might do her good – at 29 that was what was expected of her, and she couldn’t let her brother outdo her by contributing fiercely to the Birch name while she and her Swallow gave nothing. Within half a year, Pereira was trading out the figure-defining gowns and sharp-creased blouses for flowing capes and frocks. She hid her rounded belly with darker colours, and always accessorised with paler hues that didn’t bring out the flush in her face.

This woman would never let a little hiccup like a baby spoil her fun, and she and Rutherford still spent evenings together sipping glasses of rich, oaky wine, or sampling rich buffets at this party or another, or knotting the sheets behind the closed door of their bedroom – an activity which truly revealed the acuteness of Pereira’s childhood training in the arena. The subtle muscles in her arms and legs, which didn’t bulge or quiver but were toned to just the right degree, as well as her sharp reflexes and ability to remain calm in hysterical situations, they all showed that it wasn’t just at the training centre that the Birch children trained, but at home as well, in a basement dojo which was the piece de resistance of their modernist architect. Pereira believed that her own children deserved just the same privilege, and while Rutherford drew up sketches of nurseries with planners, the mother-to-be designed a training wonderland to be converted from the wine cellar beneath their house, the perfect environment for any budding athlete, or Victor.

Since everything was planned, and constructed down to the finest detail, Pereira had no reason to worry. Naive as she was, she always loved to have some degree of control of her situation. There had to be a Plan B, or a spare - always three lipstick tubes in the same particular shade of orange-red, in case one ran out or got lost; always enough dinner made for one extra couple. The final month and a half of her pregnancy was stress free and, dare she admit it, Pereira was almost excited to meet the new members of the Swallow-Birch family. It was only on the day itself, when the midwives cooed around her as they presented her with not one, but two baby boys, that things began to unwind for her. She hadn’t asked for this – one son, and then perhaps two years later a daughter, was all she wanted. Granted, two sons put her ahead of her brother – and the competition between them in every field was important to Pereira – but she hadn’t prepared for this. When she wept, Rutherford assumed it was through joy, but truly, what Pereira was feeling was fear.

There was no post-natal depression, as such, only a worry when her stretched belly left ugly red scars that wouldn’t fade. And, over time, Pereira began to see her twins more and more as a blessing.

It was the nanny who first had the idea to develop their cellar conversion to account for Pereira’s keenness to create artists out of her children as well as her desire to breed strong fighters. First, the wooden walls were stripped down and replaced by mirrored panels and white canvas padding. Easels were erected next to weapon racks, with paintbrushes lined out in a neat row just below the knifes and swords. That was Pereira’s way: go all out, all at once, to make her dreams into a reality. Although the boys were still too young to fight, or paint anything more complex than suns and skies, Pereira was so sure that one day she would be rewarded for her efforts.

Often, she would descend to the dojo-cum-studio at night just to be alone. Standing in front of the mirror, five-foot-eleven in heels and blue eyes glinting, she’d raise a sword into a fighter’s stance and pose. It was a magnificent juxtaposition, her elegant nightdress stretched across her bent knees and her wide, heart-shaped face set in concentrated determination. By this time, Cassius had a baby sister, and Pereira would wonder if one day she might teach her niece to paint as well.

Children, the training space and the wealth that she continued to surround herself with all contributed to Pereira’s confidence, optimism and passive complacency. She brought her children up with strict emphasis on good humour and manners, addressing them as ‘darlings’ rather than ‘sweetheart’ or ‘baby’. Only ever bitter in poor company or when something hadn’t gone exactly according to her plan, she was an altogether pleasant woman who affected everyone around her. The only thing she feared was sudden chaos, and rightly so – for when you indulge in wealth and bring up children in a place where every teenage birthday increases highly unfavourable odds, it’s better to expect the unexpected, and anticipate the improbable.