T'S not as though we’re lacking in translations and retellings of Hans Christian Andersen’s works — there are enough to fill the world and an old pair of boots. But I'd like to keep him alive in the twenty-first century. (I've met people with generational roots in Scandinavia who've never read him.) Without straying from his original plot line and characters, and by converting archaic, and sometimes esoteric, references and meanings into contemporary elements, settings, and language, I’ve endeavored to hold true to both his story and his spirit. Call it scuffing or marring, but eventually, the best boots are scraped and shined, if not resoled.
Now, picture the leggy Andersen, stretched in his favorite coffee nook, dressed in sweater and jeans, and worn but fashionable footwear, with a laptop before him, gazing out at humanity ...
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THE STATESMAN'S NEW SUIT
There is a make-believe world, just down the street from here, that’s ruled by a very vain statesman. His public image means everything to him, and he has an ensemble for every occasion. Never mind that he has pressing engagements, or citizens in need, as long as he can strut his latest stuff.
When his spokesperson says, “Mr. Statesman’s conferring with councilors,” the likely truth is that Mr. Statesman is changing his clothes.
The nation he governs bustles with business, day in, day out, twenty-four-seven. Or, individually, eight-to-five, with holidays and weekends off; and in the case of slackers, much less than is socially and morally acceptable. Speaking of morals, there are also a great deal of scammers, who devise ways of taking money from the innocent, the ignorant, and fools.
Enter: two entrepreneurs, professing to be textile and fashion designers. Their product is like no other — it says so in their marketing campaign. A merging of science and aesthetics, the cloth they produce is nothing short of cutting-edge molecular magic. Here's what's unique: Besides being breathtakingly stylish, it appears virtually invisible to any incompetent or dishonest person. Only people of integrity can see it. It’s the hottest of haute couture.
“Yes!” says the statesman, on seeing their presentation. “These wonder clothes are mine!” He explains to his detractors, and to his dubious staff, that it’s an investment for the good of the people. “Any disloyalty — bam! — I’ll know. Who is able, who is not, who should stay, who should go.”
Having measured the statesman well, these frauds had fashioned a guise just for him. They’ll get his big bucks, while exposing his big ego. Not to mention --
Ahem! They set to work — pattern and cut, cut and sew, and it generates quite a buzz.
The statesman, however, is suddenly on pins and needles, so to speak. What if he can't see the cloth? What if he sees nothing at all? Yet ... he has integrity — right? Isn’t he fit to lead? Hadn’t the people elected him? Here’s what he'll do: He’ll send his senior aide, someone who’s proven himself to be true. Surely, if he can see this miracle, it must be as they claim. A wise plan, Mr. Statesman, he says to himself, as he strikes a proud pose in his mirror.
When the aide pays the swindlers a call — and pays them money to boot — they are hard at work. But the aide can’t believe his eyes. The body form is bare. Except for the patterns, the tables are empty. The sewing machines, while active, fabric-less. Isn't he an honest man? Isn't he qualified for his job? The aide ponders this perplexity: If he admits to seeing no cloth, he may lose his appointed post.
“Just look at this fabric,” the designers say, interrupting his thoughts. “Fit for a king.”
“It is!” agrees the aide. “Very fitting!”
“Notice the silver sheen, the gold iridescence. One-of-a-kind. Truly unbelievable.”
“Right!” says the aide, adjusting his glasses. “Iridescence! Sheen! Un ... un ...”
“Undebatable.”
The aide commits their words to memory (roughly, anyway), should the statesman ask for specifics. Which is exactly what he does. But the statesman’s not satisfied yet — it’s in his very makeup. So he sends his chief advisor.
“Examine the outfit well,” the statesman charges him. “Be sure it’s all legit.”
The advisor, who is also charged a fee, meets with the same dilemma. He stares and stares, and sees nothing.
“How is this for cool cloth?” they ask him. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
The advisor knows he's not stupid. I mean, after all, he's the Statesman's chief advisor. Yet — how awkward! If the senior aide has seen it ... Clearly, it’s a no-brainer: His high position’s at stake.
“Amazing!” he says. “Incredible!” On his return, he reports how classy the clothing is, and this lessens the statesman’s concerns.
Almost fully convinced, the statesman decides it's time to see the work himself. Escorted by his senior aide, his chief advisor, and a selection of staff, he pays the designers a visit (and, once more, more money). But a step inside the door and he stops. He glares, stares, knits his brow, and goes embarrassingly pale. Here are the men, seriously working away; here are the tables, the patterns, the machines; here’s the mannequin.
But no cloth. Not a thread.
Shhh, shhh, shhh go the shears.
“What do you think?" says the advisor. "Didn’t I describe it well?”
Shhh, shhh, shhh go the machines.
“Didn't I?” asks the aide.
The statesman forces a smile. “Y-yes. Just as you said. Even better — it’s indescribable!”
“Mr. Statesman,” says one of the designers, “it’s our pleasure.”
“Perfectly well-suited, sir,” says the other (pause) — "for the upcoming Grand Parade.”
(A roomful of pauses ...) Of course! How opportune! The officials eagerly nod. The Grand Parade!
The statesman's nerves are a little frayed, he hems and haws, but finally, he consents. What recourse does he have?
Like a running stitch, word spreads through social media and the news. Tongues flap, texts fly. Everyone is anxious to see this awesome innovation. And, of course, how they themselves measure up.
On the morning of the prestigious event, the statesman presents the designers with medals, which he pins to their lapels. For Your Fine Fabrication, the inscriptions read.
The designers present the statesman with a clothing rack, softly rattling with empty hangers. “Here are the trousers,” they say, touching one. “The shirt ... the necktie ... and the most elegant jacket on earth.”
The statesman says, “I’m ... overwhelmed.”
“Now, Mr. Statesman, with all due respect, kindly go behind the screen to change your clothes.” He does, and they help him, leaving the necktie for last. “And ... we tighten the knot—there!”
Everyone applauds.
Though cold without his clothes, the statesman warms to their praise. “How amazingly lightweight,” he says, and misinterprets a chill for a thrill.
It is time. Out the doors, across the lawn, down the crowd-lined boulevard they go. The chief advisor heads the procession, the bodyguards walk alongside, and the senior aide brings up the rear. So struts the statesman through the city streets. Having heard much about the cloth’s virtual properties, the masses hold their peace. No one wishes to be thought of as dense or dishonest. No one dares denial. Until ...
From the crowd calls an innocent voice, “Mr. Statesman, where are your clothes!”
“Ha!” someone laughs.
“Out of the mouths of babes!” someone quotes.
“A child can’t be wrong!”
“She’s as true as they come!”
“True — it’s true!”
“He’s got nothing on!”
“Nothing on!”
“Nothing!”
“On!” shouts the statesman, for his official cortège has faltered, along with his foolish heart. Here he strides, dressed head to toe in shame, without a single stitch. It’s the spectators who are in stitches. But it can't be mended — he can’t concede to his blunder. He must go on.
On he goes, his double chin held high, though, naturally, it shakes. Not to mention --
Ahem! Let us head back up the street and return to our sensible world.
art & text © 2017 by Troy Howell
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