The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  I’ll return the laptop tomorrow. I’m tempted to make a copy of the photos of Barb—especially the gorgeous ones—but I know I shouldn’t. Still, they seem too beautiful to part with.

  These people must never know I’m the one who found the laptop. First: they’d be angry I took so long to return it, especially poor Georgia. And secondly and more importantly: according to the journal, Barb will never date a man who has already seen her physical beauty.

  I have to think of the best way to meet them. There is an obvious way, but as I’ve learned detrimentally late in life, the obvious path is not always the best one.

  I’m glad I’m writing down my thoughts. Despite my many attempts to keep a journal, I’ve never been able to stick to one for long. Life gets in the way.

  Chapter Five

  Before meeting Strad for coffee, Lily makes very little extra effort with her appearance because there is not much that can be done. In fact, Lily has often noticed—and others have agreed with her—that in her case, the less done the better. Lipstick only emphasizes the ugliness of her lips. Mascara does the same disservice to her eyes, drawing attention to their unfortunate proximity to each other.

  She feels that her best hope today with Strad is her talent, her music.

  They meet at The Coffee Shop in Union Square (she tells me all about it later). They sit at a table in the back. They make small talk. He congratulates her again on her success without lingering on the topic.

  So she decides to probe. She says to him, “I was very influenced by your words a while back when you said that music’s most noble ability is to beautify the world.”

  He looks at her blankly, nodding vaguely. Then he talks about other things—movies he’s seen.

  She persists. “The kind of music I’ve developed, does it approach in any way what you were talking about?”

  “When?”

  “When you said that beauty—I mean music’s—highest purpose is to beautify the world.”

  “Hmm, I don’t remember that conversation.”

  She blinks, confused. She doesn’t understand how he cannot remember. Or is he lying, out of discomfort? Yes, perhaps he remembers it perfectly and feels embarrassed about having said he’d marry any woman who could create that kind of music. Maybe he doesn’t want to be held to that statement.

  In an anxious attempt to understand his feelings, she murmurs, “You said that one should strive to create music that alters people’s perception of reality, music that beautifies reality. I always kept that in mind.”

  He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I mean, I’m glad you were inspired by what I said.” He laughs and bites into his toast.

  Lily stares at him, her heart sinking. She can tell with absolute certainty that he’s not pretending. He genuinely doesn’t remember. That’s how unimportant that conversation was to him. And here she’s been worrying that perhaps she hasn’t created exactly the kind of music he had in mind, that perhaps she hasn’t executed his vision in quite the right way to please his discriminating sensibility.

  But maybe there’s still hope, she thinks. Just because he doesn’t remember uttering those words doesn’t mean they might not be true.

  Gently, she says, “It’s funny that you don’t remember, because you seemed to feel pretty strongly about it at the time. You even said you’d fall in love with—and marry—any woman who could create that kind of music.”

  “Did I say that? Is that why you composed your recent music?” he asks, and immediately bursts out laughing. He puts his hand on her wrist. “I’m kidding; I flatter myself. But seriously, I can’t believe I said that music’s highest purpose is to beautify the world, and much less that I would marry . . . whatever. I mean, I do believe you, that I said it, because I know what asinine things I’m capable of saying, but you should know me well enough by now not to listen to half the stuff I say.”

  While she tries not to cry, something in her dies.

  But she doesn’t want to give up just yet. She’s not even sure he actually heard her music. Perhaps he only read about it. Perhaps if he hears it, he’ll be won over. The entire last year of her life was built on the statement he made in the dark. She refuses to believe it was utterly meaningless and her efforts were pointless.

  “Have you heard any of my music?” she asks softly.

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure yet. I don’t go to stores much. Except the one I work in. Been so busy. But some friends of mine have heard it. Get this,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “One of them heard the piece that’s at the florist. He ended up shelling out $100 he hadn’t intended to spend. Oh, and I have a client—remember Mrs. Lockford?—well, she bought thirty tubes of lip balm at Walgreens.” He slaps the table and thrusts himself back in his chair, as though to say, “Case closed.”

  Lily smiles, nodding sadly. She has indeed composed music for Astor Flowers and Nivea lip balm. She sometimes gets hired to compose music for entire stores and sometimes for specific products in stores.

  Strad grins and sweeps the hair out of his face. “I love the little signs the stores are forced to put on their doors by law. What’s the wording again? It kills me.” He pauses and thinks. “‘Warning: Your tastes may be temporarily compromised by the ambiance in this store.’ And then, then, my favorite part is something like, ‘Be aware that you will be buying under the influence. You are advised to familiarize yourself with the return policy of this establishment prior to making any purchase.’ Ha!” He slaps the table again, startling the cutlery.

  Lily smiles and nods. She’s always been charmed by Strad’s bursts of enthusiasm.

  But she’s not going to let them distract her now. Focus and perseverance—one might even say fixation—have always been among her greatest strengths, as well as greatest sources of misery. She may be sweet and fragile, but she’s like a missile. When she has a mission, nothing can distract her, and as long as there’s a shred of hope, she doesn’t give up. Now her last shred of hope rests in playing him her music.

  “Could you do me a big favor?” she says. “I’d really like to play something for you, to get your opinion on it. Do you have a few minutes? We could stop at the Building of Piano Rooms.”

  Strad hesitates only a moment, and then says, “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

  Lily pays the bill and they walk to the Building of Piano Rooms two blocks away.

  They rent a small room. She feels a little uncomfortable, as though they’re booking a hotel room for sex, which of course she would much prefer.

  The room contains nothing but a piano and two chairs. In her state of mind, it feels grim and seedy. The piano is giving off the vibe of a bed. She knows that’s just her perception, skewed by years of longing and frustration. In actuality, the space looks like a miniature classroom.

  Strad sits on a white plastic chair near her.

  She will play exquisitely. She wants him to be in awe. She’s not sure this is the most effective path to love, but she knows of no other way. If she can incite in him a very intense degree of admiration, perhaps the leap to adoration will be possible.

  “What do you want me to beautify?” she asks.

  He looks confused. “I thought there was a piece you wanted to play for me, to get my opinion.”

  “Right.” She forgot. “But I need you to pick something randomly for me to beautify. I need to know how well I perform when I’m not prepared. That’s what I need your opinion on.”

  “Okay. How about a pen or something?” he says, tapping his pockets. “Do you have one?”

  She takes a ballpoint pen out of her purse and places it on the music stand. “Before we start, pay attention to your feelings toward the pen. Form an opinion of it. On a scale of zero to ten, how impressed are you with the pen right now?”

  “I guess . . . zero. No offense, I hope.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She focuses on the pen.

  This is more important to her than any concert she has ever p
layed. She takes a deep breath and begins a piece for the pen.

  After a minute, the pen starts looking poetic. As Lily keeps playing, the pen acquires depth. Gradually, it comes to represent the epitome of human thought, of human invention.

  “Hey, that’s wild! It really does look better,” Strad says. “It’s like looking at a pen in a movie. A dramatic movie with beautiful sets and costumes. It’s like the pen suddenly has a story, or a history. How’d you do that?” He looks at Lily ardently, and before she can answer, he says, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I need to get to a stationery store urgently.” He laughs. Putting on his coat, he adds, “That is so impressive, that you were able to develop this skill. You could have a lot of fun with it. You’re very talented.”

  She gives him a sad smile and mumbles thanks.

  “No, thank you for playing me your stuff. It was a blast!” he says. “I love it.”

  Sure, he loves it. But he doesn’t love her.

  Outside the Building of Piano Rooms, they say goodbye and each go their own way.

  She walks in the cold, briskly at first. Sniffling, she tilts her head back and looks up, helping gravity sink the tears back into her lovely but unfortunately positioned eyes.

  Lily heads back to Union Square. She walks through the park, slowly, looking down, gazing at the leaves in her path—golden, crispy leaves, now transformed into a rotting mush. She listens to the cars rolling through puddles. She feels lonely. She sees homeless people. She sits on a bench, holding onto its cold arm.

  She remains sitting there for quite a while, and then calls me to meet her.

  As I’m walking toward her, seeing her looking so lost in the surrounding grayness, I can’t help but think of Gabriel.

  “I gave him my best performance,” she says.

  I nod.

  “Why did I think Strad would be any different?” she goes on. “It’s not as if I ever see any interest in the eyes of any man I ever meet. Ever.”

  That’s when she tells me about her meeting with Strad, about how he was being his usual self: casual, detached, full of fun, without the slightest romantic or sexual interest in her. She says that even in her easily deluded state, in which his smallest gesture can seem loaded with imaginary meaning and promise, there was no room for hope. She now realizes it wouldn’t make any difference how extraordinary she became musically, magically, or otherwise—except visually.

  Imagining her in that piano room with its undoubtedly merciless fluorescent lighting, and the letdown she must be feeling now, is tough. As she talks, she looks beaten. I wish I could protect her from ever sustaining another blow. I’m afraid that in life, every hit we take chips away at us. How many more hits can she take before she breaks completely?

  “I think you should forget him,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I’m not giving up quite yet.”

  “You’re not?” I ask, with a weird mixture of alarm and relief.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’ve thought of another project I’m going to start working on. And if I succeed, there’s a good chance Strad’s feelings for me will turn into love.”

  MY MOM CALLS again. She asks if I’ve picked a meeting of fat people to go to yet.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Which one?”

  “Excess Weight Disorders Support Group.”

  “That’s not one of the ones I told you about.”

  “This one sounds better for my fat problem. I Googled to find a group whose very name doesn’t make me feel like a fraud.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Next Friday.”

  “Why not today? Today’s a Friday.”

  “I can’t. My friends are coming over.”

  “Every day, every hour that you wear your disguise is an hour when you could be meeting a nice guy you could love spending the rest of your life with, but he won’t notice you because you’re hidden within that mountain of horror.”

  “If he doesn’t notice me, he’s not a nice guy.”

  I WASN’T LYING. My friends are in fact coming over for a Night of Creation.

  Our Nights of Creation take place in the evenings, not at night, but Georgia’s publicist didn’t care about this inaccuracy when she dubbed them that and each of us a “Knight of Creation.” Her goal is fame for her authors at any cost.

  These creative evenings of ours started four years ago when Georgia and I decided to throw a party as a way of meeting each other’s friends. Lily and Gabriel were among the friends I brought. Penelope and Jack were among the friends she brought. Georgia had met them a couple of years earlier when she interviewed them for a magazine article she was writing about Penelope’s kidnapping and her deliverance from the coffin by Jack, who was the cop who had rescued her.

  The party Georgia and I threw was successful. People stayed late. But the six of us stayed the latest. We were engrossed in conversation. We talked about our lives and ambitions. We confided in each other. Most of us were in the creative fields and we lamented the loneliness of the artist’s life. Georgia said she found the isolation so unbearable that she often went to coffee shops to write. She liked the noise and bustle. It helped her concentrate. But she said it had gotten more difficult each year as she’d grown to dislike the feeling of anyone looking at her screen or reading over her shoulder. As she was telling us this, she suddenly had an idea: she suggested we try getting together to work on our separate arts in one another’s company.

  It probably wouldn’t have worked for most people. For some reason, though, for us it did. Everyone being industrious was inspiring. We felt like family—which for some of us was very appealing, our real families leaving much to be desired. Georgia’s embarrassment over the name made the rest of us even more eager to embrace it facetiously. Over time, of course, it stuck.

  Our Nights of Creation take place once or twice a week in my large living/dining room. Lily plays and perfects her compositions at a piano she keeps at my apartment for this purpose. A few feet away, at one end of my dining table, Penelope makes hideous little ceramic sculptures. At the other end of that same table, I design and construct my masks and costumes. Sitting between us, at the long side of the table, Georgia types her novel on her laptop (or at least she did, before she lost it). Gabriel would cook up delectable creations in my kitchen and bring them quietly to each of us while we toiled.

  Jack doesn’t do anything creative. If he’s not lounging on the couch, reading psychology magazines, he’s lifting weights, enjoying himself watching us work. Some of the injuries he sustained while freeing Penelope from the coffin were permanent and serious enough to prevent him from ever returning to the police force. Even though he’s an invalid, he’s more athletic and stronger than any of us. He walks with a limp and can’t run, but there are plenty of things he can still do that we can’t, such as walk on his hands and do back handsprings (as long as he lands on his good leg). Financially, he’s okay, thanks to a huge anonymous gift of money he received after the rescue—perhaps from Penelope’s father, no one knows. He makes extra with a part-time job at a senior center, which leaves him with plenty of free time—much of which he spends with us.

  Even though it was wonderful working to the scent of Gabriel’s culinary inventions and our evenings have never been the same since he died, we still enjoy working in one another’s company. We cherish that sense of camaraderie and companionship. Everyone’s art mixes with and affects everyone else’s.

  Tonight, as usual, Lily, Georgia, Penelope, Jack, and I busy ourselves with various activities. I’m working on a pair of fantasy pants for a play. Georgia is mourning the loss of her novel by slowly flipping through the pages of her last novel. Penelope, hammer in hand, is finding new and delicate ways to break pots and balance their pieces back on one another in a deceptive appearance of wholeness. Jack is browsing through psychology magazines. And Lily is throbbing away at the piano, but today, instead of looking at her hands or at nothing in particular, her gaze is fixed on Jack, wh
ich I find peculiar. Jack notices it and starts making faces at her in an attempt to snap her out of her hypnotized stare.

  “Don’t mind me. It’s my new project,” Lily tells him, interrupting neither her playing nor her gazing.

  “Does your new project involve me, somehow?”

  “Yeah, I’m just practicing on you. I’m trying to beautify you.”

  He blinks quickly as he processes this information. “You don’t find me good-looking enough?”

  “Of course I do. I’m just trying to make you even better-looking. So get back to your reading and let me work.”

  Lily continues her playing and staring.

  After another half hour, Jack says, “It’s starting to hurt.”

  Lily stops playing. “You’re kidding!”

  “No.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My ego.”

  “Oh.” She instantly resumes playing.

  He adds, “To watch you trying to beautify me while wearing that frustrated expression makes me feel self-conscious and unattractive.”

  I KNOW I’M acting like a mother hen, but I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. I keep thinking of Gabriel.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask.

  After a pause, she says, “Okay.”

  Her tone is odd. I don’t buy her reply. “How are you doing?” I ask, more slowly. “Really.”

  She’s silent, and then says, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “My hands . . . They’ve been strange today.”

  “Strange? How?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “That’s okay.” I add, “No, I won’t.”

  “Okay . . . After I saw you in the park this afternoon, I came home and I started playing the piano. As you know, I was really depressed. Well, I gave in to that feeling, I sank into it. And something scary happened.”

  “What?”

  “My hands started changing,” she says.

  “They did?”

  “Yes. They became gray and shiny. And they felt different. Sort of empty. Or hollow.”