The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  When he sees my mysterious, dim, cavernous living room filled with upright, human-sized animals wearing my costumes and masks, he falls silent.

  “Oh my God. This place is amazing,” he says, walking in slowly, taking it all in. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful room.”

  I’m glad he finds it beautiful. Everyone finds it striking but not everyone finds it beautiful.

  “These costumes are gorgeous. Are they your creations?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s like walking into a fantasy land of imagination, of endless possibilities. No wonder your friends like to work here. Did you put this whole decor together yourself too?”

  “Yes, but the lighting is what makes it work, and that was done by a lighting designer friend of mine.”

  He looks at me and laughs. “The lighting? So on top of being astonishingly talented, you are also breathtakingly modest.”

  During the session, he draws imaginary landscapes, but his output is low and his skill is poor. Georgia whispers to me in the kitchen, “If he spent less time gazing at you and more time turning that gaze inward, he’d boost his productivity. If you want to help him, you should sleep with him. It would get that sexual tension out of his system and allow his creative juices to flow.”

  I laugh her off. “If you spent less time surfing the Internet and more time working on your novel, perhaps you’d boost your productivity.”

  “I can’t. My novel makes me nauseated.”

  “Then write a new one.”

  “I can’t. I’ve put too much time and work into this one. I can’t just abandon it.”

  Peter seems endearingly concerned that Georgia hasn’t been able to write since she lost her laptop and got it back four days later.

  He asks her, “If your laptop had been returned to you more quickly, say after one day, do you think you’d be experiencing the same difficulties with your writing now?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  He turns away. “I’m just always interested in how creativity works.”

  “It’s not like I do no writing. I do write in my journal.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Peter says. “Not to belittle journal-writing, though. I wish I could keep a regular journal. I’ve tried it, but I can never stick to it for more than a few days. I should give it another shot at some point.”

  We invite him to join several more of our Nights of Creation. He seems delighted.

  Peter Marrick

  Sunday, 12 November

  I started showing up early for the Nights of Creation, hanging out with Barb in her kitchen, just talking. She’s a fascinating person. I’m charmed by her focus on her work and by the wildly imaginative drawings that result from that focus. I’m charmed by her sense of humor. I’m amazed by how much she cares for her friends and by how much they adore her.

  Now that we’re becoming closer, I know I should tell her I’m the one who found Georgia’s laptop in the taxi—that I know she’s wearing a fat suit and a wig, and that underneath it she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t want to hurt or frighten her, and I don’t want to make her angry. More than anything, I want to keep spending time with her.

  Barb

  Peter Marrick comes early to our Nights of Creation, week after week, and he stands in the kitchen with me. I don’t know why. He’s subtly flirtatious, yet doesn’t ask me out on another date. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in his mind, no idea what he’s feeling. He’s a mystery.

  Georgia, too, has noticed his strange air, and she remarks to me in private one day, “He seems a little tortured.”

  “I know,” I tell her. But I have to admit I enjoy his company.

  Lily hasn’t been making much progress on a piece of music that will beautify her for the man she loves. She works on it all the time, including every time we meet for our Nights of Creation. As the days pass, she gets more frustrated and depressed.

  I know that the killer promised never again to try to kill Strad, but every time Lily exhibits extreme sadness I worry that the killer won’t be able to resist the urge.

  Midway through Peter’s eighth Night of Creation with us, when we’re focused on our work and Penelope has just broken, very gently, yet another small pot, Lily gets up, lifts her piano bench in the air, and lets it drop on the piano. She smashes the sides and back as well.

  We stare at the spectacle in utter shock.

  Without its mirrored coating, the piano is ugly. Its surface is matte brown with patches of exposed glue.

  After we’ve cleaned up the mess and everyone has gone home, I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t answer but calls me back a few minutes later and tells me I just saved her life. She explains that she was playing at her piano, feeling in the pits of depression, and her hands started turning reflective again. It began spreading up her arms and she knew that this time she wouldn’t have the strength to stop it and it would kill her and she didn’t care. Hearing my voice leaving her the message is what gave her the strength to stop the progression.

  THAT EVENING, PETER calls me. He says he was very disturbed by the incident of Lily smashing her piano and that he’s worried about her.

  This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.

  “I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.

  “If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.

  We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.

  He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.

  “AN INTERVENTION,” PETER declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.

  “Like for addicts?” I ask.

  “Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”

  It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”

  MY FRIENDS AND I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention—the first Monday after Thanksgiving—Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.

  As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”

  “Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.

  “On the couch.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.

  The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”

  “Come this way.”

  She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.

  Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.

  Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though t
hey’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”

  “Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

  Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”

  “Only you know,” Peter answers.

  “I don’t do that,” she says.

  “These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”

  His words express how I feel so perfectly, they make me want to cry.

  I have to admit I’m intrigued by him. And I’m starting to like him very much: for this speech, for his effort, for recognizing Lily has a problem, and for caring enough to do something about it. I like that he took the initiative on this, that despite knowing her less well than we do, he took a more forceful step than we have ever taken with her. He’s the first person outside of our group that I’ve been drawn to in a long time, since before Gabriel died.

  Lily is listening to him very attentively. She appears genuinely interested. I think Peter is making progress, which is not surprising considering how persuasive his argument is.

  “And it requires a lack of self-esteem, too,” Jack adds, “even though these women often try to claim the opposite. You know, they like to profess that it’s because they value themselves that they do all these cosmetic procedures. But that’s just spin.”

  Peter continues: “What I’m getting at, Lily, is that you are such a beautiful person, intrinsically. You shouldn’t try to alter yourself to accommodate the tastes of a shallow prick who’s unworthy of you. You’re a great artist. Do you know how much I’d give to have even a fraction of your talent? This may sound corny to you, but my advice is love yourself and love the people who love you, not the others.”

  I’m nodding in agreement. The others are, too.

  The most thrilling part is that Lily is nodding, too. Peter’s words seem to be getting through. And I don’t think she’s just being polite.

  Lily raises her index finger to interrupt Peter, and says, “Wow, you’re saying some very interesting stuff. You’re really helping me put things into focus. You’re so right on every front.”

  “You see my point?” Peter says.

  “Oh, God, totally!” she replies, getting up. “Can we continue this a bit later?”

  “We haven’t finished!” I cry.

  “I got the gist of it, though,” she says. “But please, keep talking. I can still listen.” She walks over to her piano, sits, and goes right back to playing—completely undeterred.

  We stand around her piano. Through the filter of my frustration, her music is hell to my ears. “Why are you doing this?” I bark.

  “Don’t mind me.”

  In a whisper, I ask Peter if this is common, the alcoholic getting up in the middle of an intervention and going straight to the liquor cabinet.

  “I’m sure it happens a lot,” Peter says.

  I turn to Lily. “Have you even heard a word Peter said?”

  “Yes, every word,” she replies, clearly reabsorbed in her playing. “And I will give it some serious thought.”

  Jack says, “Lily, do you see that getting up in the middle of Peter’s talk is a symptom of your disease?”

  She nods. “I’m sorry. But you know how it is . . . when the impulse takes you.”

  “The impulse to what? Destroy your life?” Penelope pitches in.

  “I can play and listen at the same time. I’m a good multitasker. You guys can keep talking to me, if you want.” But her eyes are downcast, and she doesn’t really seem to be listening to us.

  We ask her to please stop and pay attention.

  “I am!” she claims. She has an intense expression on her face—a look of deep concentration. But her gaze seems to be turned inward. As I speak to her, she nods mechanically while playing.

  And then I stop talking. An unsettling sensation has quieted me.

  Still nodding, she says, “Go on, I’m listening.”

  But I don’t go on.

  “You were saying?” she says.

  I just gaze at her. Words are meaningless now.

  Then she asks, “Has the cat got your tongue? I’m all ears, keep talking.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I finally manage to murmur.

  And the reason it doesn’t matter, the reason I have been silenced, is that the unthinkable, the impossible, has begun.

  Beauty is crawling all over Lily like a disease. It is clawing at her face, chewing her features, transforming their shapes, harmonizing their lines. It attacks her flesh, takes hold of her skin like a rapidly-moving cancer, leaving behind pure loveliness. Waves of delicacy wash over her. Ripples of symmetry soften her. Layer upon layer of grace sweeps over her entire countenance.

  I shake my head a little, to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I blink.

  We need the tape recorder.

  The melody is fast and inescapable. It’s an ocean of notes crashing around us in my living room. Gorgeous and delirious.

  This has got to get recorded. Before it’s too late. Does Lily even know what’s happening to her—what she’s achieved?

  I finally manage to tear my eyes away from Lily, who no longer resembles the Lily who entered my apartment tonight. I look at my friends.

  Jack is fetching the small recorder from the bookshelf nearby and comes back with it on tiptoes, turning it on. He holds it out of Lily’s sight, so as not to distract her—not that she would notice anyway; her eyes are closed.

  She still hasn’t looked at us since she sat at her piano. We, on the other hand, can’t stop looking at her—with the solemnity of country folks watching a spaceship land. Her beauty continues to increase. She looks like an angel.

  I’ve never seen anything like this, beauty of this magnitude. I had no idea it existed.

  And suddenly, the angel speaks. “I’m tempted to look into your eyes to see if anything has happened. But I’m afraid of being disappointed again.”

  “Open them,” I say.

  Slowly, she does. The effect is spectacular. Her eyes are turquoise, large and clear.

  There is no model, no actress in any movie I have ever seen who is as exquisite as Lily right now. When I’m not wearing my disguise and men look at me, if they see even a fraction of the beauty I am seeing right now, I forgive their shallowness. There is power in beauty. That’s the tragedy of it.

  It’s hard to imagine that Lily can’t decipher from the looks on our faces the extent of her success. If we were cartoons, our mouths would be hanging open wide in awe, our lower jaws on the floor.

  But because we are human and because Lily has endured months of failure, her insecurities aren’t permitting her to read our expressions with any degree of accuracy. So she seeks out an answer in a roundabout way. “Does this piece need to get recorded?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Jack says, lifting the recorder within her line of vision. “It’s on.”

  A smile appears on her lips and her music takes off again, free and wild. She’s done it and—at last—she knows it.

  She plays for a while longer and says, “Time to see the rate of the fade.” She stops playing, gets up and goes to the ballet bar. She stands with her hand on the bar, facing the n
arrow full-length mirror at its side.

  She seems startled by her reflection and takes a step closer to see better.

  “You’ve succeeded,” Georgia tells her. “Probably beyond what even you imagined, right?”

  “Yes,” Lily says.

  As the seconds pass, Lily’s loveliness lessens. “The fade is even more rapid than I expected,” she says.

  Within a minute, every hint of beauty has left her.

  “Now I just have to see if playback works as well as live,” she says, and asks us to hook up to the speakers the recorder containing the musical hallucinogen.

  We do, and turn on the music. She studies her face as her beauty returns. The porcelain skin, the delicate features.

  “Peter,” she says, looking at him in the mirror, “thanks for helping me. It’s completely thanks to you that I succeeded.”

  “How?” he asks, baffled.

  “You made such good points. The women you spoke about, who alter themselves drastically—you said they objectify themselves, that they see themselves as merchandise. You made me realize how important that is. I wasn’t doing it very much, and that was the problem. You helped me see that. So I lowered my self-esteem until I saw myself as no more significant than an item sitting on a shelf—a ceramic pot Penelope might break and put back together. I told myself that I’m like any other object in this world that I must beautify, just an ugly pot.”

  “Wait,” Peter says, looking at me. “I can’t believe my ears. I was making the absolute opposite point.”

  “Which was then reinterpreted by an artist,” Georgia says.

  “Before, I wasn’t focusing on the right things,” Lily says. “But as soon as I tried Peter’s idea of looking at myself as an object, bam! I gained a sense of distance from myself, which freed my mind to come up with this new solution: depth. So that’s what I went for. The music enables you to see past my unfortunate physical appearance.”

  “Past it? So what are we looking at?” Jack asks.

  Lily doesn’t answer. Her silence is puzzling until I understand what she’s reluctant to state because of her modesty.