The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  The manager nods sympathetically, waiting for her to take it off.

  Lily frantically wonders if her music is loud enough to work its magic. It did okay with her chin, apparently. But she’s gripped by an irrational fear that now the effect won’t work.

  She’s tempted to tell the manager, “In my bag I have another, much more attractive mask that the children might prefer. Could I just switch masks in the bathroom?”

  But why postpone the inevitable? She did not spend weeks struggling to create music that would beautify her just to keep her face hidden.

  She prays that when she takes off the mask, Strad will not recognize her. If he sees Lily, the embarrassment would kill her.

  She lifts the mask and puts it in her shopping bag. “No problem. Out of sight, out of mind,” she says.

  Both men are staring at her. They look dumbstruck.

  The manager regains his wits first, and says to Lily. “You know, you look very familiar. Do I look familiar to you?”

  Lily studies his face. He’s in his late twenties, dark hair, glasses, nice-looking. “I don’t think so,” she says.

  “Hmm. Could I have your number or give you mine so we can figure out where we might have met before?” He chuckles, mock sheepishly. “Otherwise I know it’s going to nag at me.”

  Strad snaps out of it. “You must be joking. We’re on a date. Please leave us alone.”

  “Apologies.” The manager leaves.

  “Can you believe his lame pickup line?” Strad tells her.

  She smiles.

  “It’s so quiet now. It really was your mask causing all the crying.” He attempts to shake his head at her flirtatiously, but he seems nervous. He glances around. His smile fades. “Do you always have half the people in a room staring at you?” He adds in a whisper, “Especially the male half?” He attempts another flirtatious look of reproach.

  “Let’s ignore them,” Lily says.

  They talk about various things. His childhood. Hers—partly made up so it won’t match Lily’s. He asks her about her tastes in everything. He tells her about his music and acting ambitions.

  Their conversation is interrupted by the approach of a distinguished older man with a warm, intelligent face who hands Lily a book. “Excuse me. I just want to give you a copy of my autobiography that was recently published. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” His accent sounds French.

  Lily hesitantly takes the book, entitled This Is Not an Autobiography.

  “Oh. Thank you,” she says.

  “You’re quite welcome,” the man replies, bowing to her and then to Strad before walking away.

  Lily opens the cover and sees a handwritten message to her: “For the stranger who spoke to me without speaking. I’d love to know your thoughts on this—or on anything. Danny.” And a phone number is scribbled underneath.

  “Do you mind if I take a look?” Strad asks.

  Lily gives him the book.

  He reads the message, snorts, and tosses the book on the middle of the table.

  Lily picks it up and reads the back cover, which seems to annoy Strad, who says, “So who the hell is this guy?”

  “This says he’s a legendary French photographer.”

  “Yeah, bullshit.”

  “The photo looks like him,” she says and quickly puts the book down, not wanting to annoy Strad further.

  They resume their conversation, which gets interrupted ten minutes later by yet another man—this time a tall and extremely good-looking one.

  “I don’t believe this,” Strad mutters through clenched teeth.

  The man looks down at Lily without saying a word and places a little piece of paper on the table in front of her. She picks it up. It reads: “You deserve the best. Let’s have coffee.” His phone number is underneath.

  She chuckles nervously and looks up at him. He smiles at her before strolling off.

  With an air of indifference (in order to calm Strad), Lily lets go of the paper. It flutters to the tabletop. Strad reaches for it, reads it, and, with scathing disdain, calls out after the man, “What are you, a male model or something?”

  The man pivots on his heels and comes back to the table. “Pardon?” he says, looming over Strad.

  Strad does not hesitate to stand and confront the man, even though this man is taller than he is. “I said, ‘What are you? A ridiculous male model, or something?’”

  The man takes hold of Strad’s jacket lapels, pulls him close, and talks to him intimately. “And what do you think you are, you pathetic, greasy, ugly, creep?”

  Strad struggles free and then charges the man. They both crash into some empty chairs. They wrestle on the floor, throwing punches. The floor manager rushes over, tries to make them stop. People shout. Toddlers resume crying. Lily is distraught. But not nearly as distraught as she is a moment later when she realizes that the music has abruptly changed. She looks at her watch. The favor-hour is over. The book music is back on. And now her appearance is undoubtedly starting to change in people’s eyes.

  She springs from her chair, grabs her shopping bag, and runs to the escalator, leaving the French photographer’s book and the possible male model’s phone number on the table, far too in love with Strad to be interested in other men’s advances.

  “Sondra!” Strad shouts. He loses interest in the fight, struggles to his feet, and rushes after her.

  She hops onto the moving staircase and flies down the metal steps while putting on the beautiful mask I made for her—in case Strad catches up with her. She looks back and sees him leaping onto the escalator just as she’s getting onto the next one. A group of people are in his way, slowing down his pursuit.

  Soon, Lily is out of sight and too far away to be caught. Strad gives up. He goes back up to the coffee shop to retrieve his knapsack with his wallet, then walks across Union Square, straight to my apartment.

  When I open the door for him, he looks frazzled, frantic even.

  “Barb, I’m afraid I made a bad impression. I think I scared her away. I got into a fight with a guy. It was stupid of me. But jerks kept coming on to her. I couldn’t take it anymore. She’s so beautiful. Barb, she’s amazing.”

  I gaze at the few cuts on his face and hands. I won’t pretend they don’t bring me satisfaction.

  I decide I will take this opportunity to explain Lily’s frequent wearing of a mask, so he won’t question it in the future. Giving him a look of concern, I reply, “Yes she’s very beautiful, but fragile.”

  “What do you mean, fragile?”

  “You’ll see, if you get to know her. Her beauty is taxing for her, as I’m sure you can imagine, now that you’ve witnessed the excessive attention and advances she has to deal with all the time. It’s a heavy burden to bear. As a result, she has erected certain defense mechanisms.”

  “Like what?”

  I answer by looking past him, into my living room. Strad follows my gaze, which lands on my large, brown, swivel easy chair with its back to us.

  Slowly, the chair turns, revealing Lily wearing the white feather mask.

  Strad’s eyes open wide.

  I move to the stereo and turn on the special music.

  “I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself,” he tells her.

  Lily makes no response.

  “I apologize for the fight at the bookstore. I hope I didn’t freak you out too much. I don’t usually get into fights. I’m not a violent person, I swear,” he says.

  Lily languorously swivels the chair, disappearing behind its back once more. When she reappears, she is unmasked.

  The music has had enough time to take effect. Her inner beauty is exposed in all its radiance.

  Her lips, curved in their deliriously lovely way, spread into a mischievous grin. “You didn’t freak me out that much.”

  MY FRIENDS COME over the following day for a Night of Creation. When Lily has finished regaling them with her account of her bookstore date, we work. Peter is drawing in his pad, frequently glancing at me, as usu
al. I’m not looking at him much, but I’m thinking about him—and not entirely happily. He seems attracted to me, and yet he hasn’t been doing anything about it. He must not be as interested as he seems, and it must be my disguise that’s preventing him from wanting to take things further. It’s disappointing. I hoped he might be different.

  In Central Park at nine p.m., two days later, Strad is waiting for Lily where they decided to meet for their second date: along the edge of the lake in a secluded spot at the foot of some rocks.

  He’s been waiting five minutes.

  Suddenly, he sees her at the top of the rock formation behind him, wearing her white mask. She looks majestic standing there, gazing down at him. He waves at her.

  With a minimal gesture of the head, she motions for him to join her. Before he can, she backs away until she’s out of sight. He scrambles up the rocks to find her.

  And he does. She’s leaning against a tree, waiting for him.

  “You’re wearing your mask again,” he says, surprised.

  She nods.

  “I guess you wear it a lot?”

  She nods.

  “How come?”

  “I can’t talk about it now. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. It’s great to see you again. Or at least to somewhat see you again,” he says, as they begin to stroll. “How’ve you been?”

  “Well. And you?”

  “I hardly know,” he murmurs.

  “Oh? Is something wrong?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it right now. It is so nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you. Have you had dinner?”

  “No. I haven’t had much appetite lately,” he says, looking off into the distance.

  Georgia had predicted that “He will barely eat and he will barely sleep. Your face is not one from which one recovers quickly.”

  Lily glances at him. He does look rather tired and gaunt. She feels a surge of joy.

  That’s why Lily had to ask. Curiosity. Not because she wanted dinner, which she couldn’t eat anyway, with her mask.

  Eventually, they sit on a rock at the edge of the lake, in the obscurity. The side of his body is touching the side of hers.

  “May I take off your mask?” he asks.

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Why not? I mean, I understand that with your looks, wearing a mask attracts less attention than not wearing one, but right now we’re alone. No one will see you.”

  “Except you.”

  “Why would that be a problem?”

  “Now is not a good time.”

  “What a shame. I don’t even remember what you look like.”

  She chuckles.

  “It’s true,” he says. “Hasn’t that ever happened to you—you think about someone so much, you can no longer remember their face clearly?”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” she says.

  “So.” He pauses, grins at her. “When will I get to see your face again?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. I often wear a mask. I wear it at many expected times, and at some unexpected times.”

  “I see. And do you have an aversion to being touched?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Really? Could have fooled me. You’re completely covered. Even your hands. I can’t see any of your skin.”

  “That’s because it’s cold,” she laughs.

  “The only part of you that’s not covered is the back of your head. Do you mind if I touch that?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Turn around.”

  She turns her back to him.

  She feels his hands softly separating her hair, pushing it forward over her shoulders.

  “There’s your skin,” he notes.

  He runs one finger along her part, and over her nape, sending shivers through her body. He gently kisses the back of her neck.

  At the end of the date, he asks her if he can see her again tomorrow, if not sooner.

  He stares at her frigid, feathery expression. He doesn’t know it, but on the other side of the mask, she’s smiling.

  ON TV, I hear a line that strikes me as a perfect comeback to most of the insults my doorman throws my way. So I decide to try a new technique: give him a taste of his own medicine.

  I seize my opportunity the next day, when I come back from running errands and Adam says, “The aberration of nature has returned.”

  I stare at him squarely in the eyes and reply, “Whatever’s eating you must be suffering horribly.”

  His face turns red, as though he’s been slapped. “That’s very insulting,” he says.

  “You mean compared to all the charming things you say to me?”

  “Whatever. Cocksucking bitch.”

  “I’m sorry, Adam, I didn’t mean to offend you. Good night.”

  “You fucking curse on society,” he says to my back.

  Okay, that experiment didn’t work too well.

  Now I’m back to my original plan: give him the name of my therapist.

  FOR THEIR THIRD date, Lily and Strad go to a bar. They pick a cozy couch to settle themselves on, in front of a fireplace. Strad orders a glogg. Lily orders nothing.

  “Because of the mask?” he asks.

  She nods.

  “But you could lift it slightly to sip a drink, the way you did at the bookstore when you tasted my tart. I wouldn’t see anything except maybe your chin, which I adore.”

  Without her special music playing, her chin would be its hideous receding self—the last thing she wants him to see. She sticks to ordering nothing.

  “It would be so wonderful to see your face in the light of this fire. Do you think that might be possible at some point before we leave?”

  “Oh, no, definitely not.”

  He laughs. “What does the removal of your mask depend on?”

  She shrugs.

  “Okay, let me guess. Does it depend on your mood?”

  “No.”

  “Does it require a magic word? Like ‘please’?”

  “No.”

  “Does the moon need to be full or absent, or somewhere in between?”

  “No.”

  “Does it depend on your menstrual cycle? No offense.”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “Do I need to give you a gift?” he asks, taking a small lily from a vase on the table and handing it to her.

  She takes the flower. “No.”

  “Do I need to touch you a certain way?” he asks, stroking the side of her head, just behind the feathers of the mask.

  “No,” she says, leaning slightly into his hand.

  “Do we need to be somewhere in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do we need to be?”

  She shrugs.

  “Okay, I do think we’re getting warmer. At least now I know I need to take you somewhere,” he says, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I need to take you there.”

  “Really? You’re feeling an urgent need to take me there? That’s great. Let’s go!”

  She laughs.

  “Can we go to the place where the mask comes off?” he asks.

  She studies him. “Yes.” She gets up.

  Lily leads him to her apartment. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to worry about him remembering it as “Lily’s” apartment, because it’s not the same apartment he visited a couple of years ago when he lay on her floor and told her he’d fall in love with (and marry) any woman who could create music that beautified the world.

  Nevertheless, she is worried. She’s afraid that something in her home will give away her true identity. She spent the last few days taking precautions, guarding against this danger. She removed her name from the buzzer. She carefully hid all her mail and documents with her name on them. She moved her piano and musical books to a tiny spare room, and locked the door.

  She never in her life had kept any photos of herself on display—not seein
g the point of living among reminders of her ugliness—but still, she made doubly sure before Strad came over that she hadn’t left a snapshot lying around. She had discovered, through experimentation, that the music she’d created to beautify herself also beautified photographs of herself—but as the music might not be playing during the entirety of Strad’s visit, the last thing she wanted was for a photo to be changing throughout the evening, depending on whether the music was on or off.

  When Strad and Lily enter her apartment, she closes the door behind them. She turns on her soul-stripping music, which is wired to play in all the rooms whenever it’s turned on (except the bathroom, unfortunately), and waits until she’s sure the music has taken its effect before removing her mask. She opens a bottle of wine and they sit together on the couch.

  Seeing him reclined there, she becomes sad just looking at him, at how beautiful he is to her, at how often she’s dreamed about him, at how much she loves him. She is painfully aware that his happiness at sitting here with her, his desire to touch her, is not something she was born to experience in the natural world.

  She must have looked sad, because he finally asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” she says. “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

  “I’m not attractive enough for you, right? I know I’m not good enough for you.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I find your face very moving.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  He looks at her and sees tears in her eyes.

  “You’re not,” he says, perplexed.

  She shakes her head.

  He descends upon her. They kiss passionately, each with their own personal desperation. He basks in the sight of her face, running his fingers through her hair, devouring her with his eyes, and then with his mouth, and again with his eyes. Before long, they move to the bedroom. He undresses her quickly. Even though their passion is frantic, every second is slowed in her mind, and she has time to relish the caresses. She hugs the body she craved for years, the body that never wanted her and still wouldn’t if she hadn’t worked beyond sanity to warp reality.

  Afterward, he notices blood on the sheets. “Oh. You have your period?”

  “No,” she says.

  He frowns. “That’s strange,” he mutters. And then he opens his eyes wide and looks at her. “Were you a virgin?”