The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  I don’t respond.

  “It’s better for us this way,” he says. “My frustration at wanting more from our relationship outweighs the delight of your company. In fact, the more delightful your company is, the more unpleasant it is for me to be in it.”

  Even though I’m heartsick, I decide to respect his decision.

  As I head back home, I try to persuade myself that he’s right and that it was too hard for me, too. I’m so downtrodden that when I enter my building I hardly hear Adam the doorman telling me I’m a shameless display of genetic deficiency. And he throws in “Vile serpent” for good measure.

  I KNOW I should move on with my life, try to forget Peter, but I keep pondering our situation, wishing we could remain in each other’s lives.

  And that’s not the only thing I’m tormented by. I’m also saddened by Lily’s relationship with Strad, which hasn’t been going well for quite a while now. Since Vieques, he remained nice enough and adequately loving and affectionate, but there was a faint sadness that hung over him most of the time, that Lily couldn’t help but sense. And he hasn’t mentioned marriage since Vieques.

  He sometimes makes insensitive comments, which Lily tries not to take personally because she knows she’s not the only one he’s done this to. She often heard him complain about having to walk on eggshells around various customers, friends, and family members, even way back when she used to work with him in the musical instruments store. When she mentioned this to Georgia, Georgia replied, “Walking on eggshells is what stupid people call the effort required not to offend someone. For smart people, not offending takes no effort.”

  Lily knew Strad wasn’t stupid, otherwise she couldn’t have fallen in love with him. But as for his emotional intelligence, it did seem a little higher when she was beautiful.

  Lily has gone back to trying to compose a piece that will beautify her permanently. But her heart’s not in it. The prospect of manipulating love through unnatural means doesn’t appeal to her as much as it once did.

  Even though she fails to compose that piece, in the process of trying she ends up developing a different and hugely significant musical skill: the ability to beautify—and create a desire for—things even when they’re not there.

  Yet Lily is barely interested in her new stunning accomplishment. She’s preoccupied by her relationship with Strad.

  Georgia, on the other hand, is very affected by Lily’s achievement. “You dwarf me, Lily,” she tells her. “It’s demoralizing. Every time I get over it, you come up with some new and even greater accomplishment that makes all of my accomplishments seem even punier than before. For example, today I was going to tell you guys that last night I finished writing my novel, but now it hardly seems worth mentioning.”

  We explode with congratulations and cheer. We ask her if we can read it. She says not yet, but soon. She says she e-mailed it to her agent this morning and wants to wait and hear her reaction.

  GEORGIA DECIDES THAT she will throw a party at my apartment in two weeks to cheer Lily and me up. She says she’s also secretly throwing this party for herself to celebrate the completion of her novel and because she hasn’t had a party in a while and it’s overdue.

  Georgia has mixed feelings about the parties she throws, which she always holds in my apartment because of space considerations. She invites lots of people from the literary world, yet she has trouble tolerating them. But she can’t help inviting them. It’s a compulsive need—wanting to be in the loop while loathing the loop.

  LILY’S RELATIONSHIP WITH Strad continues to go downhill.

  There is one thing, especially, that really bothers her.

  One night, before they go to bed, she brings it up. “I see you, sometimes, staring at a photo of me while listening to your iPod.”

  He looks uncomfortable, feigns not knowing why she’d point that out.

  “I know that on your iPod you have the music that changes my appearance. Is that what you were listening to?”

  Doing some quick thinking, he answers, “Yes, actually. I find it exciting that my girlfriend is such a virtuoso.”

  “Really? It didn’t seem to do much for you that time we went to the Building of Piano Rooms and I—as Lily—beautified the pen. It didn’t make you interested in me romantically.”

  “It did do a lot for me. But we’d been friends for so long . . . I didn’t think of you romantically back then . . .”

  “And now?”

  “Let me show you.” He kisses her and takes it from there.

  She’s touched by his effort to be nice, but it feels forced.

  Lying in bed afterward, she wonders if maybe she’s simply spoiled. After all, up to about a month ago she’d been made love to by a man who thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. It makes a difference.

  She’s grateful at least that he doesn’t ask her to go back to the way things were: with the mask or the music on always. She’d find it humiliating.

  But Lily knows their problems have to be faced. Therefore, she decides she will confront him with the beautiful version of herself one last time. She hopes his reaction, whatever it will be, will help her figure out what should be done about their relationship.

  So the next day, she takes Strad to the Building of Piano Rooms, pretending it will be fun to redo that old afternoon that didn’t go the way she’d hoped.

  At the front desk, Lily asks for the same room as before. It happens to be available. It’s just as small and bare as she remembers it. Strad sits in the white plastic chair, much closer to her than that first time.

  For a few minutes, she plays him various short pieces, nothing special. And then, she launches into the piece that beautifies her—the one so familiar to them both.

  She watches his face. She can practically see, reflected in his eyes, the hideous mask that is her external appearance lifting from her face.

  His eyes fill with tears. He’s clearly devastated by the sight of the girl he was in love with.

  Instead of stopping, Lily continues playing passionately until his tears have been running long enough that he won’t be able to deny them.

  When Lily stops, she turns her back to Strad, not wanting him to gape at the gradual return of her ugliness.

  “I’m sorry to be crying,” he says. “I don’t know why you had to play that piece.”

  “Because we have to face things.”

  “What things?”

  “The fact that you’re unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy. And I love you.”

  “I don’t think it’s the right kind of love.”

  “It’s a deep love.”

  She turns around and looks at him. “It’s not a helpless, passionate love. It’s a responsible love.”

  “So what? I love you.”

  “But not the way you did.”

  After a long pause, he finally murmurs, “Maybe not exactly the same way.”

  Gently, she says, “And it’s because of how I look.”

  He flinches. “The way you look makes no difference.”

  “Oh? Because you don’t want it to? Or because it really doesn’t?”

  “Because you’re the same person.”

  “Not visually. And I know that matters to you a lot. You can’t change your nature.”

  After a long while, he replies, barely audibly, “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I feel I’ve lost the person I was in love with. As though she vanished or died.”

  Lily nods, resigned.

  Suddenly, Strad seems to backtrack. “But it doesn’t matter because you didn’t vanish. You’re here, the same person. In fact, the beauty I saw and fell in love with was your soul.”

  “But you no longer see it.”

  “Maybe not with my eyes, but I see it with my heart, with my mind.”

  “But it’s not the same, is it? For you, it’s not the same.”

  He can’t speak, can’t contradict her. He looks miserable. He lets his head drop, in complete abjectness.


  Softly, she adds, “I think it might be best if we stop trying to make our relationship work. We should accept that it’s over.”

  Hardly raising his head, he nods.

  They leave the piano room—she feeling many times worse than she did upon their first disappointing exit.

  When they step out onto the sidewalk, he hugs her. In a choked whisper, he says, “I’m so sorry.”

  When he releases her, she smiles at him weakly and walks away.

  Strad doesn’t move. He watches her go. From the back, she looks the same as when he loved her.

  HEARING ABOUT LILY’S breakup sinks me deeper into the dumps. Having finished reading Georgia’s novel only adds to my sadness, even though I loved the book. It’s a funny yet pessimistic novel about a love triangle—a one-directional triangle of unrequited love. It explores attraction, appeal, and desire. It’s about how even the most obsessive love can be fickle, as illustrated when the direction of the love triangle changes.

  The book’s final message is that no one ever really finds true love, because such a thing doesn’t exist, but that people can have happy lives anyway, thanks to good friends.

  It’s called Necessary Lunacies.

  It left me more hopeless about ever getting over my romantic block regarding Peter, though more hopeful that he might be open to resuming contact with me.

  I call Peter and invite him to Georgia’s party tomorrow night, even though I know I’m disregarding his wishes.

  He says he doesn’t want to go.

  I plead with him gently, tell him I’d like to see him.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  I ask him to at least think about it.

  But he won’t commit to doing even that.

  After hanging up, feeling powerless, I decide to turn my attention to something I’ve been neglecting for too long.

  I pick up my therapist’s business card and go down to the lobby.

  I hand the card to Adam the doorman and tell him he should see this therapist, that she’s very caring. (I should probably see her again myself, but I’m always too busy.)

  He strokes the card thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger and says, “Thank you, but I prefer a softer kind of toilet paper.”

  “I just want to help you, Adam.”

  “You have helped me, actually, by giving me this card. I know I can stop trying to prove myself wrong.”

  “About what?”

  He doesn’t answer, but his face looks flushed and his eyes look slightly wild.

  I say good night uneasily and go back upstairs.

  PART

  THREE

  Chapter Seventeen

  To my relief, Peter does show up at the party the following day. A couple of pretty young interns from the Paris Review lose no time gushing over him, trying to chat him up. Smiling, he nods at them without interest.

  After a few minutes I ask him if I can talk to him in private. I lead him to the bathroom, the only private place.

  I mutter, “I was wondering if you might reconsider your decision not to be friends with me.”

  “No.” He rests his hand against the towel rod behind me. “It’s too hard. I want more from you,” he says.

  I look away. I want more, too, of course, but it’s impossible.

  He leaves the bathroom. I compose myself and exit a minute later. The party is lively, though not yet at its peak. Many more people are still expected.

  Neither Peter nor I are in the mood to mingle, so we go to my bedroom-office where Penelope, Jack, and Georgia are gathered. They don’t seem to be in much of a mood to socialize either.

  Georgia is sitting on the couch, looking bored and grumpy, her cheek in her hand. Her mien clashes with her festive, bright red lipstick that she only wears on rare and important occasions. Clearly, she expected to have a better time this evening, which is often the case with her and parties.

  Earlier, we told her how much we loved her novel. Our praise made her happy for about an hour, and then the effect faded.

  The only one of us not here in my bedroom-office is Lily, who’s playing the piano in the living room, which may be another reason we’re here instead of there. Her grief is audible in her music. You’d think we were at a funeral. The guests don’t seem to mind or even notice, but we who are her closest friends can’t help being affected by it.

  Georgia’s cell phone rings. As usual, she answers it on speaker, so we can all hear.

  A man’s voice says, “Hey, Georgia, is the party still going?”

  “Er . . . yeah,” she says, like it’s a dumb question.

  “Great! Is there an alternate entrance into your building?”

  “Er . . . no,” she says, like it’s a weird question. “The entrance is on Fifteenth Street between Union Square East and Irving Place.”

  “They’re not letting me in.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “The cops.”

  “Cops?”

  “Er . . . yeah,” he says, like it’s a dumb question.

  “Why?”

  “Er . . . because of what’s going on in your lobby, maybe?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You don’t know? One of your doormen is going postal. He has a gun.”

  We all look at one another, eyes wide.

  “The doorman made everyone vacate the lobby, except for the other doormen and staff. So that’s why I’m asking if there’s like . . . maybe a service entrance in the back or something?”

  “Are you crazy? Why would you want to enter a building containing a doorman with a gun?”

  With icy indignation, he says, “Because you know very well that I have dreamed of meeting your agent Melodie Jackman for years, if not decades. I’ve just finished writing my third unpublished novel, and I might be able to pitch it better in person. All I care about is making it past the doorman and to the party.”

  “Listen to what you’re saying,” Georgia barks.

  “It’s easy for you to get on your high horse. You’ve got it made. This is my chance. I’m not going to let some psycho doorman get in my way.”

  “My agent isn’t coming. She never goes to author parties.”

  “Ah damn,” the guy says and hangs up.

  I grab the remote. “I bet it’s Adam. Let me put on the doorman channel.”

  In my building, there’s a live security video that is viewable twenty-four hours a day on channel seventy-seven of all residents’ TV sets so we can see who enters the building, who leaves, who’s at the front desk, etc.

  My friends and I stare in horror as the black-and-white image of the lobby appears on my TV screen. At this very moment, the doorman has lined up the other doormen and staff members against the wall. They’re standing side by side, facing him. His back is to the camera. He paces in front of his colleagues, holding a young woman in a choke hold and alternately pointing his gun at his colleagues and at her head. Judging from his body language, he seems to be ranting about something.

  Just then, he turns his head enough for me to recognize him. “Shit, it is Adam,” I say.

  “How did you know it would be him?” Jack asks.

  “Because he’s crazy. He insults me all the time.”

  My friends look at me.

  Jack says, “He really insults you? Or are you just being hypersensitive?”

  “Why would you ask a question like that, Jack?” Georgia says. “You know very well Barb is hypo-sensitive when it comes to herself. I’m sure he really insults her.”

  “What does he say?” Jack asks me.

  “You name it, he’s said it,” I reply.

  “Hardcore insults?” Penelope asks.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Like what?” Jack asks.

  I shrug. “Things like ‘Marinade of shit and piss’ and ‘Cocksucking bitch.’”

  My friends look shocked. I remain silent, realizing how weird this sounds.

  Georgia says, “It’s really crazy that you never
reported him to the super or anyone.”

  “Why do you assume I never reported him?” I ask, annoyed.

  “Because he wouldn’t be in the lobby pointing a gun at people if you had.”

  “I felt sorry for him. He assured me he insulted only me, no one else.”

  Georgia frowns. “Oh, that must have been so reassuring.”

  “I thought he was unwell, troubled—not dangerous,” I plead. “I was afraid he might get fired if I said anything.”

  “Oh, yes, and that would have been so bad,” Georgia says, merciless.

  “Thanks for making me feel better,” I murmur.

  “Well you certainly do feel better than they do,” she snaps, pointing to the lined-up hostages and arm-choked woman on the screen.

  Hardly able to contain my panic, I get up, wiping my moist palms on my pants. “I can’t stand to watch this.” I begin walking out of the room, feeling horribly guilty for not tattle-taling on the doorman.

  “Barb,” Peter says, close behind me, softly.

  The sound of his voice is comforting. I turn to him.

  “Can we talk in private again?” he asks.

  “Again?” Georgia says. “Oh, come on, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

  “We have to warn the guests not to leave the apartment,” Jack says.

  “Peter, you’re the anchor. Can you anchor this?” Georgia asks.

  “Wait,” Jack says, “let me first see if I can get any information from my buddies at the precinct.”

  After his brief call, he tells Peter what he learned and gives him the go-ahead to inform the guests.

  The guests are chatting. Clearly, they haven’t yet heard about the lobby situation.

  Peter addresses the assembly: “Good evening.”

  He gets most people’s attention.

  In his TV anchor voice—authoritative, concerned but calm—he says: “I’m sorry to interrupt this party to bring you some breaking news from elsewhere in the building. Reliable sources have indicated that there is a lone gunman on the loose in the lobby and that a siege situation is ongoing. He’s a doorman, and has locked the exit doors and shut down the elevators. Law enforcement officers have surrounded the building. We have been told by authorities that no one should attempt to leave the premises until we receive the all-clear. They assure us there is no need to panic. There are no reports of any injuries. We will keep you abreast of any further developments as they unfold.”