The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  “Sounds like you get easily offended.”

  He shakes his head. “Not especially. She’s just odious. She gets the medal for being least annoyable. And her medal is in this gun. And I can’t wait to give it to her.”

  “But why do you insult her?”

  The doorman sits on one of my counter stools. He looks tired. “Because she wasn’t offended by my subtle signs of disrespect.”

  “Why did you give her signs of disrespect?”

  “Because she wasn’t bothered when I was in a bad mood or slightly rude.”

  “Wow. So it began small and really escalated.”

  “Exactly,” he says, nodding. “Her ego was incapable of getting miffed by me because she considers people like me so unimportant. That’s why I pushed it. She infuriated me.”

  Penelope is nodding.

  Encouraged, he goes on: “Thinking about it makes me very angry. That’s why I’m here. To put an end to her. For me, it’s a win-win situation. If she’s miffed before dying, I’ll finally have gotten what I want. If she’s still not miffed, that will prove that she’s a psychopath and that I shouldn’t have taken her behavior personally, which will make me feel better about the whole thing. I’ll kill her either way, of course, but right before doing it, I will hold the barrel of my gun against her forehead and I will ask her one simple question: ‘Does this bum you out?’”

  Penelope says, “I understand. You want to feel that you exist, that you matter, like we all do, but—”

  “Exactly! I always have the courtesy of being offended when people are not nice to me. I mean, look at me now!” he roars, standing up.

  Penelope nods. “Of course. But there’s something you should know. The reason Barb wasn’t miffed is not because she has a huge ego, but rather, no ego. It’s not you she considered unimportant but herself.”

  “Oh, spare me the bullshit!”

  “It’s true. You were right, you shouldn’t have taken it personally, not because she’s a psychopath, but because she was traumatized by a terrible event two and a half years ago that left her numb.”

  The doorman looks like he’s about to explode with sarcastic comments, so without a pause, Penelope quickly explains. “Her best friend killed himself out of love for her, and since then she’s obliterated herself. Her main concern is to avoid hurting anyone ever again, even indirectly, even accidentally, which is why when you mistreated her, she was concerned about you, not about herself. Didn’t she express concern for you, for your well-being?”

  “Yeah, it was so condescending.”

  “She never complained to the management about you, did she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she didn’t, otherwise you’d be fired and you know it. Most people would have reported you. And do you know why she didn’t?”

  “Because she knew I’d retaliate. That’s obvious.”

  Penelope shakes her head. “No. It’s because she didn’t want you to lose your job. Understand that I’m not objecting to your desire to kill, per se. What troubles me is that your murderous impulse is based on a misinterpretation of everything she’s done. The person you’re hunting down doesn’t exist. She’s an illusion, your delusion. You took the few pieces of her that were visible to you and you put them together into this little grotesque being that you assume is Barb. But I’ve now handed you the missing pieces, so you can rebuild her into what she really is: a person who has been altered by grief. If you knew the real Barb, you would love her and want to protect her, not kill her.”

  To my surprise, he looks momentarily moved. But, recovering quickly, he says, “Clever twist, and a very poetic story you’ve made up, but I know you’re lying because you’d be stupid not to, and you don’t look stupid.”

  “I couldn’t have made that up to save my life. I’m not very creative. I just like to fix things. Like your misconception of Barb.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I have my heart set on killing her, and plus I think you’re lying.”

  “No, she’s telling the truth,” Georgia jumps in. “Ever since her best friend killed himself out of love for her, Barb has developed a shell. She’s still very caring about the welfare of others, such as yourself or her friends, but not her own. She no longer cares what people think of her. In fact, she now prefers being disliked to being loved too much. This can come off as cold indifference. And someone could, as you have, misinterpret her as being a hard bitch.”

  I know Georgia means what she says because she’s actually said this to me before.

  “I don’t care what lies you all make up. I’m not going to change my mind,” the doorman says.

  My stress level is skyrocketing. By now, lots of cell phones are ringing, and so is my landline. No one is allowed to answer their phones, so the room is filled with clashing ring tones accompanied by a gentle tinkling sound as Lily starts unobtrusively playing the piano.

  “What’s taking her so long?” The doorman turns to Peter. “And why is she getting apples in the first place?”

  “They go well with cheese,” Peter says.

  The doorman cuts himself another piece of goat cheese and says to Lily, “That’s very pretty, what you’re playing.”

  “It’s called ‘Need,’” Lily answers.

  “Of all the times I’ve seen you come in and out of the building, I never imagined you played the piano, and so well,” he says.

  Penelope continues trying to reason with him. “We think we know people. We think that what we see is all there is. We rarely ask ourselves what goes on behind the curtain. We jump to conclusions. And we take everything very personally.”

  The doorman suddenly cocks his ear, as though he hears a faint sound. “Do you hear that?” he asks Penelope. “That’s the sound of no one caring. You’re making me cringe now. If you keep this up, my finger might cringe on the trigger. And, plus, I just realized I have a real problem.”

  “What problem?” Penelope asks, as Lily keeps playing.

  “Well, I know I’m going to prison, I knew that from the start, so that’s not the problem. The problem is I forgot to arrange things for when I get out of prison. I mean, in case I ever get out, which of course will depend on whether or not I’ll be able to kill Barb.”

  “What did you forget to arrange?”

  “Mainly, I’m out of office supplies, and I forgot to buy more.” He now looks very distressed. “I wish I’d made sure my desk was always well-stocked, so then if I did go to prison, at least I’d have everything I needed when I got out. And knowing that would make being in prison so much more bearable.”

  My bafflement at what he’s saying is short-lived because I quickly realize he’s being influenced by Lily’s music. She must be using that new musical skill she developed recently: the ability to beautify—and create a desire for—things even when they’re not there. Clearly, in this case, she chose office supplies.

  “Staples is open till ten,” Penelope says to him.

  “You’re kidding!” He looks at his watch. “I’ll go to prison even if I don’t kill Barb, and I’d love to kill her, but she’s taking so long, and I can’t face going to prison without a well-stocked desk; that’s my priority. Maybe I could get to Staples without getting arrested until after I’ve bought my stuff.”

  “You are so wise,” one of the guests says. “You should go to Staples right away, before it closes. And if you don’t mind, I’ll go with you because I’m out of pencils and getting low on thumbtacks.”

  “You’re as bad as I am!” the doorman tells him, while other guests are now also clamoring to go to Staples. “Okay, I’ll let you all come with me, but you have to walk in front of me so I can see you.”

  And the guests in my apartment miraculously depart. Lily has outdone herself. My urge to follow them to replenish my stock of printing paper almost equals my relief that they’re gone. I can tell that my friends are struggling with similar issues as well.

  Jen Bloominosky, Georgia’s editor, is one of the last t
o leave. Before exiting, she turns around and says to me, pointing to my body, “I didn’t dream the extent of it. But I was onto you, give me credit.”

  I can’t help smiling.

  She says, “I wish I could stay and chat about it, but unfortunately I’m in desperate need of file folders.”

  When all the guests are gone, Jack locks the front door and phones the police downstairs. He alerts them that the doorman and guests are on their way down and headed to Staples, possessed by an irresistible need to buy office supplies.

  We melt all over Lily, congratulating her, thanking her, and then we do the same with Peter, thanking him for saving my life. If he hadn’t come to the party, I’d probably be dead. I express my gratitude to Penelope and Georgia as well, for their efforts. And of course my friends do some fussing about me—being the one who almost got killed.

  We’re all in high spirits except for Lily, who seems sadder than ever.

  Some of us use the bathrooms, others pour ourselves drinks. When it’s my turn to emerge from the bathroom, I’m surprised to see Georgia coming back into my apartment from the outside hall.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I was just throwing out some trash,” she replies. She pats Lily’s arm with concern and says to her, “God, you look even less well than Barb did. You can relax now. The nightmare is over.”

  “Yours is. Mine never will be.” Lily goes back to the piano and resumes her sorrowful playing.

  I suddenly feel the need to put my disguise back on. “Excuse me for a minute,” I mutter, and head toward my bedroom-office to find it.

  “Don’t bother,” Georgia says. “It’s shredded.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “I sliced it up into a million pieces and threw it down the garbage chute just now.” She finally looks at me.

  I’m speechless. I feel a rapid headache coming on.

  She says, “You don’t need it.”

  All my friends are looking at me now.

  “I can make myself another one,” I blurt.

  “And undo tonight’s silver lining?” she says. “That would be a shame. And pointless. My publicist saw you being stripped. Now that she knows what you really look like, you can be sure the whole world knows. The era of the disguise is over. It’s no use wearing it anymore. It would just look affected.”

  “Plus,” Penelope says to me, “it’s not your beauty that’s dangerous, it’s your personality. We found that out tonight.”

  I say to Georgia, “If we ask your publicist nicely not to tell anyone, I’m sure she won’t.”

  Peter is wisely choosing to stay out of the conversation.

  I look at Lily, who hasn’t yet said anything on the topic. Her feelings on this issue are those I care most about.

  Sensing this, she stops playing. “You know my opinion,” she says. “I’m glad Georgia threw out your disguise. I think you should enjoy your beauty. You don’t seem to realize how lucky you are. And sometimes I find that inconsiderate. To see you not appreciating something that could have made my life so happy is almost offensive to me.”

  Even though I realize this might be a selfless attempt to help me overcome my need to hide my appearance, her words come as a shock, which must be visible on my face because she quickly adds, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve been great. I’m just so depressed about Strad.”

  “You’ll get over him,” Georgia says.

  “I know. What I’ll never get over is the world. The importance of the casing.” Lily resumes playing her sad but beautiful piece.

  “Don’t you want to sit with us on the couch?” I ask her.

  “No, I just want to play a bit longer,” she says.

  I have a profile view of her sitting at the piano, and from where I’m standing it looks as though she’s wearing gloves. Having never seen her, or anyone, play the piano with gloves on, I approach her to take a closer look.

  I stop in my tracks when I realize she’s not wearing gloves. Her hands are like nothing I’ve ever seen, though exactly as she has described them to me. They’re as reflective as mirrors.

  Filled with horror, I watch the transformation creep up her forearms. I remember full well that she thought this change meant death, and I also remember her telling me she was tempted to give in to it.

  “Lily!” I bark.

  She doesn’t even flinch, as though she hasn’t heard me. She continues playing, her expression glazed.

  The reflectiveness is spreading over her chest. Her clothing fades away as her skin turns to mirror.

  I shake her, but it makes no difference. The metamorphosis descends toward her legs and simultaneously rises up her neck.

  I take both her arms and pull them away from the piano keys. She doesn’t resist. Nearly her entire body is a reflective surface now, and the effect is crawling up her face like beauty once did. She looks at me and murmurs, “I’m sorry.” The transfiguration creeps up to her eyes, making her look as though she’s sinking in mirror, drowning in what’s around her. I see myself in her. But because she’s three-dimensional, I’m grotesquely deformed, like in curved mirrors at amusement parks.

  “Lily! Lily!” I yell. I grab her by the shoulders and shake her again, then tap her cheeks. Her gaze, though fixed on mine, is vacant. “Lily, stop that. Come out of it. Fight it, don’t let go.” And suddenly there’s a little crack that appears on Lily’s chest, at the level of her heart. And the crack expands like a cobweb.

  “What’s happening?” I scream, turning to the others. They are gathered around me, looking at Lily’s chest.

  “Lily, don’t,” I say, putting my palm over her heart, hoping to stop the web of cracks from growing. But the fissures continue to radiate in an ever-widening circle. It’s only a few more seconds before they reach her arms, her thighs, and then crawl up her neck.

  I yell to her that she can stop it. I beg her not to let this happen.

  The cracks cover her face.

  “It’s not too late,” I tell her, more softly. “There’s so much to live for. Everyone loves you.”

  It’s not working.

  “I order you to stop.”

  It does not stop. The cracks continue spreading, dividing each fragment of her into smaller fragments. Her entire being is now cracked in a million places.

  I close my eyes. “I can’t live if you die.”

  I sob, my eyes clenched shut. When I open them again, a fragment of her broken reflective surface comes loose and falls at my feet. And then another piece becomes detached and falls. And then a tiny piece of her arm. The holes left behind are dark and empty.

  I won’t let her come apart. These broken pieces must be held together because they are all there is left of her now. I loop my arms around her. I lift her off the bench to a standing position, and I plaster my body against hers to prevent pieces from falling. I ignore the pain as her sharp fragments cut into my flesh. It doesn’t matter. She must be held together. I move my arms against her back to make sure I’m holding onto as much of her broken self as possible. In the process I get more cuts. If I’d still been wearing my disguise, I would have been protected by the padding.

  Our friends haven’t yet noticed my injuries because my back is to them, and they’ve barely had a chance to process what’s happening.

  “Lily, I will help you,” I tell her. “We’ll all help you. We’ll do a better job, this time. Give us another chance. Don’t let yourself come apart like this. Fight it! You can still fight it.”

  To my horror, my friends start pulling me off her. “No!” I scream, resisting them, but I’m weak because I’ve already lost a lot of blood.

  When they see the front of me drenched in blood and with numerous shards of mirrored glass planted in me, they gasp and I hear Peter yell, “Call 911!”

  Penelope is standing near us, crying, her hand over her mouth. She’s dialing 911 on her cell phone.

  I feel faint. My legs give way under me. Jack and Peter gently lay me
down on the floor, still restraining me, for I haven’t stopped struggling to get back to Lily. They position me away from her. “Let me go!” I turn my head in every direction, looking for her, but I can’t see her.

  “It’s too late,” Georgia says, sweeping the hair out of my face, trying to calm me. “It’s over.”

  No. I yank my arm away from them and lift myself up on one elbow, but I get dizzy. Just before losing consciousness, I see, a few feet away, what is left of Lily: a pile of tiny, sparkling pieces.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I regain consciousness at the hospital a few hours later—at around six o’clock in the morning—the first two things I’m aware of are a red tube going into my arm and the pain of my wounds. A moment later, far greater pain invades me as the memory of Lily’s death comes rushing back.

  My failure to keep her together replays in my mind in horrific detail.

  I gaze at my arms lying over the covers. Both wrists are bandaged, as well as my left upper arm, and I can see many Band-Aids on the rest of my skin.

  I hardly care when the doctor tells me I was lucky the paramedics reached me quickly and began fluid resuscitation as soon as I was in the ambulance. I’m told that if they hadn’t, I might not be alive because I’d gone into hemorrhagic shock due to the massive loss of blood. My blood pressure was dangerously low and my heart rate insanely high.

  I hardly care when the doctor tells me I arrived at the hospital with over a hundred shards of mirrored glass lodged in me. And I hardly care when he tells me it took him and his team three hours to remove all the pieces.

  But suddenly, I have a question I care deeply about: “Where are the pieces?” I ask, getting agitated.

  “It’s important that you stay relaxed,” he tells me. “You’re in the last hour of a four-hour blood transfusion. You suffered a class III hemorrhage and lost 40 percent of your blood, most of it lost through four deep incisions—one on your neck and three on your wrists and arm.”

  “You’re not answering my question. Where are the hundred pieces you removed from my body?”