I’m in the midst of getting ready for bed, taking off my fat, when Georgia calls in tears. She can’t sleep; she’s devastated about her lost novel in her lost laptop. I tell her to take a sleeping aid, and we’ll try calling the police again tomorrow. She says she already took one and it’s not working. I tell her to come over and sleep on my couch if she wants.
A half hour later, Georgia is sitting curled up on my couch, sipping a cup of hot chocolate.
I first met Georgia five years ago when I was the costume designer for the movie based on her novel The Liquid Angel. It was my first job in costume design, and it basically made my career, earning me a Satellite Award and an Oscar nomination. (I chose Gabriel as my escort to the Academy Awards, and we had a memorable time even though I didn’t win.) Job offers poured in after that and I dropped out of Tisch’s MFA program to devote myself full time to freelance costume designing. I haven’t since been nominated for another major award, though my designs continue to get positive reviews that praise their originality, freshness, and psychological insight.
Georgia and I became good friends right away and we often turn to each other during difficult times, such as now.
“I don’t see how I can write again, now that I’ve lost my best work,” she cries, putting down her cup of hot chocolate.
“You’re a great writer. You’ll write it again and even better.”
“I’ve lost work before. I don’t write it better. I write it worse.”
AFTER SHE LEAVES, I work all morning on a series of masks and costumes I’ve been hired to design for a TV movie.
I would happily keep working till dinnertime without taking a break, if only I hadn’t promised our friend Penelope I’d have lunch with her and her parents. I always try to do whatever I can to help Penelope. She’s a dear friend who’s had a tough life. Or rather, she had a tough three days, six years ago. She was kidnapped and kept in a coffin for sixty-nine hours. She doesn’t often ask for favors, so when she begged me because she didn’t want to see her parents alone and she claimed they had always wanted to meet me, etc., I couldn’t refuse.
Penelope doesn’t want to see them alone because of the ongoing tense exchange she has with her wealthy father over the issue of her not yet making a living at the age of twenty-eight. He pressures Penelope to get a job, or to make money some other way, any other way. Instead, Penelope decided to take a pottery class. She discovered she had no talent for making attractive pots. Impressed with her classmates’ pots, which were merely ugly, not hideous like her own, she decided to open a store and sell their ugly pots. Her father disapproves of her business venture. He thinks the pots are ugly and her idea stupid. Worse, the pots aren’t selling and the store is losing money. And he’s the one who pays the rent on her store and on her apartment. He hasn’t given her a trust fund, just a monthly allowance for food, bills, clothes. If he wants to, he can stop supporting her at any time, and she would have nothing, not even a place to live.
It seems obvious to me that Penelope is tortured by her lack of achievement. She would give anything, I think, to possess a special gift, an ability; even the smallest, most modest skill.
She did make efforts to please her father over the years, she did try a few jobs, but hated them and left each one within a couple of months. The pottery class, however, she enjoyed greatly and she continues to take at least two ceramics classes every semester: Wheel Throwing and Handbuilding.
Penelope told me that each time she sees her father, which is every two weeks, he bitterly asks her how sales are going. She never lies, always says, “Terrible.” She’s becoming increasingly stressed by his questions.
PENELOPE AND HER parents are already seated when I arrive at Cipriani Downtown. They shake my hand warmly. They don’t know I’m wearing a disguise. Penelope assured me she never told them. In their eyes, I must make a striking contrast to their daughter, who’s sitting there all prim and ladylike in her cream cashmere sweater set and her immaculately applied makeup.
The waiter takes our order. After telling him I want to start with the steamed broccoli and then have the grilled sole, no sauce, Penelope’s very skinny mother leans over to me and says, “I admire your discipline. My willpower leaves much to be desired.” She rubs her stomach, as though it were convex instead of concave.
“It’s not discipline,” I say. “I just don’t like fatty foods.” It’s ironic that I, of all people, possess the rare trait of not enjoying the things that destroy one’s beauty. “Fat and sugar make me want to throw up,” I explain.
“Really? Then how do you maintain your . . .” She seems unsure how to finish.
“Girth?” I offer.
She nods sheepishly.
“It’s actually not that easy to get rid of, you know. For emotional reasons, I guess.”
“I sure know what you mean,” she says, squeezing her bony upper arms critically, as though they were covered in a layer of thick flesh caused by years of compulsive eating due to emotional torment. “I don’t know how Penelope does it, with what she went through six years ago . . .”
I nod politely.
Not for a moment did Penelope’s father hesitate to pay the exorbitant ransom when his daughter was abducted. He got it ready as soon as the kidnappers told him the amount, but before he had a chance to deliver the money, the police found the criminals and freed Penelope. The kidnappers had kept her in a coffin so that she’d sound all the more distraught when her father asked to speak to her. They held up the phone to the coffin and instructed her to talk to him through its walls and describe her situation. She was crying and had to shout to be heard.
“Barb!” her father booms at me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since I sat down. “You make a living designing costumes, right?”
“Yes,” I say, hoping he hasn’t figured out I’m wearing one.
“You make a good living at it, from what I gather from the magazines.” Penelope must have shown her parents the few articles that have been written about me during the past couple of years.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, sorry that my presence didn’t protect Penelope from her dad’s obsession.
“I wish my daughter would follow your example. She has so many advantages and opportunities.”
No one responds.
Penelope’s father turns to her. “How’s your store going?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she says. I look at her, startled.
Her father does an auditory double take. “What do you mean, ‘quite well’?”
“Selling vigorously,” she articulates. “Compared to before.”
“Are you putting me on?”
“No.”
“Are you selling new merchandise?”
“No.”
“I can’t believe those pots are selling.”
“I’ll show you the sales records next time I see you.”
“No need. I can look at them today when we go to your store.”
“But we’re not going to my store.”
“Yes we are. I want to see the records. After lunch, we’re going back to your store with you.”
“Today’s not a good day. I’m not in the mood.”
“Nonsense. Your reticence is very suspicious, I hope you realize.”
When lunch is over I try to take my leave, but Penelope grabs my arm so tightly it hurts, even through the padding, and in a low voice says to me, “Please come with us.”
“I really need to get back to my work.”
“I beg you with every shred of my being. For moral support,” she says.
In the store, Penelope’s father examines her recent sales records. Appearing impressed and amused, he says, “It looks like you’ve indeed been selling these pots. Didn’t I say customers can be endlessly surprising?”
He gets up and gazes at the merchandise. “It’s beyond my comprehension why anyone would buy any of this pottery. It’s abominable.”
Penelope says, “That makes it art, more than craft.”
Her father reaches for a big, misshapen brown mug. To my surprise, the handle comes off in his hand while the rest of the mug stays on the shelf. Startled, he turns to his daughter, holding the handle.
“You broke the mug!” Penelope says. “That was my best piece.”
He picks up the rest of the mug and attempts to put mug and handle back together. “I’m sorry. The handle just lifted right off.”
“It was a fragile, delicate piece. Very refined and elegant.”
He looks down at the two pieces of mug in his hand. “You grew up in a house filled with refinement and delicacy. This mug is a big clunky chunk of mud, the farthest thing from elegant.”
“Absolutely, according to your narrow-minded and unsophisticated definition of elegance.”
Looking irritated, he puts the pieces back on the shelf and reaches for another item—a bowl. It breaks in two as soon as he’s touched it.
He looks at Penelope. “This bowl was broken,” he says.
He picks up a plate, but only half of it goes with him. “What’s going on? All these items are broken,” he says.
“I can see that. It’s a shame you broke them,” she says.
“Stop it.”
Penelope blushes fiercely.
“Stop the bullshit. I want an explanation,” he says.
In a voice that sounds so strangled I myself can barely breathe, Penelope says, “Customers have to pay for what they break.”
A chuckle escapes me. She has gall. She may not be a creative genius like Lily or Georgia, but nature was a genius in making her.
After a moment’s reflection, her father’s eyes open wide. “That’s how you’ve been selling your merchandise? You make people believe they broke a piece of crap, and you make them pay for it?”
“I was kidnapped,” Penelope says.
“Ah, here we go again.”
“I was kept in a coffin for three days.”
“SO?” he screams. “Why do you always bring that up to defend your inadequacies?”
“Please don’t be so harsh,” Penelope’s mother finally says.
His tone softens. “Don’t you feel ashamed to do business this way?”
“It’s a selling technique,” Penelope says.
Feeling sorry for her, I jump in. “Positioning the broken pieces in such a way as to make them appear unbroken requires great skill. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the long run, the art of the deception becomes the true art of the piece.” I reach for an ugly mug that looks in perfect condition. The moment I raise it from the shelf, a piece of the rim falls inside the mug. “Wow,” I gasp. “It looked so undamaged. Your technique is remarkable, Penelope. Achieving this effect of false wholeness, this illusion of integrity, must take a lot of work. It’s a tough balancing act.”
“Yes,” she says.
Her father is not satisfied. “But don’t customers object to paying for something they didn’t break? How did you manage to get so many people to pay for the pieces?”
“I cry,” Penelope says.
“You cry to sell your broken merchandise?” her father screams.
“Yes, it helps! And I’m thinking of branching out and selling glassware, too.”
“I’m embarrassed by you.”
“I was kidnapped!” she exclaims again. “And don’t pretend you don’t see how that could possibly affect the rest of my life. I was kept in a coffin for three days and three nights. No food. No water. No physical movement. Hardly any air to breathe. No toilet. I should be dead right now.” She gives her father a searing look.
Her father turns to me. “You seem well balanced. Do you have a good therapist you could recommend?”
I stammer, “I have one . . . since yesterday . . . uh, I don’t know how good she is.”
Penelope says, “I didn’t go to a therapist when I came out of the coffin—I don’t see why I should go to one now.”
Her father takes her by the shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. “You’re the one who keeps using the coffin excuse to defend every poor choice you make and to justify your lack of . . . achievements—which I don’t say is invalid, but it tells me you might want to deal with your coffin issue. Face it, you never really got out of that coffin. Let a therapist free you.”
Seeing no reaction from her and unwilling to wait more than two seconds for one, he adds, “And anyway, if you don’t start contributing to your living in a legitimate way very soon, I’m going to stop supporting you. Then you’ll have no choice but to make money, honey.”
THE TENSION OF the last couple of hours has exhausted me. I decide to go straight home instead of buying some more materials for my masks, as I’d intended.
By the time I arrive at my building, I have a blasting headache.
The doorman opens the door, saying, “Here you go, cunt.”
I cringe because I’m afraid he’ll be overheard by the other two doormen at the front desk. There are other staff members as well in this large lobby: porters, handymen, the super, one of the employees from the management office. What worries me is that he’ll get fired, end up homeless, kill himself, and it will be my fault because something about me—my kindness, my compassion, who knows—made him feel safe enough to drop his inhibitions and allow his mental problem to surface in my presence.
“Having a bad day, huh, Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Hope it gets better,” I say cheerfully, trying to make my tone raise his spirits. And I go up to my apartment.
Chapter Four
That evening, Lily, Georgia, Jack, Penelope, and I go to a bar to blow off steam. We’re all upset. Lily’s shown us a postcard Strad sent her:
Hey Lily, Sorry I can’t make it to your concert. Hope it goes/went well. Last month I read that great article in Time Out about your new music’s powers. Congratulations on your success! Strad
When we meet up, Penelope gives me a gift to thank me for helping her deal with her parents at her store of ugly ceramic items. The gift is an ugly ceramic item: a hideous box with a beautiful metal clasp encrusted with a small green stone. But at least the gift is not broken.
“Sorry I didn’t wrap it,” she says. “I made it. Except for the clasp. Someone in the metal department at school created it for me in exchange for two pots.”
“Thank you!” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so touched. It’s wonderful. It has such character.”
We all make a show of admiring the box, though secretly we’re just admiring the clasp.
Penelope tells the others about the fight with her dad in her shop of broken pots and his threat to stop supporting her if she didn’t start contributing to her living in a way that wasn’t against the law. They’re astounded to hear about her selling technique.
I’m sad for Penelope, after the fight with her father, and I’m sad for Georgia over her lost novel. Mostly, though, I’m angry on Lily’s behalf. So I scan the bar, as has become my habit, for a possible scapegoat, for a shallow man to represent all shallow men.
At the same time, I’m also searching for an exception, for a man capable of falling in love with a woman for reasons other than her looks. That’s the only kind of man I could ever fall in love with.
While my friends huddle on a banquette and order drinks and snacks, I spot a man reading a stack of handsome books at the bar. He’s a bohemian type. Chin-length hair.
I approach him. The books are small, old editions with lovely bindings. The man himself is attractive, too—not that that matters. As I near, I glance at the spines of his volumes: Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, Tom Thumb, The Princess in Disguise, Hansel and Gretel, Rapunzel, and Snow White.
Maybe this isn’t an occasion for my usual bar ritual. The presence of the books gives me hope that perhaps this guy isn’t as shallow as all the other strangers I’ve approached.
I stand behind him and look over his shoulder. The page he’s looking at has a beautiful illustration of Sleepi
ng Beauty, with a few lines of text.
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen a man reading fairy tales in a bar,” I tell him.
He looks me over and tersely replies, “I’m doing it for work.”
“Now I’m dying to know: what kind of work?” I sit down on the barstool next to him.
He closes his eyes wearily and says, “I’m a kindergarten teacher. I really have to focus right now.”
He has to focus, and yet I can’t help noticing him turning his head to look at several attractive women who have entered the room.
“Bringing fairy tales to a bar must be a great way to meet women, though I don’t think classic fairy tales are the best things to read to children,” I say.
“Excuse me?” he says, in a tone that conveys annoyance, not only at what I’m saying, but at the fact that I’m still talking.
I’m fully aware that I’m very annoying during my bar ritual. That’s the point.
“Haven’t you noticed how the heroines are always beautiful?” I say. “There are no ugly heroines, no ugly girls that are worthy to be loved. There are poor heroines, dirty heroines, like Cinderella, but never ugly heroines. That sends out a terrible message to kids.”
“I can see how that could make certain ugly women angry,” he says, not looking up from The Sleeping Beauty.
I glance at my friends and hold my nose to indicate that this is a real stinker. Georgia mimes stabbing gestures toward the man, which startles me. That seems a bit excessive, even for her.
As for Penelope, she has been trying to gently break her empty water glass in such a way that it can be reassembled and held together with nothing but the glue of gravity. She told us it’s practice, for when she will make good on her promise to her dad to branch out into glassware.
I say to the kindergarten teacher, “Actually, you’d be surprised at how little it has to do with being ugly. I have plenty of female friends who look just like those beautiful heroines. They have hair that looks like this,” I say, taking off my wig. “They have the same kind of body, typically considered to be beautiful in our culture. Very similar to this,” I say, taking off my fake-fat jacket. “Some of them look remarkably like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and that whole classic bunch, and yet they still feel angry about the kind of message the fairy tales communicate to children.”
The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel Page 3
