The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  Lily smiles. “Sounds exciting.”

  A few minutes pass.

  Looking out at the ocean, Strad gently says, “So, do you think you might be getting closer to making a decision about my proposal?”

  “There’s something about me you might not like if you knew it,” she says, inspired by Peter’s words to me.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about it.”

  “Well, then, don’t tell me. Just accept my proposal.”

  “It’s something you’d want to know.”

  “The only thing I want to know is if you’ll marry me.”

  “You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew what it was.”

  “I can’t imagine anything you could possibly reveal that would change my mind or lessen my enthusiasm.”

  “And yet, that’s exactly what I’m afraid will happen—your enthusiasm will be lessened. To put it mildly.”

  “And you know what I’m afraid of? That that’s just an excuse. That you’re the one who’s not very excited about marrying me.”

  “What I’m not excited about is the prospect of accepting a proposal that might not exist if you knew the truth.”

  “Then why don’t you tell it to me so I can prove you wrong?”

  Lily doesn’t know what to do. There are so many good reasons to tell Strad the truth, such as: How can she fool him forever? Does she really want to live that way? And is it fair to him? Isn’t it better that they deal with the truth now? And isn’t it better that she be the one to tell him rather than risk having him find out some other way?

  Sometimes she’s on the brink of telling him, such as when they’re lying tensely on towels on the beach.

  She succeeds in talking herself out of it.

  As a way of discouraging herself further from entertaining such a self-destructive notion, she considers asking him what he thinks of Lily, physically. His answer—if it doesn’t outright kill her—is bound to ensure her silence. But she doesn’t ask him for lack of courage.

  She tries to be more upbeat about her circumstances. She reminds herself that it’s not really so bad having always to wear a mask or to play the music. Plenty of people are still able to enjoy life despite having to live with a cumbersome piece of equipment like a wheelchair, an oxygen tank, or how about a pouch attached to a hole in the abdomen through which they defecate? Lily saw a documentary on that, once. Even though the show convinced her that colostomy pouches are not as terrible as most people think, wearing a mask is better, Lily reasons. Many people with colostomy pouches find true love, she is certain of it—and no, not necessarily only with another person who has a colostomy pouch.

  So she does nothing.

  MY FRIENDS COME over for our scheduled Night of Creation. In the middle of the evening, when everyone is working and I go to the kitchen to get some coffee, Peter joins me there as usual and whispers, “Now that I’ve given you a full session of my pleasure vibes, I believe it’s your turn.”

  He doesn’t cease to surprise me.

  “Can I come and collect tomorrow after lunch?” he asks.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Will you arrange to have pleasures you can indulge in while I bathe in your vibes?”

  “Sure.”

  LILY AND STRAD make love that night, but it’s a quiet affair, tinged with sadness.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Give me the bad news, if that’s what it is. I can’t take it anymore. I need an answer. If you don’t want to marry me, please just say so. Put me out of my misery.”

  “I can’t just say yes,” she says, pulling away. “I lied to you.”

  “About loving me?”

  “No.”

  His face lights up. “Well then nothing else matters.” He embraces her again. “I’m very forgiving of liars, being a great one myself. I’ve lied to countless girlfriends. Never to you, of course. But I know that lying doesn’t always come from bad motives. I don’t hold it against you. What did you lie to me about?”

  “My mask.”

  “Is that all? I don’t care. What was the lie?”

  “Everything I told you about it. The reasons why I wear it.”

  “You mean you weren’t sexually molested as a child?”

  “No.”

  “So why do you wear it?”

  “That’s the thing. That’s what I’m having trouble telling you.”

  “Then don’t tell me. I don’t care why you wear it, and I don’t care that you wear it. And plus, I’m sure the truth is not that bad.”

  “No, it’s not that bad. But to you it may be worse than to most.”

  “I don’t know what sort of misconception you have about me, but I’m very average.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Peter comes over to my place at three. I was hoping to get a lot of work done before that so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about taking the rest of the afternoon off, but I was unable to focus on my work. I was in a trance, completely stoned on the love hormones coursing through my body. I got almost nothing done.

  “Did you stock up on some pleasures?” he asks.

  “Yes, I have a couple that could do the trick. And I skipped lunch so that I’d experience maximum pleasure during the session.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  I don’t mention that skipping lunch did not succeed in making me hungry. The stronger my feelings for Peter have become, the less appetite I’ve had. As a result, I’ve lost weight recently, which was not something I especially needed.

  I arrange my pleasures on a tray. We settle ourselves in the same way as last time—me on the couch, Peter on a chair facing me.

  I first take my iPod from the tray and start listening to the French pop song “Un Jour Arrive,” which I happen to be fond of at the moment. I open my bottle of Petite Chérie perfume and hold it under my nose, feeling the intoxicating scent of pear and spices dance under my nostrils to the romantic melody.

  Peter is watching me carefully. I don’t take my eyes off him.

  There is only food left on my tray of pleasures. Before the end of the first song, I put down the perfume and transition to goat cheese on a cracker. I don’t generally like cheese, but that particular goat cheese is one of my favorite foods. Even though I’m not hungry, I do my best to savor it, luxuriating in the delicious sharp flavor. Peter’s gaze is intense and seductive. I try not to let my attraction to him distract me from my task.

  “Am I any good?” I ask.

  “Remarkable,” he says.

  He says nothing more. And neither do I. We are sitting motionless, looking at each other. Now is the time, the ideal time, for him to kiss me.

  I wait. But nothing happens.

  I start feeling sick with disappointment. He is toying with me.

  Or maybe he does want to make a pass at me, but can’t bear the look of me.

  I can’t take it anymore. He has almost passed my test. He is almost there. He is clearly interested in me romantically.

  That’s why I get up and bend down to kiss him on the cheek—a pass so slight it can hardly be called a pass at all. It’s more of an encouragement, a nudge, to help him cross the finish line.

  Looking alarmed, he pulls away before my lips touch his skin.

  I’m shocked. I clearly misread him. He had no intention of making a move, ever.

  Humiliated, I decide to put an end to his little game right now. I will take off my disguise and present him with his own shallowness as I have done countless times to men at bars.

  I start unbuttoning the top buttons of my large man’s shirt that covers my gelatinous jacket.

  When Peter sees me about to undress, he leaps out of his chair and grabs my wrists—not out of passion, as I imagine it might be for a second—but, to my horror, out of panic, to restrain me from proceeding. He is that disgusted. Well, I’m glad I found out now instead of letting it drag on.

&
nbsp; “Don’t do that,” he says, rebuttoning my top buttons. “Please. Not right now.”

  “Okay, forget it, Peter. I get it. I’m not your type. Perfectly understandable.” I pull away, confounded by his aversion and too sad to complete my punishing procedure.

  “No, you don’t get it,” he says. “It’s just that there’s something I must tell you before—”

  “Yes, I know, something you’re afraid I won’t like about you.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Can I tell you tomorrow? It has the potential of upsetting me very much. If I tell you now, it might be hard for me to anchor the news tonight, whereas tomorrow I’ve got the whole day free. I could come over for dinner and tell you. We could order takeout.”

  I agree to let him come for dinner the next day.

  IN LATE AFTERNOON the following day, on my way out to Whole Foods to get a few delicacies for our evening, Adam the doorman says, “Oh, Barb, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are your parents siblings?”

  Every time he insults me, which is every time he sees me, I feel guilty that I have neglected to give him the name of my therapist. It’s just that there’s always so much going on in my life, so many friends to be concerned about, and Adam is never at the top of my list of priorities.

  AT SIX, LILY goes to the lobby of the hotel to meet Strad for the surprise he has planned for her. She’s wearing a bathing suit under a casual outfit, as he instructed. And of course, her white feather mask.

  As she waits for him, she paces the lobby, lost in thought, again wondering if she should tell Strad who she really is. Fortunately, he has seemed willing to wait a bit longer for an answer to his marriage proposal, now that he understands the situation is less simple than he thought.

  A van picks them up and takes them to an electrically powered pontoon boat. A few passengers board the boat. Lily and Strad join them at the bow.

  The boat promptly departs, carrying them over the black sea, along the coast, and into a bay.

  The guide tells them that this is the biobay—one of the most magnificent bioluminescent bays in the world. He explains that the water glows around anything that moves because it’s filled with microorganisms that light up when disturbed. He says the glow is only visible on a very dark night with no moon, such as tonight.

  The passengers start gasping and shrieking with delight at the beauty of the natural light effects in the water.

  Unfortunately, Lily is unable to see anything because of the dark glass covering the eyeholes of her mask. It’s like wearing sunglasses at night. The glass is not detachable, but even if it were, she would not, for anything in the world, remove this important part of her mask which prevents the ugly proximity of her eyes to each other from being seen.

  Squeezing Strad’s arm affectionately, Lily gently informs him of the problem, apologizing for her mask spoiling the surprise he had planned for her.

  Strad slaps his forehead and curses himself for his oversight. “What a shame,” he says. “But come here. Let me at least describe to you what you’re missing.”

  He turns her toward the water and stands behind her, gently pressing himself against her. He’s holding onto the railing on either side of her.

  In her ear, he softly says, “As our boat advances, the fish are darting out of its way, causing the water to light up in blue-green streaks. It looks like bolts of lightning tearing through the water. They create wild jagged patterns.”

  Lily is saddened by the startling description she can’t see.

  She can hear the other passengers saying things like, “It’s just extraordinary! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Strad guides Lily to the back of the boat.

  “Wow,” he marvels, looking at the wake. “Can you see this at all?”

  “No. What?”

  “The wake glows.”

  The boat stops to give passengers a chance to take a swim.

  Many of them jump into the water, creating luminescent splashes.

  Lily wishes she could see it, swim in it, marry Strad, tell him the truth, take off her mask. She would love to dive into the luminescent water like a carefree person who can experience the beauty of life even though she herself is not beautiful.

  “You should go for a swim,” she says.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods.

  He strips down to his bathing suit and jumps into the bay.

  People cheer at the glowing splash he creates. Lily sees nothing except black on black. She remains motionless, gazing down, lost in thought.

  She hears a young woman in the water exclaim to her friend, “Oh, look at all the tiny sparkles trickling down my arm!”

  And that’s the moment Lily makes a decision.

  Strad comes out of the water, dripping. “I was doing water angels. They glowed,” he says.

  Lily smiles, forgetting that her smiles are never seen behind the mask.

  “Strad,” she says, with a solemnity that gets his full attention, “tomorrow I want to have a wonderful day with you. And tomorrow night, I will keep my mask on all night so that we can sleep in the same bed for the first time. And the next morning, I will tell you the truth.”

  Strad lifts her up in the air and twirls her around. “That’s fantastic! Thank you!” He gently lowers her. “And after that will you agree to marry me?”

  “If you still want me to.”

  I SOAK IN a hot bath, trying to relax before Peter’s visit. I then slip into my fake fat and put on some attractive clothes in very large sizes. By attractive, I mean a huge pair of beige pants made of a dressier fabric than my usual sweat pants. And an extremely large turtleneck made of a silkier cotton than my everyday ones. I then put on my gray frizzy wig, my yellowish crooked teeth, my brown contacts, and my fake glasses.

  When Peter arrives at eight p.m., he looks a little tired and pale. He says he has no appetite and asks if I would mind if we waited to eat. I say fine, since my stomach happens to be in knots, too.

  We’re standing at the small island that separates the kitchen from the living room, and I decide to get something off my chest before we even sit down: “I’m sorry I got annoyed yesterday. The truth is, I love our friendship. So if things stay the way they are between us, I’ll be more than happy.”

  He looks at me seriously, gives a brief nod, and says, “I won’t be.”

  “Oh no?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

  “No. At least . . . it wouldn’t be my preference.”

  A smile escapes me. “I see,” I say, “but at the same time you shouldn’t force yourself. If you feel more comfortable with things the way they are, I understand.”

  “I’m not more comfortable. I’m uncomfortable.”

  I chuckle. Joy and relief unwind every muscle in my body. “What is your dark secret?” I ask.

  “Telling you will be disastrous.” He pauses. “But . . . much as I’ve enjoyed our relationship the way it’s been, I really can’t go on like this. I have to tell you the truth.”

  He goes over to the window and gazes down at Union Square. I follow him there. He moves close to me until the space between us is small and intimate. Looking at me sadly, he says, “I want you to know that this thing you don’t know about me is substantial.”

  “So what? There’s something substantial you don’t know about me,” I say.

  “Unfortunately, no. I don’t think so. That’s my secret, you see. My secret is that I know yours.”

  The tension snaps back into my body. Barely breathing, my pulse racing, I carefully ask, “What secret is it that you think you know?”

  “I know that when I touch you, like this,” he says, putting his fingertips lightly on my shoulders and running them down my arms, “you feel nothing.”

  He walks behind me. “That when I bring my lips this close to your hair and whisper to you, you don’t feel my breath in your gray curls.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “That were I to
wrap you in my arms, you would hardly feel a thing because you’ve created a partition between you and the world.”

  He lets go of my shoulders.

  “How long have you known?” I ask, my eyes filling with tears.

  “Since I found Georgia’s laptop in a cab.”

  Stunned, I listen as he explains how he allowed himself to open Georgia’s diary document and stumbled upon descriptions of me and my friends and saw photos of me without the fat suit. He says since meeting me, he fell for me like he’d never fallen for anyone, and that’s why it didn’t feel right to let our relationship progress without my being aware of everything.

  I don’t respond.

  “Is this problematic?” he asks.

  I nod. Tears start running down my cheeks.

  “You see, I knew it.”

  I say nothing.

  He says, “I could easily have fooled you by pretending I didn’t know the truth about your true appearance and—”

  “You mean as you have done?”

  “Uh . . . yes. Except, I could have continued and allowed things to progress. But as my feelings for you deepened, it became harder for me to choose this dishonest option.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to say something, but I can’t. I’m too upset.

  “My conscience was getting in the way, you understand?” he says softly.

  I nod, unable to speak.

  “Because you mean so much to me,” he says.

  I quickly nod as tears keep spilling, and I finally manage to say, “Can we continue this another time?”

  “Really?” he asks, concerned.

  “I’m sorry, I have to lie down now. I don’t feel great.” I start walking out of the living room. “Please let yourself out.”

  “Barb, can’t we talk about this a little more?”

  “Sure, later,” I call out, going to my bedroom.

  But he comes after me. “No, wait, Barb.” He takes my arm before I reach my bedroom door. Touching my gray curls, he says, “I admire the system you’ve devised to ensure that your beauty won’t be the cause of your happiness. And I know I didn’t meet you the right way, but isn’t it better to have met you the wrong way and to love you the right way than the reverse?”