The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty (17 page)

THE NEXT DAY,
Sunday, I design the hat. I can sense right away that I’m back. I know what a hat is today, and I’m able to judge my own work. It’s a good hat. That little hat is a huge load off my conscience. I spend the rest of the day designing ballet costumes that are due in two weeks. I get all sixteen costumes done.

Thanks to my productive day, I’m in a decent mood as I sit down to dinner with Peter Marrick at Per Se. We’re seated near large windows with a beautiful view of Columbus Circle and Central Park.

I’m glad I did my research on Peter because after we place our order and the waiter has explained the detailed history of the three kinds of butter on our table, I’m able to turn to Peter and say, “I watched your interview with the Chinese president on YouTube. It was very impressive.”

“Thanks. Being on
Newsroom Live
gives me some great international opportunities.” He chuckles. “After I got an interview with him, every Asian leader wanted to talk to me.”

I hope he’s not going to expect me to know the names of any of those presidents. I have an urge to put on a seatbelt because I sense we are about to launch into a detailed conversation that might require a knowledge of the minutiae of world politics. But I’ve got nothing to worry about. Suddenly appearing uninterested in the topic, he veers off and tells me he always dreamed of being creative but somehow never had time, life just whizzed by, propelling him in the direction of TV journalism.

To my surprise, he asks if he can join our group, the Nights of Creation, for just one evening.

“Oh,” I say, startled. “It’s nice you’d want to. I’ll ask them. I know they loved meeting you.”

“Thanks.” He smiles and takes a sip of wine.

“Would you be working on an art project, if you came?”

“Yes.”

“Great. What would it be?”

“I don’t know.” He tears a piece of bread.

“What art form would it be?”

“I don’t know,” he says, buttering his bread.

A bit embarrassed for him, I softly say, “I just mean, would it be, like, painting, or music, or writing, or sculpting . . .?”

“I know. I don’t know,” he replies, just as softly. We gaze at each other. Then he whispers to me, with a sad, dreamy air, “I must sound like an idiot.”

“Not at all!” I say, thinking he sounds a bit strange. “Which art forms have you tried in the past?”

“Practically none. In school, I drew a bit in art class. And I learned to play the recorder when I was ten.”

I nod. “Were you good at either?”

“No. But I was a total beginner.”

I laugh, and nod again. “Do you have a good imagination?”

He looks away quickly. “Probably not.” He raises his arm high in the air to flag the waiter, which I sense is to hide his discomfort. He orders another bottle of water, even though ours is still three-quarters full.

Feeling sorry for him, my mouth starts uttering words without my brain having completely approved them. “You can come to our Night of Creation. No problem. It’ll be fun. I’m sure the others will be fine with it. We have one tomorrow night, if you’re free.”

He says he is, and thanks me. He seems happy.

Since we set foot in the restaurant, everybody’s been staring at us. Perhaps they’re surprised that this famous news anchor is having dinner with someone so conspicuously unattractive.

But Peter seems completely oblivious to the stares and very much at ease with me as his dinner companion.

During dessert, Peter says to me, “The truth is, I think I haven’t got an ounce of imagination.”

When I did my research on him yesterday, I found out he’s been married once. Since his divorce three years ago, he’s been linked to a couple of women, but nothing serious.

“Do you like being an anchor?” I ask.

“I like it. I don’t love it. When you’re an anchor, you cover events. You don’t create them. You report on contributions. You don’t make them.”

“Reporting on contributions is a contribution, isn’t it?”

“Such a minor one.”

“I disagree. Plus, you’re so good at it. How did you become so successful if you weren’t that interested in your work?”

“Of course I was interested. It’s easy to be interested in a big, fat soap opera—which is what local, national, and world events are, you know. If I could go back and do things over, I might have preferred to become one of the notable people who is notable for something other than reporting on notable people.”

I nod, understanding.

After dinner, he hails a cab for me, smiles down at me, and says, “See you tomorrow.” He kisses me good night on the cheek. It leaves me feeling weak.

When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman says, “I should change my shift. Seeing you so close to my bedtime gives me nightmares.”

I don’t mention that we have that in common.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING,
my friends arrive early to our Night of Creation so that we can watch Peter on the six o’clock local news before he joins us. They’re excited I’ve invited him, and it works wonders to lighten the mood, which frankly was a bit weighty last time, when all we could think about was which one of us was the killer.

We wait for Peter. He finally bursts into my apartment carrying a large drawing pad and exclaiming, “My friends!” with such an air of relief and yearning, it makes us laugh.

When he sees my mysterious, dim, cavernous living room filled with upright, human-sized animals wearing my costumes and masks, he falls silent.

“Oh my God. This place is amazing,” he says, walking in slowly, taking it all in. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful room.”

I’m glad he finds it beautiful. Everyone finds it striking but not everyone finds it beautiful.

“These costumes are gorgeous. Are they your creations?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s like walking into a fantasy land of imagination, of endless possibilities. No wonder your friends like to work here. Did you put this whole decor together yourself too?”

“Yes, but the lighting is what makes it work, and that was done by a lighting designer friend of mine.”

He looks at me and laughs. “The lighting? So on top of being astonishingly talented, you are also breathtakingly modest.”

During the session, he draws imaginary landscapes, but his output is low and his skill is poor. Georgia whispers to me in the kitchen, “If he spent less time gazing at you and more time turning that gaze inward, he’d boost his productivity. If you want to help him, you should sleep with him. It would get that sexual tension out of his system and allow his creative juices to flow.”

I laugh her off. “If you spent less time surfing the Internet and more time working on your novel, perhaps you’d boost your productivity.”

“I can’t. My novel makes me nauseated.”

“Then write a new one.”

“I can’t. I’ve put too much time and work into this one. I can’t just abandon it.”

Peter seems endearingly concerned that Georgia hasn’t been able to write since she lost her laptop and got it back four days later.

He asks her, “If your laptop had been returned to you more quickly, say after one day, do you think you’d be experiencing the same difficulties with your writing now?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

He turns away. “I’m just always interested in how creativity works.”

“It’s not like I do
no
writing. I do write in my journal.”

“That doesn’t count,” Peter says. “Not to belittle journal-writing, though. I wish I could keep a regular journal. I’ve tried it, but I can never stick to it for more than a few days. I should give it another shot at some point.”

We invite him to join several more of our Nights of Creation. He seems delighted.

Peter Marrick

Sunday, 12 November

I started showing up early for the Nights of Creation, hanging out with Barb in her kitchen, just talking. She’s a fascinating person. I’m charmed by her focus on her work and by the wildly imaginative drawings that result from that focus. I’m charmed by her sense of humor. I’m amazed by how much she cares for her friends and by how much they adore her.

Now that we’re becoming closer, I know I should tell her I’m the one who found Georgia’s laptop in the taxi—that I know she’s wearing a fat suit and a wig, and that underneath it she’s drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t want to hurt or frighten her, and I don’t want to make her angry. More than anything, I want to keep spending time with her.

Barb

Peter Marrick comes early to our Nights of Creation, week after week, and he stands in the kitchen with me. I don’t know why. He’s subtly flirtatious, yet doesn’t ask me out on another date. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in his mind, no idea what he’s feeling. He’s a mystery.

Georgia, too, has noticed his strange air, and she remarks to me in private one day, “He seems a little tortured.”

“I know,” I tell her. But I have to admit I enjoy his company.

Lily hasn’t been making much progress on a piece of music that will beautify her for the man she loves. She works on it all the time, including every time we meet for our Nights of Creation. As the days pass, she gets more frustrated and depressed.

I know that the killer promised never again to try to kill Strad, but every time Lily exhibits extreme sadness I worry that the killer won’t be able to resist the urge.

Midway through Peter’s eighth Night of Creation with us, when we’re focused on our work and Penelope has just broken, very gently, yet another small pot, Lily gets up, lifts her piano bench in the air, and lets it drop on the piano. She smashes the sides and back as well.

We stare at the spectacle in utter shock.

Without its mirrored coating, the piano is ugly. Its surface is matte brown with patches of exposed glue.

After we’ve cleaned up the mess and everyone has gone home, I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. She doesn’t answer but calls me back a few minutes later and tells me I just saved her life. She explains that she was playing at her piano, feeling in the pits of depression, and her hands started turning reflective again. It began spreading up her arms and she knew that this time she wouldn’t have the strength to stop it and it would kill her and she didn’t care. Hearing my voice leaving her the message is what gave her the strength to stop the progression.

THAT EVENING, PETER
calls me. He says he was very disturbed by the incident of Lily smashing her piano and that he’s worried about her.

This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.

“I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.

“If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.

We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.

He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.

“AN INTERVENTION,” PETER
declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.

“Like for addicts?” I ask.

“Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”

It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”

MY FRIENDS AND
I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention—the first Monday after Thanksgiving—Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.

As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”

“Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.

“On the couch.”

“Really?”

I nod.

The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”

“Come this way.”

She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.

Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.

Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though they’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”

“Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”

“Only you know,” Peter answers.

“I don’t do that,” she says.

“These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”