Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

“Guess not,” she says. “I’m a little sadistic, I suppose.”

Nothing much but chewing goes on at the table for a while.

Strad gets up. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asks me.

We all get up. He looks surprised and says, “No, please, you don’t need to get up.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “Jack, will you lead the way?”

“Certainly,” Jack says, and proceeds toward the hallway. I keep an eye on Strad’s plate until everyone has left the table. We begin escorting Strad to the bathroom.

“Uh, what are you guys doing?” he asks.

“Showing you to the bathroom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We’re almost there.”

We go through the hallway, turn a corner, and there we are, all crowded in front of the door.

“Please make way,” I say, and open the bathroom door. I take a quick look, to triple-check that everything seems safe, and show him in.

Strad steps inside, closes the door, and we hear nothing. After about thirty seconds he says, not very loudly, “Are you still there?”

I don’t answer right away, unsure what to say. Finally I answer, “Yes.”

Softly, he says, “Why?”

After a pause, I say, “In case you need anything.”

“I don’t need anything. You can go back to your seats now. I’m sure I can find my way back even though I got lost in your building.”

I don’t think this requires a response, so I give none. We still hear nothing. Time passes and still we hear absolutely nothing. I get worried. Having him out of my sight makes me nervous even though I’ve searched that bathroom multiple times and found no danger. I imagine things. Impossible things, perhaps, but when they’re dwelled on, they start to seem possible. I imagine a lethal gas seeping through the bathroom vent. I imagine a deadly electrical current connected to the metal faucet knobs and activated only when Strad is in the bathroom. I imagine that maybe I was not vigilant enough about staring at his plate and that now he’s quietly dying from poisoning.

I’m straining to hear the slightest sound. My fingertips are against the thin wooden door that separates us.

And then I hear him say softly, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I reply, almost as softly.

“I’m a bit uncomfortable with you all standing out there, you know,” he says.

I nod and murmur, “We know.” That wasn’t meant for him to hear and I don’t think he did.

There is the sound of the sink faucet going on, and a second later, the bathwater running. I have a preposterous vision of the killer having arranged for these faucets to turn on by themselves. The door would be locked, jammed, no way to unlock it, the faucets would keep running, no way to shut them off, and the tiny bathroom would fill up like a fish tank.

“Are you okay?” I ask through the door.

“Fine, fine.”

Finally, despite the racket of the running water, we make out the sound of him urinating.

A few moments later, the water noises stop and he comes out of the bathroom, intact.

Relieved, I’m about to take him back to the table, when Lily says, “I need to go, too.”

I give her permission.

“But I’m not sure I’ll be able to, with you all standing here,” she says.

Strad decides to make her feel more comfortable by masking her sounds. He fetches his violin and plays The Four Seasons by Vivaldi, right outside the bathroom door.

Upon her exit, I frisk her, prompting Strad to ask me, “What are you doing?”

“Just routine,” I reply.

“I need to pee, too,” Georgia says, and slips into the bathroom.

Strad plays “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

When Georgia emerges, I frisk her very carefully.

“Did she steal anything?” Strad asks.

“Uh, it doesn’t look like it,” I say.

“You didn’t frisk me,” he says.

“Not yet.”

As I’m about to give Strad his token frisk, I get a better idea. “Lily, frisk him.” Why not give her some gratuitous pleasure?

She stares at me hard with embarrassment, and then slowly advances toward Strad. She pats his arms, from wrist to shoulder, then his chest. Her hands seem a little shaky as they descend toward his belly. She is carefully mimicking the way she saw me frisk her and Georgia — she does no more and no less. She strokes Strad’s waist, his hips, his pockets — which are bulky, but she ignores them — then his legs and ankles. She walks around him and frisks him from behind. His back pockets have some bulk in them as well, but she does not explore.

“All good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“This is surreal,” Strad remarks to me, as we escort him back to the table. “You have me frisked, my pockets are bulging with things, and yet you don’t ask to see what’s in them. It could be your soap, you know. I could have stolen your soap.”

“I trust you.”

We take our seats and finish our sardines.

The time has come for the table to be cleared for dessert. The problem is, I don’t want any of my friends to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen because of the opportunity it would give the killer to sprinkle sleeping powder on the fruit salad I’ve prepared (which is sitting on the counter) or in the coffee pot. We’d all fall asleep and the killer could kill Strad at his or her leisure. Or while setting the dessert plates, the killer could apply some poison directly onto Strad’s plate or plastic spoon or fork.

One way to avoid these risks would be for me to clear the table, but this will not work either because I’d have to take my eyes off Strad’s still unfinished cup of wine.

Therefore, there’s really only one option that’s completely safe.

“Strad, you may clear the table now,” I say.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“We’re ready for dessert. You can take the dirty dishes to the kitchen, and please don’t eat out of anyone’s plate.”

He gets up, a little baffled, muttering, “Sure, I don’t mind helping,” and takes his plate to the kitchen.

He sees that no one else has gotten up. “Am I supposed to help or am I supposed to do it all by myself?”

“The latter,” I say. “We prepared the meal. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, this is very original,” he says, full of good humor. “The guest waits on the hosts. So this is what it’s like having dinner with the Knights of Creation.”

A few minutes later, I say, “Thank you very much, Strad. When you’re done, you can set our dessert plates and serve us the fruit salad and lemon chocolate cake. Then if you wouldn’t mind pouring us some coffee, that would be great.”

“You really pull out all the stops when you entertain, don’t you, Barb?” he says. “Not only do you bring out the fancy paper plates and plastic knives and forks and serve wine in these beautiful paper cups, but you ask your guest to clear the table and serve you.” I think I detect a mixture of indignation and awe in his tone.

“You guys are so unconventional, it’s delightful,” he adds, taking my plate to the kitchen. He carries the plates one at a time, which drags out the process. He obviously hasn’t had much practice helping clear tables. Three plates are still left. But that’s okay, we’ve got all the time in the world.

We hear music. It’s Strad’s cell phone.

He answers it and hangs up after a moment.

“Now this is weird,” he tells us, looking tickled.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s a present for me downstairs!”

“Ignore it; it’s a trick,” I blurt.

“Who’s it from?” Penelope quickly asks, undoubtedly attempting to cover up my strange comment, which I appreciate.

“She didn’t say,” Strad replies. “It was a woman on the phone, but I have no idea who. All she said was, ‘Strad, there’s a present for you downstairs.’ And she hung up. And no number is showing up on my phone.”