Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

Everyone gathers around me.

My lips clenched, I study my friends.

I see profound shock and stricken features.

I just can’t tell which one’s faking it.

“Not so close,” I say, pointing the dagger at them. I wouldn’t want anyone to grab it from my hands and stab Strad.

They back up.

“Wow, look at that,” Strad says, oblivious. “How cool!” He takes the knife and mirror from me. “It’s an even better gift than I thought. Too bad I don’t know who it’s from.”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” I say, trying to unwrap Georgia’s soul with my eyes.

She gives me a little shake of the head to deny her culpability.

Far from being too cautious, it’s clear to me I was not nearly cautious enough. Drastic revisions of plans need to go into effect immediately.

“If you don’t mind, I must put that in the bedroom,” I tell Strad, tugging on the dagger and sheath.

“Why?” he says, letting them go.

“It’s my knives and weapons phobia.”

“Why are you guys so scared of me?” he asks. “I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

“Oh really?” Georgia replies, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

I notice Lily reacting with a barely perceptible cringe.

“And I need your cell phone, too,” I tell Strad.

“And what’s your pretext for that?” he asks, plopping it in my palm.

“Disliking interruptions.” I look at the assembly. “Couch area!” I order, pointing.

They shuffle to the couch.

I carry Strad’s gift and phone to my bedroom. Despite being deeply shaken up by the dagger’s unsheathing, I’m still not sure I want to resort to my special backup safety method. So I hold off for now.

I return to the living room with a nagging feeling that I’ve overlooked something.

And then it occurs to me.

“Strad, show me your other gifts again,” I say.

“Why? You want to take those away too?”

“Please, I just want to see them.”

He hands me his silver lighter and business card holder. I scrutinize both. After fiddling with them for a few moments, I discover a very well hidden razor blade built into the structure of each one. Once the blade is slid out, it remains attached to the object, which has become its handle.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird ten times in the most obnoxious manner possible. It’s ten p.m.

“You are cuckoo, Barb, to have bought that clock,” Georgia says, clenching her heart with her hands.

“Those are fantastic gifts!” Strad says, thrilled to behold the hidden weapons.

I don’t share his enthusiasm. I visualize what could have happened tonight if I hadn’t discovered those blades. Maybe after dinner, while sitting on the couch having coffee, Strad would have taken out his lighter, lit a cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the coffee table to await his next cigarette. (I would have allowed him to smoke since our priority this evening — his protection, not our comfort — requires him to stay with us till midnight.) My friend the killer would then have gotten up to stretch his/her legs, casually picked up the lighter “to look at it,” pulled out the blade, and sliced Strad’s jugular. Same thing could have happened with the business card holder if the opportunity had presented itself.

Who knows what other weapons the killer might have stashed or smuggled in, or simply have access to — starting with his or her own body, for Christ’s sake! I hadn’t thought of it till now, but here it is: what if the killer is a secret martial arts black belt and can inflict a lethal blow in a split second?

“Sit!” I order my friends, pointing to the couch.

I carry Strad’s silver gifts to my bedroom.

It’s clear to me I’ve got no choice but resort to my special backup method now.

I return from my bedroom holding four pairs of handcuffs I bought a couple of days ago.

I drag four chairs from the dining table to my ballet bar, which is parallel to the table, a few feet away from it. The fact that the bar is sturdy, horizontal, height-adjustable, and bolted to the floor makes it perfect for what I have in mind. I lower it to child level. I position the chairs side by side, behind the bar, and instruct my friends to take their seats.

They obey, only a little surprised. I handcuff their left wrists to the bar. They will be comfortable; their forearms can rest on the bar, which hovers a foot above their laps.

“What in the world are you doing?” Strad asks me, alarmed.

I’ve already come up with my excuse, so I confidently deliver it: “I’m about to serve the chocolate cake.”

“What does that have to do with handcuffs?”

“They go wild for that cake. Like beasts. I always have to handcuff them when I serve it.”

He stares at me.

“If I don’t restrain them, there’ll be no cake left for you,” I explain.

He still just looks on, not responding.

I continue — might as well prepare him: “And they must remain in the restraints not just for dessert, but until the end of the evening or at least until the effect of the cake has worn off. It takes a while.”

“The cake’s that good?” he finally says.

“Quite good.”

“I look forward to tasting it.” He frowns. “Why are you lowering the blinds?”

“It can get ugly once the cake kicks in, even with the handcuffs on. I’d rather the neighbors not see.” The truth is, the possibility of a sniper has only now dawned on me.

I also discreetly unplug the doorman intercom. I don’t want any more announcements of presents waiting downstairs, or, God forbid, visitors — hired visitors, hired killers, or even just innocent visitors who might be shocked at the sight of a dinner party with handcuffed guests.

I serve each of my friends a piece of chocolate cake and some fruit salad on a plate on their laps under the bar.

They begin eating the cake.

Strad watches them and starts laughing. “You guys remind me of cattle at the trough. It’s so degrading. Geniuses in chains. Well, at least some of you. I’ve got to take a photo of this. I brought my camera, actually. It’s in my bag.”

My friends look at him aghast, their gaping mouths full of chocolate cake. They turn their faces to me like spectators following a tennis match. In my court is where they think the ball is now. I’m sure they’re imagining this photo plastered all over the Internet.

“Are you out of your mind, Strad?” I say. “I’m horrified you would even suggest such a thing.”

“No need to get hysterical. I won’t take a photo, then. No problem. Actually, I’m honored that you’re letting me see your inner sanctum, your secret weirdness.”

Returning to the kitchen to cut Strad a piece of cake, I warn him: “And remember, stay away from them. They’ve had their first bite. They’re under the influence.”

“They seem very well-behaved to me.”

“They know they better be or they won’t get seconds.”

Strad and I take our seats at the table, facing the others. I nibble on my pear. He smokes and tastes the cake. He compliments me on it.

Strad tells us he read parts of Georgia’s novels aloud to his various past girlfriends.

“Oh, terrific,” Georgia says, sourly. “And how did they like them?”

“Depends on the girl. Some of them didn’t quite have the mental capacity to appreciate your work.”

“Really? You dated some dumb girls?”

“I’ve had my share.”

“Why?”

“They had other things going for them.”

“Like what?”

“Phenomenal looks.” Strad chortles smugly.

“That must be thrilling, dating a good-looking cretin,” Georgia says.

Penelope scornfully snorts.

“It can be, for a time,” Strad says.

“I suddenly feel less flattered that you like my books,” Georgia says. “Sounds like you’ve got bad taste. And you’re very shallow.”