Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

In Central Park at nine p.m., two days later, Strad is waiting for Lily where they decided to meet for their second date: along the edge of the lake in a secluded spot at the foot of some rocks.

He’s been waiting five minutes.

Suddenly, he sees her at the top of the rock formation behind him, wearing her white mask. She looks majestic standing there, gazing down at him. He waves at her.

With a minimal gesture of the head, she motions for him to join her. Before he can, she backs away until she’s out of sight. He scrambles up the rocks to find her.

And he does. She’s leaning against a tree, waiting for him.

“You’re wearing your mask again,” he says, surprised.

She nods.

“I guess you wear it a lot?”

She nods.

“How come?”

“I can’t talk about it now. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s great to see you again. Or at least to somewhat see you again,” he says, as they begin to stroll. “How’ve you been?”

“Well. And you?”

“I hardly know,” he murmurs.

“Oh? Is something wrong?”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now. It is so nice to see you again.”

“Thank you. Have you had dinner?”

“No. I haven’t had much appetite lately,” he says, looking off into the distance.

Georgia had predicted that “He will barely eat and he will barely sleep. Your face is not one from which one recovers quickly.”

Lily glances at him. He does look rather tired and gaunt. She feels a surge of joy.

That’s why Lily had to ask. Curiosity. Not because she wanted dinner, which she couldn’t eat anyway, with her mask.

Eventually, they sit on a rock at the edge of the lake, in the obscurity. The side of his body is touching the side of hers.

“May I take off your mask?” he asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Why not? I mean, I understand that with your looks, wearing a mask attracts less attention than not wearing one, but right now we’re alone. No one will see you.”

“Except you.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“Now is not a good time.”

“What a shame. I don’t even remember what you look like.”

She chuckles.

“It’s true,” he says. “Hasn’t that ever happened to you — you think about someone so much, you can no longer remember their face clearly?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” she says.

“So.” He pauses, grins at her. “When will I get to see your face again?”

“I’m not sure, yet. I often wear a mask. I wear it at many expected times, and at some unexpected times.”

“I see. And do you have an aversion to being touched?” he asks.

“No.”

“Really? Could have fooled me. You’re completely covered. Even your hands. I can’t see any of your skin.”

“That’s because it’s cold,” she laughs.

“The only part of you that’s not covered is the back of your head. Do you mind if I touch that?”

“I guess not.”

“Turn around.”

She turns her back to him.

She feels his hands softly separating her hair, pushing it forward over her shoulders.

“There’s your skin,” he notes.

He runs one finger along her part, and over her nape, sending shivers through her body. He gently kisses the back of her neck.

At the end of the date, he asks her if he can see her again tomorrow, if not sooner.

He stares at her frigid, feathery expression. He doesn’t know it, but on the other side of the mask, she’s smiling.

ON TV, I hear a line that strikes me as a perfect comeback to most of the insults my doorman throws my way. So I decide to try a new technique: give him a taste of his own medicine.

I seize my opportunity the next day, when I come back from running errands and Adam says, “The aberration of nature has returned.”

I stare at him squarely in the eyes and reply, “Whatever’s eating you must be suffering horribly.”

His face turns red, as though he’s been slapped. “That’s very insulting,” he says.

“You mean compared to all the charming things you say to me?”

“Whatever. Cocksucking bitch.”

“I’m sorry, Adam, I didn’t mean to offend you. Good night.”

“You fucking curse on society,” he says to my back.

Okay, that experiment didn’t work too well.

Now I’m back to my original plan: give him the name of my therapist.

FOR THEIR THIRD date, Lily and Strad go to a bar. They pick a cozy couch to settle themselves on, in front of a fireplace. Strad orders a glogg. Lily orders nothing.

“Because of the mask?” he asks.

She nods.

“But you could lift it slightly to sip a drink, the way you did at the bookstore when you tasted my tart. I wouldn’t see anything except maybe your chin, which I adore.”

Without her special music playing, her chin would be its hideous receding self — the last thing she wants him to see. She sticks to ordering nothing.

“It would be so wonderful to see your face in the light of this fire. Do you think that might be possible at some point before we leave?”

“Oh, no, definitely not.”

He laughs. “What does the removal of your mask depend on?”

She shrugs.

“Okay, let me guess. Does it depend on your mood?”

“No.”

“Does it require a magic word? Like ‘please’?”

“No.”

“Does the moon need to be full or absent, or somewhere in between?”

“No.”

“Does it depend on your menstrual cycle? No offense.”

She laughs. “No.”

“Do I need to give you a gift?” he asks, taking a small lily from a vase on the table and handing it to her.

She takes the flower. “No.”

“Do I need to touch you a certain way?” he asks, stroking the side of her head, just behind the feathers of the mask.

“No,” she says, leaning slightly into his hand.

“Do we need to be somewhere in particular?”

“Yes.”

“Where do we need to be?”

She shrugs.

“Okay, I do think we’re getting warmer. At least now I know I need to take you somewhere,” he says, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I need to take you there.”

“Really? You’re feeling an urgent need to take me there? That’s great. Let’s go!”

She laughs.

“Can we go to the place where the mask comes off?” he asks.

She studies him. “Yes.” She gets up.

Lily leads him to her apartment. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to worry about him remembering it as “Lily’s” apartment, because it’s not the same apartment he visited a couple of years ago when he lay on her floor and told her he’d fall in love with (and marry) any woman who could create music that beautified the world.

Nevertheless, she is worried. She’s afraid that something in her home will give away her true identity. She spent the last few days taking precautions, guarding against this danger. She removed her name from the buzzer. She carefully hid all her mail and documents with her name on them. She moved her piano and musical books to a tiny spare room, and locked the door.

She never in her life had kept any photos of herself on display — not seeing the point of living among reminders of her ugliness — but still, she made doubly sure before Strad came over that she hadn’t left a snapshot lying around. She had discovered, through experimentation, that the music she’d created to beautify herself also beautified photographs of herself — but as the music might not be playing during the entirety of Strad’s visit, the last thing she wanted was for a photo to be changing throughout the evening, depending on whether the music was on or off.

When Strad and Lily enter her apartment, she closes the door behind them. She turns on her soul-stripping music, which is wired to play in all the rooms whenever it’s turned on (except the bathroom, unfortunately), and waits until she’s sure the music has taken its effect before removing her mask. She opens a bottle of wine and they sit together on the couch.