The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty by Amanda Filipacchi Page A

tapping his pockets. “Do you have one?”
    She takes a ballpoint pen out of her purse and places it on the music stand. “Before we start, pay attention to your feelings toward the pen. Form an opinion of it. On a scale of zero to ten, how impressed are you with the pen right now?”
    “I guess . . . zero. No offense, I hope.”
    “No, of course not.”
    She focuses on the pen.
    This is more important to her than any concert she has ever played. She takes a deep breath and begins a piece for the pen.
    After a minute, the pen starts looking poetic. As Lily keeps playing, the pen acquires depth. Gradually, it comes to represent the epitome of human thought, of human invention.
    “Hey, that’s wild! It really does look better,” Strad says. “It’s like looking at a pen in a movie. A dramatic movie with beautiful sets and costumes. It’s like the pen suddenly has a story, or a history. How’d you do that?” He looks at Lily ardently, and before she can answer, he says, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I need to get to a stationery store urgently.” He laughs. Putting on his coat, he adds, “That is so impressive, that you were able to develop this skill. You could have a lot of fun with it. You’re very talented.”
    She gives him a sad smile and mumbles thanks.
    “No, thank you for playing me your stuff. It was a blast!” he says. “I love it.”
    Sure, he loves it. But he doesn’t love her.
    Outside the Building of Piano Rooms, they say goodbye and each go their own way.
    She walks in the cold, briskly at first. Sniffling, she tilts her head back and looks up, helping gravity sink the tears back into her lovely but unfortunately positioned eyes.
    Lily heads back to Union Square. She walks through the park, slowly, looking down, gazing at the leaves in her path—golden, crispy leaves, now transformed into a rotting mush. She listens to the cars rolling through puddles. She feels lonely. She sees homeless people. She sits on a bench, holding onto its cold arm.
    She remains sitting there for quite a while, and then calls me to meet her.
    As I’m walking toward her, seeing her looking so lost in the surrounding grayness, I can’t help but think of Gabriel.
    “I gave him my best performance,” she says.
    I nod.
    “Why did I think Strad would be any different?” she goes on. “It’s not as if I ever see any interest in the eyes of any man I ever meet. Ever.”
    That’s when she tells me about her meeting with Strad, about how he was being his usual self: casual, detached, full of fun, without the slightest romantic or sexual interest in her. She says that even in her easily deluded state, in which his smallest gesture can seem loaded with imaginary meaning and promise, there was no room for hope. She now realizes it wouldn’t make any difference how extraordinary she became musically, magically, or otherwise—except visually.
    Imagining her in that piano room with its undoubtedly merciless fluorescent lighting, and the letdown she must be feeling now, is tough. As she talks, she looks beaten. I wish I could protect her from ever sustaining another blow. I’m afraid that in life, every hit we take chips away at us. How many more hits can she take before she breaks completely?
    “I think you should forget him,” I tell her.
    “Oh, I’m not giving up quite yet.”
    “You’re not?” I ask, with a weird mixture of alarm and relief.
    She shakes her head. “No. I’ve thought of another project I’m going to start working on. And if I succeed, there’s a good chance Strad’s feelings for me will turn into love.”
    MY MOM CALLS again. She asks if I’ve picked a meeting of fat people to go to yet.
    “Yes,” I say.
    “Which one?”
    “Excess Weight Disorders Support Group.”
    “That’s not one of the ones I told you about.”
    “This one sounds better for my fat problem. I Googled to find a group whose very name doesn’t make me feel like a fraud.”
    “When are you