The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty Read Online Free PDF Page A

She rubs her stomach, as though it were convex instead of concave.
    “It’s not discipline,” I say. “I just don’t like fatty foods.” It’s ironic that I, of all people, possess the rare trait of not enjoying the things that destroy one’s beauty. “Fat and sugar make me want to throw up,” I explain.
    “Really? Then how do you maintain your . . .” She seems unsure how to finish.
    “Girth?” I offer.
    She nods sheepishly.
    “It’s actually not that easy to get rid of, you know. For emotional reasons, I guess.”
    “I sure know what you mean,” she says, squeezing her bony upper arms critically, as though they were covered in a layer of thick flesh caused by years of compulsive eating due to emotional torment. “I don’t know how Penelope does it, with what she went through six years ago . . .”
    I nod politely.
    Not for a moment did Penelope’s father hesitate to pay the exorbitant ransom when his daughter was abducted. He got it ready as soon as the kidnappers told him the amount, but before he had a chance to deliver the money, the police found the criminals and freed Penelope. The kidnappers had kept her in a coffin so that she’d sound all the more distraught when her father asked to speak to her. They held up the phone to the coffin and instructed her to talk to him through its walls and describe her situation. She was crying and had to shout to be heard.
    “Barb!” her father booms at me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since I sat down. “You make a living designing costumes, right?”
    “Yes,” I say, hoping he hasn’t figured out I’m wearing one.
    “You make a good living at it, from what I gather from the magazines.” Penelope must have shown her parents the few articles that have been written about me during the past couple of years.
    “It’s okay,” I say softly, sorry that my presence didn’t protect Penelope from her dad’s obsession.
    “I wish my daughter would follow your example. She has so many advantages and opportunities.”
    No one responds.
    Penelope’s father turns to her. “How’s your store going?”
    “Quite well, thank you,” she says. I look at her, startled.
    Her father does an auditory double take. “What do you mean, ‘quite well’?”
    “Selling vigorously,” she articulates. “Compared to before.”
    “Are you putting me on?”
    “No.”
    “Are you selling new merchandise?”
    “No.”
    “I can’t believe those pots are selling.”
    “I’ll show you the sales records next time I see you.”
    “No need. I can look at them today when we go to your store.”
    “But we’re not going to my store.”
    “Yes we are. I want to see the records. After lunch, we’re going back to your store with you.”
    “Today’s not a good day. I’m not in the mood.”
    “Nonsense. Your reticence is very suspicious, I hope you realize.”
    When lunch is over I try to take my leave, but Penelope grabs my arm so tightly it hurts, even through the padding, and in a low voice says to me, “Please come with us.”
    “I really need to get back to my work.”
    “I beg you with every shred of my being. For moral support,” she says.
    In the store, Penelope’s father examines her recent sales records. Appearing impressed and amused, he says, “It looks like you’ve indeed been selling these pots. Didn’t I say customers can be endlessly surprising?”
    He gets up and gazes at the merchandise. “It’s beyond my comprehension why anyone would buy any of this pottery. It’s abominable.”
    Penelope says, “That makes it art, more than craft.”
    Her father reaches for a big, misshapen brown mug. To my surprise, the handle comes off in his hand while the rest of the mug stays on the shelf. Startled, he turns to his daughter, holding the handle.
    “You broke the mug!” Penelope says. “That was my best piece.”
    He picks up the rest of the mug and attempts to put mug and handle back together. “I’m sorry. The handle just lifted right