Skin Deep

87

While Pierre and Cho finished the boat operations, Aaron led Dana up the stairs.

He chatted like a tour guide about the island and how because of the Gulf Stream some exotic tropical fish occasionally showed up. In fact, a couple of years ago there was an infestation of a rare Caribbean jellyfish right here in Buck’s Cove. He also explained how for years he had been leasing the mansion as both a summer home and an offsite office, that the original owners gave him permission to convert some basement rooms to a surgical suite.

They entered from the front and into a voluminous and stately foyer with a large mahogany staircase leading to the second floor.

He took her for a quick tour of the first floor. On the right was a huge living room with a large marble fireplace and upholstered chairs and sofas arranged on Oriental rugs. The water-side windows overlooked a darkening infinity broken up by the distant lights of Martha’s Vineyard.

The kitchen, a large open space, occupied a rear corner of the house so that dinners could be prepared with an ocean view. He went to the refrigerator for more champagne. Dana could still feel the drinks from the boat ride, but she agreed to a short glass.

While Aaron got the drinks, she peeked into the adjacent dining room, which had a large table with place settings for ten in elegant white china with gold trim. But as in the kitchen nothing appeared to be in preparation for a dinner party. No fresh flowers, no serving pans. In fact, a thin layer of dust had settled on the dishes. Perhaps the caterer hadn’t arrived yet. Or maybe the food was going to be boated in with a serving staff.

“When is everybody arriving?” she asked, moving back into the kitchen.

Aaron checked his watch. “Soon.” He handed her a glass of champagne.

She took a tiny sip.

“And before they do, I want you to see this first.” He led her across the kitchen to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs going down. “This way.”

She held on to the handrail as she descended because she was beginning to feel spacey.

Below Aaron flicked a switch, lighting up a full cellar that had been converted into a mini-clinic replete with a full operating room with large overhead lights, steel cabinets, scrub sinks, oxygen tanks, cases of medical equipment, IV stands, and closets with medical supplies. Two recovery rooms were down the hall as well as a small conference room and an office. Landscape photos punctuated the walls.

He led them into his office. “It’s because of the clientele,” he explained. “For the lack of a better expression, famous faces who prefer total discretion, which is what brings us here. The famously private.”

“Where the paparazzi can’t find them.” She sat in a chair facing him at his desk.

“Exactly. Because of its location, they can spend their recovery here instead of going to some faraway resort. Plus the island has catering services, so it’s more like a vacation.”

On the wall above his head was an abstract sepia drawing that she had seen before. “That’s the same picture that’s hanging in your other office.”

“Yes.”

“Is it Japanese?”

“No, I did that.”

“You did?” There was something haunting in the image—something vaguely familiar just below the level of consciousness. “A plastic surgeon and artist.”

“I think every plastic surgeon should be something of an artist, don’t you agree? That they should have an aesthetic vision of what they want to achieve?”

“Yes.” Upstairs she heard some footsteps. “I think your other guests are arriving.”

“It’s probably Cho and Pierre.” He glanced at his watch again. “We still have time.”

Dana raised her glass to her mouth then put it down. She was feeling light-headed.

Aaron’s eyes seemed large and intense all of a sudden. “Remember you once asked me if I thought there were universals of beauty—elements that cut across cultures?”

She nodded. “I think it was a silly question, actually.”

“On the contrary. There are universal ideals of beauty. You see it in the animal kingdom, in courting rituals of birds all the way up to the great apes. Creatures are drawn to mates who possess traits indicative of strong survival abilities. You’re a science teacher. It’s pure Darwin.”

“Uh-huh.” She heard the words but was having difficulty following the train of thought.

“The same with people. In the name of survival and evolutionary progress I think we are genetically coded to be drawn to people with certain facial traits—large, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, clear skin, a short nose, short square chin. Look in any fashion magazine, and you’d see what I mean. And that’s true for men and women. What we consider beauty is a genetic code for evolutionary advantage. Are you following me?”

“Mmmm. But doesn’t culture shape that?”

“You mean do cultural values affect our perception of beauty? Of course, but there’s a set of facial features which is universally appealing irrespective of the culture of the perceiver. I won’t bore you, but my point is that beauty has basics—the golden ratio we talked about. Think of the great Hollywood beauties or supermodels. Each is a subtle variation of the phi archetype.”

“Uh-huh.” But her brain had turned to fuzz.

“Of course, there are subjective individual ideals—what psychologists call imagoes. Do, you know the term?”

“Imagoes. No.”

“We all have them,” he said. “They’re the embedded ideal of one’s parents.”

A strange intensity had lit in his face.

“For some individuals, the imago parent is the prototype which determines the way he perceives himself and others. Some say it’s an innate force second only to the longing for God—a yearning underlying all others.”

She nodded, but was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying.

“Perhaps because it’s always been an unattainable goal.”

“What is?”

“To become one with the imago, to lose oneself in it, to become totally absorbed by it.” His hands moved to the keyboard again. “For the rare individual, it’s the ultimate fulfillment. The ultimate destiny.”

She tried to stand but flopped back down. “I don’t feel well.”

“It’s just the blood rushing to your head.”

No. I’m feeling faint, like I’m going to pass out.

“Here,” he said. He tapped the keys then turned the screen for her to see.

For a moment as the image came into view she had no reaction as her mind told her she was peering into a mirror.

Then it occurred to her that staring out from the monitor was her own face. And she had long, fluffy, coppery hair.

He grinned at her. “See?”