The Conversion (14 page)

“Let’s hope he was telling you the truth,” Lorenzo says. “That it ended when he said it did.”

“Doesn’t really matter anymore,” I say, even though of course it does matter. “She was a Moroccan, I believe.”

“Ah, and so is this one.”

On the ride back from the sea, the evening air has cooled substantially, the hillsides darkening in twilight, and as we head back toward the walled city, I shiver in my borrowed jacket even as I hold Lorenzo tight around his midsection, trying to take warmth from him. It occurs to me that I used to wonder if Michel’s transsexual lover would take some sort of revenge for my having stolen him. And in fact, after the hotel room was broken into, I found myself imaging that she somehow had been involved. The men, after all, were wearing masks and loose clothing, and the one that held the knife to my throat was of slight build. The mystery of their identity remains, and sometimes I find myself grasping at the most
far-fetched
explanations in an attempt to unravel it.

The moment Lorenzo makes the turn into the long gravel driveway that leads to the villa, I tap him on the shoulder and motion him to stop for a moment. He steers the motorcycle over to a small parking area, kills the engine, puts the kickstand down, and we both get off. Villa Guidi is looming in the distance with its squared five-story shape and the tall pitch-green sentinels of cypress. Dark shapes of birds swoop low over the great lawns, and several of the dogs chase them uproariously to and fro. As we stand there watching the activity, lights in several of the lower rooms switch on almost simultaneously.

I now tell him the story about the hotel break-in and the ten
nerve-racking
minutes that probably contributed to Ed’s fatal heart attack, and how Marina is attempting to link the incident to the attempted robbery in the villa’s outbuildings and to a group of Muslim radicals who might be out to assassinate Stefano.

“Yes, I hear about this at headquarters. My superior, the
signora
’s old friend, mentions it. And that she brought you to the jail because she
thought you might somehow recognize the thief.” He grins. “This warning, this is no small piece of shit.”

“You’re going to joke about this?”

He squints at me. “Absolutely not. She gets information from an important person … to be taken seriously.”

“But I need to ask you? How possible is it really that one of these days somebody might drive up to the villa and try and do something to Stefano?”

Lorenzo shrugs. “She pays for the surveillance, right?”

I nod.

He thinks out loud for a moment, his lovely eyes darting back and forth. “So that means unmarked cars patrolling the roads …
Bo
,” he says, blowing out air. “An attempt like this … really has not happened around here in a long time, as far as I know.” He frowns. “Does the
signora
seem very concerned?”

I explain that her worrying peaked right after the break-in on the outlying property but seems to have subsided for the time being. Lorenzo goes on to point out that for several decades now modern Italy has lived with intermittent threats of terrorism, which unfortunately have transpired from time to time, such as the horrific train bombing in Bologna in the 1980s. “And several shootings and kidnappings. However, we’re not quite as hysterical or as overly vigilant about these things as you Americans are. We’ve accepted that it’s a part of life nowadays. We know that, only if we decide, we can get concerned and paralyzed by thoughts of dangers, not just terrorism. Somehow, and I can’t explain quite how. We take these threats and make them part of the day. In spite of it all, we can still enjoy a good glass of wine and a wonderful home-cooked pasta. And a great fuck!” He shrugs and the discussion comes to an end.

He offers to escort me the rest of the way to the villa. I accept
nervously
, and then it dawns on me that perhaps Lorenzo has a sexual motivation for keeping the conversation upbeat. But no matter what his intentions toward me might be this evening, there is really nowhere for us to meet in private. The villa’s gate automatically locks at dusk and I press the
four-digit
code to open it. Once the metal grille swings wide. We proceed until we round a bend that gives a full frontal view of the downstairs. The shutters are closed in Marina’s room, but they are open in Stefano’s, and I can peer right in.

Wearing the same dressing gown I’d seen him in previously, he’s
standing
, supporting himself on a cane. Just as we pass, Carla bustles into the room holding a tray with what I presume to be his evening meal. Without saying anything to Lorenzo, I continue to watch. Carla, whose movements normally strike me as being rushed, even abrupt, tenderly hovers as she sets the plates down and actually escorts Stefano to the table. At first I think he’s ill and can’t help himself, but then I realize that this is their little ritual, that she’s serving him the way perhaps she once had served her husband. I see them murmuring to each other, and then she leans against the wall and watches him eat. Their mutual devotion is obvious and very touching. But then I believe I can detect a weary look on Carla’s face.

Lorenzo finally says, “That’s the
signora
’s husband, isn’t it?” I nod. “He looks a lot older than she is.”

“He’s also a perfect target from where we stand.”

“But the gate is locked.”

I shiver. “Not always.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Just listen to me.”

I still don’t believe him.

When we finally arrive at the carved wooden side door of the villa, he says, “The ballroom is amazing, isn’t it?”

I hesitate and then admit that I haven’t yet been upstairs; it has been nearly in constant use for the hired weddings.

“Well, then, I will show you. May I?”

“How do
you
know it?”

“Like I say to you before, this is a historic place. We came here as schoolchildren. Like going to a museum.”

Would Marina object to my inviting Lorenzo into the villa? Maybe she doesn’t even need to know. After all, her rooms are pretty much removed from the staircase that leads up to the second floor. I somehow sense I’m doing the wrong thing, but I want to make love to this man.

Knowing the front door has already been locked and bolted, I lead Lorenzo through a secret side entrance where the door is always kept unlocked, then down into the subterranean zone and through a
dank-smelling
cavelike passage with crudely constructed stone and mortar walls. We emerge into an industrial kitchen used by the wedding
caterers
for food preparation. We pass the bolted wooden doors of the cantina where the wine made in the villa’s vineyards is bottled by the local farmer. It’s hard to imagine that Marina and her mother lived down here for four years during the Second World War and that the thick walls concealed the daily movements and activities of their Jewish friends. At one point Lorenzo rests his hands on my shoulders and gives me an urgent squeeze. I automatically pick up the pace, leading the way up a steep flight of marble steps to a landing, round a corner, and proceed to a foyer from where wide, limestone stairs ascend to the villa’s upper chambers. He follows closely behind, and as we pass various portraits of royal-looking subjects in period regalia, I’m aware of his breathing. And then it dawns on me that the last person I slept with—if one could even call it “sleeping with”—was Ed. And so equal measures of sadness and anger momentarily dampen my expectation.

Lorenzo slips in front of me and opens a set of hand-painted wooden doors, revealing an enormous space that runs the entire length of the villa. The ballroom is remarkably beautiful and I gasp.

The ceilings vault up into forty-foot-high Romanesque arches. Nearly every square inch of the walls and ceilings is frescoed with scenes of villages and meadows and clusters of citizens in sixteenth-century dress. There is much painterly detail in the castles, the topiary gardens with paved pathways, the bystanders, the people promenading their dogs. At the far end of the ballroom are perhaps fifteen round tables covered with pale green linen tablecloths and set elaborately with silver-and-crystal ware for a wedding that will take place within a day or so. At either end of the room enormous gothic-shaped windows are kept wide open and don’t appear to have screens.

I feel Lorenzo draw close. He puts his powerful arms around me, then takes my head in both his hands and gently swivels it around to make sure I see the walled city and the deep blue Apennines ranging behind it. His rubbing deflates all the pent-up anxiety. Our lips touch for a moment and finally our mouths open.

“So you’ve been in here before?” I say after we kiss for a few minutes.

“Yes,” he says, breathing rapidly. “But so long ago. Amazing how much I remember.”

“But your work must take you to many villas like this.”

“Ah, but this is a special one to me. The first villa I ever visited. Her father was very generous about opening his home to the public. Then again, he was a politician.”

Lorenzo begins kissing me again. His lips are full and he tastes like peppermint and wine, and now I think not of Ed, but of Michel. And the sadness is deeper and cut with bitterness: Why do I keep finding myself attracted to married, unavailable men? And once again I’m overcome with the feeling that surely Marina would condemn my bringing married Lorenzo into the villa for an assignation. I stop him and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here.”

He grins. “Okay, I’ll tell you the real truth. This is all part of my job. I’m supposed to protect you. But in order to do that I have to stick really close to you.” His eyes, which one could describe as the nearly translucent green of tropical water, are mirthful.

“Yeah, right,” I say in English.

He persists. “Come on, she’s in her room for the night. She won’t come up here. These people never spend much time in their public rooms.”

“Unless she thinks somebody’s here who shouldn’t be.”

“Don’t her dogs tell her?”

It was true, the dogs for some reason haven’t barked.

“There are several bedrooms off the ballroom,” Lorenzo whispers. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads the way. It’s been just too long since I’ve had any kind of intimate contact. Missing it, needing it, I no longer can resist him.

At another set of double wooden doors, I say to his back, “And you remember all this from long ago?”

He turns to me. “I’ve been here a few times since then for one reason or another. Break-in attempts, that sort of thing. Though nobody has ever managed to get inside this villa.”

The bedroom he chooses is frescoed in the same style as the ballroom and has a very simple wood desk with an inlaid leather blotter angled into one of the corners. There are two twin beds separated by a small mahogany night table. Facing me, he pulls off his T-shirt with a single deft movement,
revealing
his chest and a gold cross that rests on a tuft of hair. I feel desire
tightening
my stomach muscles, slightly souring my taste buds. Something inside me collapses as Lorenzo begins unbuttoning my shirt. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark shape swooping through the air and panic.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

“I saw something flying.”

“It’s probably—”

“There it is again. I think it’s a bat.”

Now Lorenzo sees it. “Ah, yes, it probably came from one of those open windows in the ballroom.”

Something dark heads toward me and I duck.

Lorenzo laughs. “Don’t worry. They won’t collide with you.” He pulls me tightly to him, runs his tongue down my neck, and then bites me gently. “But if I were you, I’d watch out for the vampires.”

As lorenzo stays late, I don’t get to sleep until well past two
A
.
M
. and manage to doze through the villa’s morning clamor: workmen, dogs baying, Carla’s operatic singing. On my way to the kitchen to make myself a café mocha, I run into Marina, who remarks, “Here you are just getting out of bed, and I’m already thinking about lunch.” She’s holding two dusty bottles of red wine pressed from her own grapes that she has just fetched from the subterranean cantina. Setting the bottles down on the kitchen counter, she says flatly, “Well, you must’ve made this
carabiniere
happy because he already has called you. I told him you were still sleeping, and he says you cannot reach him until this evening. But he left you his mobile phone number.” She frowns. “And I was thinking to myself, these mobile phones have been around for so long now that I almost forget what secret lovers used to do to be in touch. Can you even remember?”

“They waited until their spouse or their partner was out of the room and made a quick phone call.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” she says acerbically. “Or they wrote secret letters late at night and hid them until they could be posted. Before the anonymity of email.” She squints at me. “So, he was here with you in the villa last night, wasn’t he?”

I hesitate a moment, wishing I’d followed my gut instinct not to bring Lorenzo into the house. “Yes, he was. It probably wasn’t a good idea.”

Marina shakes her head. “Good or bad idea. It’s just not done. You’re my guest. It’s not correct for a guest to bring someone else in the house uninvited by me and to make love to them. Most hosts would be insulted and would ask you to leave immediately.”

Speechless, I just stare at her for a moment. “So you’re angry with me?” I finally say nervously.

Marina hesitates. “I am, and I am not. It’s not so bad because I happen to know the person you brought here, a
carabiniere
no less, who knows that I would never stoop to report him. If he were a complete stranger, however, I’d be really cross.

“But I’m trying to understand why you might be doing this to yourself. Carrying on with another married man. My concern is certainly
not moral. But rather that you would continue to choose situations that can only bring terrible unhappiness.”

I find myself absentmindedly observing a row of spices, herbs, and jars of sugar and Tuscan farro noting that all these cooking ingredients are in various languages. Finally I say, “I guess I’m afraid of long-term stability, so I just keep tying myself up in knots.”

Marina cries, “But then you confess to having a fantasy about the Frenchman leaving his wife for you!”

“Probably because I know he never would.” I advance this idea, but know deep down it’s a lie. Indeed, Marina looks at me with skepticism. A few uncomfortable moments pass. “So you heard us come in?”

“Not I. My dogs.”

“I’m really sorry. Bad judgment on my part, I admit. But I also didn’t hear any barking. If the dogs had started barking I would have sent him away.”

Marina smiles tightly. “They pace my room and whine instead.”

“You must feel like a mother monitoring her child’s activities.”

“Well, certainly I am the age to be
yours
. However, I’d prefer to think of myself as a wise older friend concerned about your well-being. Concerned, shall we say, about an incurable romanticism.”

Reaching up to grab a glass canister of ground coffee, I say, “Marina, do you really believe that falling in love with somebody should, in an ideal world, be a reasoned act?”

“Were that it
could
be. Let’s just say if at all humanly possible, love and admiration for a lover shouldn’t sway one’s better judgment. My God, don’t think for a minute that I’m immune to romantic folly. I’ve certainly committed enough of these acts of madness in my life. But let me quote Goethe to you. ‘My good young friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: Devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your lover. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make’—here I am
substituting
him
for
her
—‘him a present, only not too often—on his birthday, and such occasions.”

“Sound thinking, that.”

“Now, speaking of love, have I ever told you about the romantic history of the villa?”

“You’ve alluded to it.”

“It has to do with a love triangle.” She grins. “A different sort of love triangle than the ones you seem to get yourself involved in. Would you like to hear the story?”

I nod and say by all means.

“I’m just fixing some lunch. Rather than have it in the kitchen, let’s dine in the library.”

Marina, a brilliant half-hour chef, whips up a pasta sauce made of home-grown tomatoes, mint, and parmigiano. I bring the steaming plates into the library while she brings the wine. The library has become my favorite room in the house. With cozier dimensions, twenty-foot-high bookshelves, and comfy sofas, it certainly is the most congenial. The other main rooms are so cavernous that you feel like an interloper within some great institution or that you’re wandering through an echoing hall in a museum.

A flood of sunlight pools on one of the huge Persian area carpets, and several of the dogs are lying on their sides, basking in its warmth. Primo, the alpha, is stretched so that his stomach bows, his flanks jerking spasmodically in response to a dog dream. His black-and-white head flicks to attention as we enter, one roving eye trained on me, and then he flops down again. I sit on the ruby velvet sofa, and Marina positions herself catty-corner to me on a worsted wool armchair. The food is delicious, its flavors extraordinarily distinct, and I eat ravenously without trying to make conversation. Marina’s portion is half the size of mine, and she seems amused by how zealously I polish off my pasta.

“You really are a wolf, aren’t you?” she says, but still seems delighted by my appetite.

“This is amazing,” I tell her, but she bridles at the compliment and claims that I’m used to Americanized pasta, which tends to have too many ingredients and none of them fresh enough.

Once I finish, Marina proceeds to tell me the tale of Napoleon III’s best friend, a Dutchman named Emilien Nieuwerkerke, who, as the minister of culture, fled France when the Prussians took Paris. To escape arrest, Emilien disguised himself as a coachman and then drove three beautiful Russian princesses out of the city. Shortly thereafter, he bought the Villa Guidi and came to live here with the princesses, who actually were three generations of the same family: a grandmother, daughter, and granddaughter, each of whom, in succession, became the man’s lover. But
because there was such an age difference between Emilien and the
youngest
of the princesses, he arranged for her to be married to a titled yet impoverished Italian nobleman who agreed to live at the villa and share his wife with the older Emilien. What made the Italian willing to do this? The fact that the villa would one day be left to him and his heirs. And so, in this highly unusual arrangement, the two men and the three princesses all lived together at the villa, and when the last of them died, the property passed into Italian ownership. The extended family is now buried in the small adjacent chapel that was built two hundred years after the villa itself was completed.

“Somebody should really write this story,” I suggest.

“Actually it
has
already been written. As a novel—by Stefano, as a matter of fact.” Marina pauses and then smiles cagily. “
Emilien
is the first of his three novels, all written after he turned sixty. And I would like you to read it. Because, well, Stefano and I have discussed your helping us. We think that if you could translate some sample chapters, this will make it possible for us to find the right English or American publisher.”

Without reservation I tell Marina that I’d be happy to help however I can.

“You’re a darling,” she says, reaching over to caress my cheek just as Carla comes into the room to inform her that a workman has located a clog in one of the gutters that drain the villa’s flat tiled roof. The two women hurry away to consult over the proper way to remedy the situation.

Back in my room, I scan the bookshelves and, wedged together among all Stefano’s precious Pléiade, are his novels, whose dust jackets have a zebralike design theme that suggests some sort of trilogy. I am hardly surprised that Marina’s generosity toward me will now exact some kind of payback; this, I suppose, is as it should be. And, I reason, if I do end up doing some speculative translation work, then I will no longer be beholden to her kindness. And so, I grab hold of the novel entitled
Emilien
, gently pry it out of the bookshelf, and after reading the simple dedication to Marina, begin the first chapter.

I expect to find dense Italian wrought with imagery and literary allusion, an Italian similar to that of an Eco or a Calasso. However, I am pleasantly surprised to discover a simple, elegant style of a writer, who, at least initially, reminds me of Italo Calvino. Then again, Stefano has worked mainly as a journalist, so it stands to reason that a novel of his would be, at the very least, accessible. And yet, navigating the first hundred pages with
relative ease, I find it quite dull going. The story of Napoleon’s relationship with Emilien Nieuwerkerke and Emilien’s sexual intrigue with the three princesses (and the subsequent introduction of an Italian nobleman into the mix) sounded a lot more concise and livelier when Marina recounted it. She apparently could not recognize (or perhaps she just refused to) that Stefano’s novel does not succeed in alchemizing anecdote into drama. In fact, contrary to the narrative drive of
Conversion, Emilien
is a plodding, pastiche-like book. I wonder if perhaps Stefano was influenced by the newer European literary tradition in which psychological examination trumps plotting and characterization. I will certainly finish
Emilien
, but can understand why there has been no offer of an English-language
publication
. It’s a worry.

Yet Marina believes Stefano’s novels are brilliant. I wonder about this. I wonder if her opinion of his work has been tainted by the same “
romanticism
” that she claims has bedeviled me. But to insist that he is the greater writer of the two of them is ludicrous.
Conversion
, in comparison to
Emilien
, is consistently captivating. The narrative never stops churning, each twist of the plot expertly wrought. There are so many astonishing set pieces, moments of great hilarity illuminating what is, for the most part, a dark tale. The ending is haunting and ambiguous and, in my opinion, perfectly executed.

And though I know it’s fruitless to even consider it, I can’t help but imagine what Marina might have done with the story of Emilien—now, in light of Stefano’s attempt, forever off-limits to the scope of her lively intelligence.

I decide to give another of his novels a go. Selecting a volume from the bookshelf, I am initially relieved to find a more contemporary story. However, even to a foreigner such as myself, it’s pretty clear that he’s dealing with a rather shopworn subject: the publishing scene in Milan and, specifically, a love affair between a graphic designer and a magazine fashion editor. Once again, the novel is written in an open, accessible style. Once again, I find the reading tedious.

What will I tell Marina? How will I convey to her that in my opinion, even if I am to translate some sample chapters, that these books will have a hard time being taken on by an English-language publisher? Perhaps I should be polite and just do the work on spec and let nature take its course. Then again, Marina was honest in her assessment of my little
novella and no doubt would demand the same of me. But I worry that the truth might actually insult her and even jeopardize my welcome at the villa. After all, anyone’s generosity has its limits, especially now that it has become clear there will be some sort of expected quid pro quo.

Suddenly there is a knock on my door. At my bidding, Marina pokes her head in with a discomfited look on her face. “You have an unexpected visitor,” she says flatly.

I gape at her, wondering if it could be Lorenzo dropping by impromptu. “It’s not who you think,” she warns me. “It’s the Frenchman. He’s in the library.”

I’m mystified. “Michel?”

“Correct.”

“But, I don’t know how he—”

“I don’t either, but we can’t just leave him standing there. So do I send him away, or do I say that you’ll join him?” she asks impatiently. I hesitate, now worrying that she’ll be bothered by yet another unannounced guest. Luckily Marina adds, “Well, I don’t see that you have much choice, really, but to go and speak to him.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Without even knowing what I’m doing, I kneel down next to my bed, resting my forehead against the sheets, my heart clattering, my mouth sticky and dry.