The Conversion (13 page)

Marina suddenly becomes very tender. “I just wish you’d live your life apart from all this nonsense involving this celebrated poet’s memoir. Look at my Stefano, also a true writer. But unlike your late friend, he shuns the limelight to live almost entirely in his thoughts. He has published three beautiful novels written in magnificent Italian. And yet no American or British publisher will touch them. Why? Because they don’t hear of him. He’s not a recognizable name. Not a Roberto Calasso, or an Umberto Eco. But both Calasso and Eco have come here to the villa to listen to him. They know Stefano is a great thinker. And I will tell you honestly, as much as my novel
Conversion
was a success all over the world and especially in your country, it is not up to the quality of Stefano’s work.”

I wonder if Marina is being disingenuous and tell her point-blank that I doubt her modesty. She surprises me not by becoming annoyed but by sounding even more disconcerted.

“I am telling you what I believe to be true, my friend. In every part of our conversation, I try to be as truthful as possible. Beyond this, I despise false modesty. It is even worse than arrogance.”

“It
is
arrogance,” I suggest.

She nods. “Yes, you are right. Bravo, Russell. Now, we both know I have plenty of arrogance to go around.”

Marina finally stands up, crosses the room again, and sits down on the velvet sofa next to the vase of flowers and bids me to come and sit near her.

“And I’ll tell you another story to illustrate my point. When
Conversion
was nominated for the Strega Prize—the same year Moravia was nominated, by the way—Stefano and I went to Rome for the dinner where the winner would be announced.” For some reason she suddenly switches to English. “And I was the black horse … is that how you say it?”

“
Dark
horse.”

Back to Italian. “Ah, yes, I must remember that one. Anyway, nobody expected me to win. And here I must make you understand the
logos
of Italian literary awards. They are not so … shall we say ‘democratic’ as they are in America. Often it leaks out who the winner is beforehand. And, in some cases, the winner has been known to be fixed by secret negotiations between the judges. In this instance Moravia was apparently told by someone he trusts that he was going to win the Strega that year and only traveled to Rome because he expected to do so. So when
my
name was announced, he just got up and stormed out in a rage without even congratulating me.”

“That’s shameful,” I say.

“But not my point. I don’t mean to scorn Moravia, not at all. Why I’m telling you this story is this: When my name was announced, Stefano turned to me and said, ‘Marina, this is too much, don’t you think?’And in this case it was not his jealousy speaking. I knew he was happy for me. For we both knew that my winning the Strega would mean that for the rest of my life my books would be published in Italy without hesitation and taken at least as seriously as they should be, no more, no less. And that this was the most a writer could ever hope for. But Stefano also felt that my book was good but not
great
. In his estimation, Moravia’s book was better and probably should have won the Strega. And I agreed with him then—and I agree with him now.”

I object, “You can’t judge your own work. And Stefano is probably too close himself to judge it, too.” And also probably too jealous to judge it fairly, I think but do not say. “Maybe your peers genuinely thought your book was the best of the lot.”

Marina shrugs. “I suppose I am a cynic—”

“Suppose?” I interrupt sarcastically.

“I suppose the likelihood was they wanted to cut down Moravia. There were more women voters, and even though I don’t think it’s at all true,
many believed Moravia treated his wife, Elsa Morante, shabbily. And so, I was in the right place at the right time. I had a stroke of luck that got me a prize and gave a great boost to my career. It could’ve happened to the next nominee just as easily. I accepted the honor graciously; I thanked everybody involved and was home at my hotel within a half hour. Stefano remained at the awards dinner with all his literary friends and got drunk and stayed up all night, celebrating my good fortune.”

Several moments pass, and the dogs, from some far place on the villa’s property, begin an earnest baying. “May I ask you who you believe is the greatest living American writer?” Marina asks at last.

“There are many candidates,” I respond. “But I guess I’d have to say Philip Roth.”

She smiles. “I love him. A great mind. I hear from a friend that Roth has a bad back and that the constant pain actually, though terribly
aggravating
, inspires him. Which makes sense. And I adore Updike, too, his elegant prose. And of course, the greatest narrative writer in America today is, in my opinion, John Irving.”

“No women?” I ask.

Marina grimaces. “Sorry, you must realize by now that I am not a feminist.” She reflects for a moment. “But maybe there is somebody right now in America, somebody like yourself working in obscurity who, in one hundred years, will emerge as the great one. Maybe the books of Updike and Roth will still be widely read, but people will come to find their work no more relevant than this unknown person writing a great novel in a garret or even a villa somewhere in total obscurity. It’s anybody’s guess who or what might be considered great a hundred years from now. And so, my friend, I beg you to leave off this concern with the final work of a dead writer and focus instead on what
you
, as a living writer, plan to do next.”

Master club is quite crowded, but Lorenzo has not yet arrived. Approaching the sign-in desk, I inquire about temporary memberships. A thin, overly tan woman looks at me appraisingly and then says, “Are you Lorenzo’s friend, the American?”

I tell her I am and she informs me that he has arranged for me to have a two-week guest pass. How kind of him.

While giving me a lift, Marina ended up teasing me about working out and told me that as well as my body, I should exercise my brain by
learning
Latin, which would certainly help my Italian. Now, as I go to get changed, I wish I’d informed her how I maintain a jaded attitude toward gym culture and that the routines and the attitudes are hardly different between Europe and America. There is the same feeling of competition, the same rampant narcissism, the same faux macho, the same cliquishness.

The one noticeable difference between Italian and American gyms is that Italian men are far more openly affectionate with one another. An Italian man might, for example, rest an arm on a friend’s shoulder during a conversation, his head mere inches away from the other person—all in all, more intimate than two Americans who have a similar rapport. An unschooled American might even wonder if the two Italians are lovers. In America I notice that people tend to keep a much greater physical distance from one another. And of course all Italians double-kiss hello.

Once when I was spending a few months doing English translations for an American art foundation in Venice, I went to a gym and found myself standing in the shower talking to a sexy built blond man whose grin was dazzled by a few gold teeth. He was explaining how he made his living as a boatman, ferrying goods into Venice through the lagoons and canals. At one point I asked if I could borrow some soap. He shrugged and held up an empty plastic container of body wash. He then scooped some of the lather off himself, approached me, and rubbed it on my chest, my shoulders, my arms, and my back in the most caring, affectionate way. There wasn’t a hint of sexuality to his gesture, just his casual response. I was stunned. I felt that no American stranger would dare such an intimate gesture without some sort of sexual motivation.

I’ve changed into workout clothes by the time Lorenzo arrives—out of uniform, dressed in a black T-shirt and snug faded blue jeans. He smiles coolly at me and invites me to accompany him into the locker room. Afraid that I might get turned on, I tell him I’d rather meet in the gym, that I need to do some stretching. I think I may have offended him, because once he emerges in his workout clothes, he ignores me and begins weight training with two other people.

I do a quick weight workout. Finishing before Lorenzo, worrying about having to shower at the same time, I return to the locker room, undress, and enter one of the shower stalls. Moments later, much to my embarrassment, he appears naked and enters the stall opposite me. He soaps his body generously, seeming very confident and relaxed. I try not to glance at him but can’t help noticing that the dusting of hair on his chest weaves a train down his ribbed stomach. From time to time, I also feel his eyes appraising me. The obvious scrutiny is stirring and I try not to let it visibly affect me.

Once we get dressed and are standing outside the establishment, I boldly say, “Ever think of doing porno? You certainly have the physique for it.”

He looks horrified. “Are you crazy?”

He then asks how I arrived at the gym and I explain that Marina dropped me off. The villa is a mere two kilometers away, and I’d planned to walk home.

“You don’t need to,” Lorenzo says, “if you don’t mind riding,” and points to a black Ducati motorcycle.

“No big surprise,” I say aloud in English.

“
Cosa
?” he says. “What did you say?”

“
Niente
. Nothing.”

“But before I take you home, would you like to ride out to Torre del Lago? I’ve even brought along another helmet and jacket.”

“Would that mean going on the
autostrada?
”

“Yes, it would.”

“I make it a rule not to ride on
autostrade.
”

“Why? It’s no less safe than a surface road. And a lot less dangerous because you don’t have these foolish people cutting in from different directions. Trust me, I know. I am a
carabiniere
.”

“One mishap at highway speed and I’m toast.” I try to translate this idiom literally.

“I’ve ridden for fifteen years with only one small incident not even worth mentioning. Not to say there isn’t, of course, a first time. I have ridden with many people behind me. My wife, for example, goes with me always. And so do my two children. I would never take them if I didn’t feel completely safe.”

“I’m sure I weigh a lot more than your wife or your children, so there is a lot more …” I can’t think of the Italian word for
displacement
.

Lorenzo catches the drift. “Now, this I will not dispute,” he says.

I finally relent. “Okay, let’s just go.” Lorenzo asks me if I am certain and I nod that I am.

“I will want to be telling you things,” he informs me as I don the extra helmet and leather jacket and climb on the motorcycle behind him. “So make sure you put your chin on my shoulder so you can hear me. When I go in one direction, just look in that direction and don’t, by God, lean that way and don’t take your feet off the pegs.”

Exactly the same things Michel said to me the first time I rode behind him.

Another man, another motorcycle, another country. But it feels the same somehow, the wind blasting my face, the oil smells of city and road, and the bittersweet smell of farmland and vineyards, all chased with
nervous
exhilaration. There is very little distance between where the gym is and A-11, the superhighway that runs to Torre del Lago. After the initial acceleration, my dread falls away and I begin to relax. The old riding euphoria returns. But instead of the Parisian metropolis, deco buildings and wide boulevards and amber light, I am hurtling through coastal Tuscany, drenched in marine air buffeting in from the Ligurian Sea.

As we rocket toward Torre del Lago, Lorenzo manages to point out the impressive twelfth-century castle of Nozzano, its now-ruined lookout towers once having guarded the region against the Pisani. The hillsides are dotted with villas, some of them fortified with surrounding walls and turrets. In the remnants of marble quarries that have eaten into hillsides I can glimpse the access paths stomped out by the mules that ferried rock to and from the stone hives. Silvery groves of olive trees, three months from harvesting, finally feather back to a fertile plain that runs toward the sea, ending in stands of umbrella pines, which in Italian have the very euphonious-sounding name
pini marittimi
.

Lorenzo brings me to a seaside restaurant shack built right in the dunes. The place is run by his family friends, who make a great
commotion
when we come in the door. Elbowing me, he introduces, “My American friend, a journalist writing an article about the region.” A
sloe-eyed
teenaged girl working at the restaurant says smartly, “He doesn’t look like it,” assuming that I don’t speak Italian.

“Oh, really?” I say. “And what exactly
do
I look like? A rhinoceros?”

She is stunned to know that I have understood her, and the
restaurateurs
burst into uproarious laughter.

We earmark a small table where we can speak confidentially. Although Lorenzo claims he’s not particularly hungry, he ends up ordering a fish course that becomes one of those endless Italian seafood antipasti: scallops followed by mussels followed by sautéed tiny squid called
totanini
followed by three other small but delicious crustacean courses.

“They all know your wife?” I say during the second course.

He nods, but then frowns. “Is there a problem with that?” I shake my head and fall silent.

He looks concerned. “No, really, tell me. I want to understand.”

“It’s just different in America,” I say.

“How? How is it different in
America
.”

“It’s not often that two male
friends
ride behind one another on a motorcycle.”

“And why is this?”

I decide to be bold. “Just something that is done by men and women who are usually a couple. Or two men who are together. Or two women.”

Lorenzo frowns and seems genuinely bewildered by my explanation. “So, you are saying if you and I went riding in America, they would assume I was gay?”

Suddenly nervous that both Marina and I might have misread his signals altogether, I blurt out, “I don’t know what they’d assume. Forget it. Closed.”

“Don’t presume!” Lorenzo suddenly sounds peevish. I say nothing, wishing we could get past the awkwardness. “They would never think that about me,” he resumes. “I am happily married with two children,” he tells me discreetly after a conspicuous pause.

I force myself to say, “So then what’s going on here? Just a friendly motorcycle ride to the sea?”

Lorenzo leans forward and surprises me by saying within possible earshot of the restaurant owners, “What I’m saying doesn’t mean that I don’t want you, too.”

Now more assured of where this all might be heading, I say, “Well, your intentions are hard to read.”

“Wait a few minutes, will you please?” He is up and swaggering in a clomp of motorcycle boots toward the restaurant owners. I can’t help noticing how his legs completely fill out his jeans. He chats with them briefly, then embraces them. Once they bid me a gracious good-bye, I follow him outside the restaurant over to the motorcycle. Picking up his helmet and giving me mine he says, “So … what’s to finish?”

Donning the riding jacket, I ask, “I’d like to know if your wife is aware that you’d play around with somebody like me.”

He jams his helmet down over his head, begins fastening the chin strap. “No. Of course she doesn’t know.”

“Nothing at all? Not even that—”

“Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.”

So Marina was right that Lorenzo might be even more closeted than Michel. Lorenzo suddenly appears impatient. He closes the plastic face shield and his next words are muffled by it. “So are we going?”

I hold my ground. “But isn’t keeping this secret difficult? Especially over time?”

Lorenzo falls silent for a moment and I see the sadness my question provokes and how it also manages to dissolve his impatience. He throws open the face shield. “Of course it is,” he admits, suddenly docile. “I’ve even been to a doctor. To try and change it. To get it out of my system.”

“You mean, to a psychiatrist?”

He nods.

I tell him that in the United States it’s now considered absurd,
pointless
, even shameful in some quarters, to try to reprogram oneself.

“Well, because there you can at least live openly. In Italy you really can’t live as you do in America, especially if you have a job like mine. I’ve even confessed to my priest,” Lorenzo goes on. “Finally. Two years ago I broke down and told him. And since then he and I have prayed. And he has prayed alone for my conversion as well.”

A wheel-spinning waste of time, I think but obviously do not say.

Before following the
autostrada
back to the Villa Guidi, Lorenzo and I take a swing along the beach area. Outdoor restaurants with glass fronts are sandwiched side by side, one after another, and swarm with tourists
dressed in ostentatious colors wearing lots of gold jewelry. “Milanese bourgeois,” he comments over his shoulder. I keep glancing toward the sea, hoping to see glints of water, but the tall dunes and the inkblotlike umbrella pines block the view.

We finally turn off down a quieter road lined with two- and
three-story
residences, driving slowly so that it becomes quite easy for me to hear Lorenzo when he speaks to me. Dusk is falling and I see a line of parked cars, all with their headlamps on. Beyond them a tall woman with an amazing figure saunters along with an exaggerated yet rhythmic gait, her matching gold lamé halter and shorts catching the last rays of daylight.

“That’s a transsexual,” Lorenzo informs me. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

I say nothing because I am flabbergasted. The outfit, the figure, and especially her dreamy, sauntering gait are all eerily familiar. I tell Lorenzo she resembles somebody I once saw in Paris.

He continues, “A lot of men complain that there are nowadays so few female prostitutes in Italy. But that doesn’t seem to stop them, either. All these cars, they are watching the trans. They are her fans. Like fans of an opera diva waiting outside the stage door to throw their roses at the great talent. All of them are probably married with children. I happen to know that this one lives in one of these apartments by the sea. My colleague, Paolo, visits her quite often. He says she is a wonderful fuck and that her rent is paid by a wealthy Milanese man who sees her when he can. That for the pleasure of her company you must call and make an appointment with her service. However, few or none of these guys who are waiting to see her now would ever make love to another man.”

“But they all know her story, right?”

“Of course. They would not admit it, but they like trans even better than they like women.”

I force myself to say, “Do
you
like trans?” the way I once asked Michel.

Lorenzo shakes his head and says, “No, I like men to be men.”

A bit more secure about Lorenzo’s intentions toward me, I squeeze my knees against him and put my lips on the back of his neck and breathe in the scent of sun-toasted skin. He shudders—with pleasure, it seems.

The motorcycle moseys on a half block or so, and then Lorenzo throws the gear into neutral, brakes to a halt, and anchors both legs on the pavement. He turns around, raises his helmet, and, wagging a gloved finger, says, “I bet you must’ve had her, this trans you know from Paris?”

“No, I actually didn’t.”

He grins mischievously, his lovely eyes twinkling. “I don’t believe you.”

And then I explain that she’d been involved with my former lover in a brief affair that ended when I came on the scene.