The Conversion (22 page)

“I think I read all of it. Why?”

She grimaces. “You probably missed the fine print.”

Nervous now, I say, “What are you talking about?”

“Rizzoli, apparently, was given the original manuscript
before
the Americans made their final edits.” She turns to the index, flips a few pages, and then points to a name. “See … here you are.”

Todaro, Russell, 275–320.

I grab the book and quickly find page 275, where Ed begins describing his disenchantment with me. After a few minutes I recite to Marina,
“Il fatto è che è talmente preso dal suo Francese che sarebbe capace di fare qualunque cosa. Darebbe la vita per amore. Ecco perchè non scriverà mai niente di buono.”
Then I translate, “He’s so possessed by his passion for his Frenchman, he’d do anything. He’d give his life over to love. That’s why he’ll never write anything good.”

I remember reading this for the first time in Stefano’s old room. I felt so betrayed. I close the book and put it back on the table. “This really hurts me,” I tell Marina. “It’s as though in Italian Ed’s words have been changed into something more forceful, something more emotionally true, something more beautiful.”

“You idolize Italian,” she points out. “In some way Italian is more real to you than English.”

Could this really be why Ed’s disapproval has taken on a sharper edge, wounding me unexpectedly? Or is it just that his opinion of my ability will always matter? I’m about to tell Marina how disturbing this is when a clatter of silverware in the kitchen alerts me that Carla is preparing the mint and tomato pasta she has promised me because she knows how much I love it. The sounds of domesticity silence my cry, words and
recollections
suddenly flooding forward, begging to reveal the story of my conversion.