Today I have received two letters: one from the executrix and the other from Ed’s New York lawyer, with whom I’d once had dinner in Paris. Annie informs me that she has failed to locate a copy of Ed’s “work-in-progress” in the pile of mail left at his rented house in the Berkshires. The letter concludes, “After our last conversation I remain unconvinced that you are completely in the dark as to where a copy of this manuscript might be. And thus I urge you either to get your hands on it or to come up with a more tolerable explanation as to why it’s impossible for you to locate something that Ed was working on when he died.”
Quite right. Annie, after all, is no fool.
The lawyer’s letter is a shocker. He informs me that two months before he died, Ed, in front of a Parisian attorney, made a change on his life-insurance policy and had named me as the new beneficiary. The letter goes on to say that the manner of how the change was made still needs to be investigated in order to make sure that it was done with “American legality.” If proper procedures were indeed followed, I will receive the benefit of $150,000, independent of probate.
Good news for somebody who lives on a modest income, and of course I can’t help but be gratefully shocked. But I also realize that this bequest is only going to make things more complicated for the simple reason that before this change was made, Annie Calhoun (I’m almost certain) had been the life-insurance policy’s beneficiary.
I can even imagine that Ed had a premonition of his own death and wanted to place a few wild balls in play in order to force his friends to engage in a scrambling endgame. Yes, he might have complained to me about Annie, but surely she deserved to reap some financial reward for her thirty years of dedication and support—especially since Ed had no real money to speak of to leave anybody. Annie had been his sounding board, a comfort to him when the student lover died or, for that matter, when any of his love affairs went south. So then why had Ed switched his insurance policy to name me?
I can only come up with one reason, flimsy at best: His decision was motivated by guilt for having lied to me and meddled in my affairs with Michel. So I don’t know how I feel about this gift, if I should allow myself to receive this money, or if I even want it. But then I have to ask myself, would I take this money, turn around and give it to the person who really deserves it, much less donate it to some charitable organization? Probably not. And so I allow myself just one fantasy: of being able to return to New York City with solvency and give up my far-flung Gravesend flat in Brooklyn for an apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
What concerns me now: Does Annie already know about his last-minute change of heart? I try to imagine the reverberating insult of having Ed disregard their thirty-year-old allegiance for a man he’d known for merely a year.
It would have to deeply stain her attitude toward me.
I return to Annie’s letter and reread it. It is officiously turned out, completely correct in its tone; in short, there is nothing that immediately belies any outrage or resentment.
Disconcerted and confused, I leave my room with the idea of finding Marina and telling all. Hands clasped around a vase full of freshly cut chrysanthemums, she’s standing in the library, a room substantially warmer in décor than the gilded formal dining room. The library is the only public room in the villa whose walls are wood paneled rather than stucco. The bookshelves are twenty feet high, there are comfortable wingback chairs for reading, and the sofa is upholstered in ruby-red velvet. Marina sets down the flowers and then goes to one of the bookshelves where she removes a gargantuan hardcover that appears to be some kind of Latin reference book; she places it on the table next to the vase. Here is where I interrupt to tell her about the letters I’ve just received.
She brightens and claps her hands together. “Cazzo, Russell, what a good turn for you.”
“Well, after knowing how unfulfilled he was, I can’t imagine why he’d be so generous.”
Marina smiles sagaciously. “Maybe he thought you needed it more than this other lady. But we might also consider that he figured that if and when you actually did leave him, he’d easily be able to change the name of the beneficiary yet again.” She pauses for a moment and then says, “Who knows? Perhaps he intended to hold this over your head, to let you know how generous he could be so you’d think twice before rejecting him and moving on to somebody else. People will do this to seize power in a love affair, to make the other person behave as they wish them to.”
A very cynical, downgrading assessment, which, I must admit, does sound plausible. As I have yet to tell Marina about Ed’s interfering with Michel and lying about my health, it makes me wonder if she has something personal against Ed that I am unaware of.
“Permit me to change the subject for a moment.” She leads me across the room to an antique writing desk with a leather top upon which a coffee-table book of notable Italian villas has been opened to a photo of the Villa Guidi. She flips the page to a picture of herself perched at this very same writing desk holding a marked-up work-in-progress, a pair of elegant metal reading glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “Look at me here,” she says mockingly. “Don’t I look virtuously literary? So posed … and so fake?” she emphasizes. “I can’t believe the people who did the picture book convinced me to sit like this in such a pose.”
“Why not?” Admiring the desk, I tell her that it must be a lovely place to work.
“But I never do … use this desk. It’s too grand for me. I actually only write in bed.”
“Seriously?”
“Surrounded by all my dog angels. This lady has strange work habits. And I write so little each day. I get distracted by everything that happens here. By the weddings, by the faxes for the weddings, by coordinating the caterers for the weddings, by the dogs and their petty dramas—their wounds, their illnesses, their disappearances, and their reappearances. I even get distracted by my television and so many old American movies, which are my favorite films of all. I try to do some work early in the morning. But it’s not so easy. And I find that as I get older it becomes more and more difficult to finish a book.”
“Yes, but you do finish them,” I point out. “However erratic and inefficient your method, you’ve been publishing a book every three years or so.”
“Yes, I suppose this is also true. But now I need to tell you that I have come to a conclusion.” She pauses for effect. “That your deceased friend, God rest his soul, was keeping—and is still keeping—you from doing your own work.”
“Maybe I don’t want to do my own work,” I say. “Maybe that’s why I hold on to his … have you even considered that?”
Marina laughs. “Of course. To deliberately sidetrack yourself.”
Both Marina and Ed, despite their assurances to the contrary, have during difficult times been able to hunker down and cleave to their work; whereas I, under any sort of duress, find myself cast adrift, unable to moor myself in a creative ritual.
Marina continues, “The problem with having some money will be that, if you choose, you can become even more sidetracked by this unfinished manuscript that you keep worrying about. And the more these demands and communications arrive, the more distracted you will become.”
“That’s a point,” I concede.
“Why not get back to your own thoughts and your own fantasies?”
“And if there are none?”
“I don’t believe you. You didn’t just dry up.”
I shake my head. “Neither you nor Ed understands that some people may not have more than one book in them.”
Marina smiles winningly. “This is true; I know that you’re afraid that you don’t have more than one book in you. But I can tell you that I believe that you do, and now is the time to get on with building a body of your own work. Fifteen years from now, you’ll be older and less ambitious and less hungry.” Marina sits down in front of the picture book of Italian villas, leans back in her chair, and finally glances up at me. “I feel you should just send the manuscript ba
ck to those vultures and be done with it once and for all.”
“But how can I do that? Knowing that he didn’t want it published until it was finished?”
Marina rolls her eyes with impatience. “You’re being dishonest, Russell. You can’t possibly be worried about his reputation. His final work isn’t up to his usual standards? So what? Haven’t you heard the adage that a literary reputation is hard to tarnish?”
Churning and upset, I begin pacing the room in front of her. I continue in English. “Okay, then, I don’t want it published because of all his criticisms of me—of my so-called vanity and my coldness and the fact that I was only with him because he was a well-known writer and I wanted to draft off his success to help myself. That I’m some kind of user.” Then I go on to elaborate Ed’s description of his machinations to keep Michel and me apart, his lying confession to Michel that he’d infected me without explaining (in his own narrative) that what he said was actually untrue. All of this I would hate to be read by the public.
Marina looks startled, and yet she says, “Why not? Yes, I understand how upsetting it is. But I also must say this is the risk one takes when one gets involved with a working author. Being written about, being complained about, being distorted—and it all begins innocently with the subject’s self-serving daydream of inspiring the writer’s work, their, shall I say, lyric.” She grins. “Don’t tell me you didn’t imagine this!”
“Not consciously,” I try to defend myself.
“Oh, come on! Look at that beautiful poem he wrote about Venice. One could only assume that he was writing about you. And the result? You’ve inspired literature. It is probably one of the greatest foreigner’s poems about a city that has been written about ad infinitum. Perhaps no other Anglo has ever written so well about Venice except for the great Ruskin. Not even my darling Henry James.”
Hesitating a moment, I say, “Funny, Ed happened to mention you think James didn’t really understand the Italian temperament.”
“Caro mio!” Marina exclaims. “I would never say that James didn’t understand Italians. I probably said that his understanding of Italians was perhaps hardly as profound as some other European writers, such as … well, Stendhal, for instance. James’s forte, after all, was writing about Americans in Europe, including those who lived in Italy. His Italians are, shall we say, his lesser creations.”
We both fall ruminatively silent. “How about this,” Marina says at last. “Send the book back to Annie Calhoun. Tell her when and where he lies and fabricates. And while you’re at it, send them a doctor’s report to negate his telling that you have the infection he claims you have and also to prove that he has lied at least once in his own memoir. Then let his longtime editors figure out how to publish the material.”
“But why would they care if he lies? They only care about what he wrote.”
“You’re a living person whose reputation can be damaged. If you contact them to say something isn’t true and argue that it would hurt you if it was published without at least acknowledging that the writer lies, then you will have grounds for a lawsuit.”
“I would never trust Annie Calhoun to set things straight. Especially now that she’s been taken off the insurance policy.”
Marina looks at me with disapproval. “Not only did the man hinder you in life, he is now hindering you in death. Don’t misunderstand. I think his death is a pity. But I have come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a good thing for you to be with him. And nothing to do with his illness, either!” she emphasizes. “If, as you say, he was concerned that you were with him for his literary connections, it just proves my point that he was addicted to celebrity and fame. Probably he would have ultimately been too selfish to truly help the career of the person closest to him.”
“That’s absolutely untrue,” I argue. “He loved me. It was only sexual jealousy that compelled him to misbehave.”
“That’s no excuse at all!”
“But I know if I’d stayed with him, he would’ve helped my career. He always said he wanted to.”
Marina doesn’t respond at first. Finally, skeptically, she says, “Then you should believe what your instinct tells you. My point here is that celebrity is known to distort and corrupt common values. It is far better for actors and politicians and maybe even contemporary painters, but it’s not what a true writer should be about. I’ll tell you a little story. When they were making the movie version of The Portrait of a Lady, they filmed it here in the region. And an American producer actually called and asked me to let him film the interiors of the Palazzo Roccanera here at the Villa Guidi—because of the large rooms. I asked how much they would pay and this man—who sounded intelligent, mind you—explained that it was an independent production. He said they didn’t have a great deal of money and assured me that my villa was their first choice because of the size of the rooms. If I allowed them to make their film for a payment that turned out to be next to nothing, it would give us—the villa, he meant—a lot more prestige. I was shocked at his incredible stupidity, his audacity. And do you know what I told him? Very politely I said, ‘No, thanks. We already have enough prestige in this house.’”
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 hesitatio
n 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.
The Conversion Page 13