I’d told Ed to cut many passages in which he gave what I felt was unremarkable information about where he was when he wrote a poem as well as the circumstances surrounding the genesis of that poem. But now, as I read these depictions, they strike me to be actually vital to understanding not only how the man worked, and the emotions that drove him, but probably will help scholars fathom his state of mind: his bouts with depression, his insomnia, his ongoing struggle with his creative genius, his string of failures in love. And then, of course, there is the description of his sero-conversion, which is handled magnificently. The portrayal of that highly erotic encounter is lyrical and pitiless and may even be among the most forceful passages ever written about a disease gaining its first foothold in a human body.
I’m ashamed to realize what is actually much less compelling about the book: the story of Ed’s affair with the college student that I had urged him to beef up and publish separately. Once again, outside of shifting some sentences around, he ignored my advice—luckily for him. Now the section affects me totally differently than when I first read it in Paris. It actually seems overly long and drawn out and even in some places superfluous. However, as I read further and further into the book, I keep uncovering lovely passages, filigrees of powerful insight that I seemed to have missed previously. All in all, by suggesting that he remove much of what has turned out to be important, I’ve proven myself to be a terrible editor. What was I thinking? Why was my judgment so off base? Were my instincts substantially different now because I was taking my own stab at some of the same material?
Finally I locate the place where the passages about mine and Ed’s relationship should begin. In a matter of moments I realize that they are missing. Then I check the index, scan the alphabetized list of names, and find that mine is not among them. It’s like a landscape that you have viewed so many times suddenly disappearing to become an unbending, empty horizon. How can this be? I wonder with disbelief. How did they manage to cut me out? And then I remind myself: Of course Annie Calhoun and Ed’s publishers would rid the book of any allusion to me, in case I, as a defamed living person, decided to bring a lawsuit against the estate.
Trying to remain calm, I manage to digest the last fifty pages that cover the period of his life that saw the advent of me up until a few days before he died. Someone has figured out a way to present the material while whiting out any reference to a romantic interest, much less Ed’s romantic obsession. I’d once deplored the idea of our relationship and Ed’s dissatisfaction with it being brought before the public. Now having resigned myself to it, expecting to see it, I actually feel deflated. For I know that the reader will come away from A Poet’s Life with the portrait of a man who was terribly lonely, who died struggling with his writing, and not of somebody tormented by his love for a younger man.
I have taken a week’s vacation in Tuscany, and Marina and I are on our usual morning stroll around the grounds; the summer air is so saturated with pollen that I keep sneezing. “Salute,” she says as the dogs race by us on their way to the lily pond.
I look beyond Marina toward the villa and see Carla coming out onto the loggia. Sweeping the marble tiles, she catches sight of us and salutes us with her broom. “Carla seems awfully cheerful,” I remark.
“That’s because the farmer, the man who makes our wine, is courting her very seriously. Although she says she’s too old to get married again, I do believe she enjoys his attention.”
Marina picks up a soggy stick and tosses it to her pack of dogs, who chase it, gleefully yipping.
“Speaking of courtship, what about you?” I query. Marina blushes noticeably. “Anybody on the horizon?”
She admits to having a correspondence with a Milanese man whom she’d met years ago and who will soon come to pay her a visit. “But I am not too worried or invested in what will happen. I am like my dogs in this way,” she comments. “Fine on my own, riveted to the possibilities of the present. I also have learned that the times when you are most content with your own solitude is when lovers suddenly pitch up into your path.”
“I’ll look forward to the day when that happens to me.”
She chuckles but decides to keep her opinion about this to herself. Opting—wisely, perhaps—not to press her for it, I continue walking a few paces without further commentary.
“So what are you telling me, Russell?” She turns to me at last. “There is nobody new in your life?”
“For once I can honestly say no.”
Marina grins. “I’m actually glad to hear this. And I have no doubt that it is because of this book that you are now writing.”
She knows I’ve been working steadily for months, that the desire to set things down is stronger than it has been in years. I remember the day I went to visit Victor Hugo’s house in the place des Vosges, how I grabbed the leg of his desk in desperation and prayed to be released from my obsession with Michel Soyer. Now there is no one occupying my thoughts. I am free to write my own version of my escape to Europe, my relationship with him and with Ed, and how I first came to the Villa Guidi.
“You know, Russell,” Marina continues, “there is one thing about writing a book that you can be sure of.”
“What’s that?”
“Unlike lovers, my friend, the book will never desert you.”
I, however, can desert the book, I think but do not say.
Marina has paused for a moment, leaning on her walking stick, fixing me with her pale, unnerving gaze. Her knee-high rubber boots are splattered with mud and, despite the heat, she is wearing her favorite tweed jacket. “By not being honest with you, I suppose that I am no better than some of these lovers of yours.”
“But a friend—”
“A friend should be held to an even higher standard. If we put up with a lot when we’re in love, accept lies when we know they’re lies, then our friends should always be our allies, they should always give us the truth.”
“I agree.”
“You see, I tried to protect Stefano from the truth: that nobody but I considered his work very important. Meanwhile I was the one everybody thought was accomplished. Knowing how difficult this would be for him to live with, the only thing I could do was to make him greater than myself in order to make him feel like a true husband. I tried desperately hard to do this …” Her voice breaks. “I failed miserably!” Pausing for a moment to collect herself, she touches me on the shoulder. “And then … I guess I believed you were our last hope. I thought you really could help us.” She grabs my arm for emphasis. “But, Russell, I only came to that after I invited you to stay here. And in the end I was too embarrassed and felt I couldn’t let you know everything.”
I decide to be gracious and refrain from telling her that I’d figured much of this out quite some time ago. “Thank you, Marina,” I say. “And now that we’re on apologies, I have one to make to you.”
Marina begins frowning.
“For not listening.”
She laughs. “How could you listen to me after all? I was so insistent about everything.”
“Well, for one thing, I should not have gone back to Paris.”
“Ah, yes, but you didn’t stay in Paris. You realized what it was all about and then you went to New York.”
“Luckily, the job—”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t take that job, that the Frenchman would dissuade you from taking it. But when you did, I knew that you were going to be fine.”
“And then, of course, Ed’s manuscript. I should have sent that back just as you instructed me to. It was wrong for me to hold on to it.”
Marina hesitates and then says, “Well, I’ve thought about this a lot myself. And I finally decided that you needed to hold on to it.”
We enter a row of plane trees and she looks up into the tall matrix of branches, eyes blinking with rapid thoughts going on behind them. “I’ve been meaning to say I think A Poet’s Life is a horrible title. What is your opinion of it?”
“It’s not so bad
. What would be better?”
Marina smiles. “How does the title Unrequited Love sound in English?”
I consider for a moment. “I think it’s a bad title in English. In Italian it probably sounds better because of the word order: Amore Non Richiesto.”
Marina shakes her head. “It doesn’t, actually. It’s wrong for the Italian, too. In fact, it sounds really ugly. Doesn’t it sound ugly to you?”
“Honestly? No.”
“Then again, I suppose the title is a good reflection of what the book is about.”
I stop walking and look at her. “Hardly! Everything about me was taken out.”
She laughs. “Russell, please, you’re not the only person this man lost his head over. If you read this book it shows the unfortunate pattern of his romantic life.”
“But, wait, so then you’ve read it, too?” Marina nods her head slowly. “You told me you’d never read it.”
“Sometimes, Russell, I can be a hypocrite. But I have read this book. Rizzoli sent me an early copy in the mail. The translation will soon be available here with this horrible Amore Non Richiesto title that you seem to like.”
“What do I know?”
Soon the pack of dogs rush by us. Marina turns to pat Primo, the black-and-white one she calls “the beneficent father,” as we make the final turn back toward the villa.
The Italian version of Ed’s book is lying on the dining table. The same picture of him on the Accademia Bridge glares back at me, but the photo has a sepia tint; it’s more tasteful than the American edition. Amore Non Richiesto.
I pick it up and flip through the pages. “I guess you’re right,” I say. “The title’s not so great.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m Italian!”
“I forgot to mention to you that I got a letter from the Italians, from Rizzoli asking me to sign a form to indemnify them.”
“Oh, really?”
“They must’ve heard that I ended up with the manuscript and were just covering themselves.”
“May I have the book now, please?” Marina says. I hand it to her. Holding it against her chest, she asks with her old imperious tone, “This waiver you signed, Russell. How carefully did you read it?”
“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.
Copyright
Arcadia Books Ltd
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First published in the United States by St Martin’s Press 2008
First published in the United Kingdom by Arcadia Books 2008
B format edition published 2009
Copyright © Joseph Olshan 2008
Joseph Olshan has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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ISBN 978–1–909807–19–8
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The Conversion Page 23