Read Online The Conversion by Joseph Olshan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Olshan
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men who carry the virus bloom with robust health. I suppose you could call this a kind of feverish beauty, the final attainment of physical perfection before the gradual decline.
She is visibly stirred by what I’ve just told her. Her pale eyes give the impression that she is deep in thought. At last she says, “Like one of my roses so perfect and seemingly so alive right before the petals begin to droop and drop. You do make it sound mysterious, Russell.”
“I guess it is kind of mysterious.”
“You might consider writing about it someday.”
It’s been so long since I’ve done any writing, and although I’ve not mentioned it, Marina seems to be aware. In the throes of Michel I eventually stopped trying to set things down on paper. Then, living with Ed, it was easier to focus on his work instead. Writing about the priest, how would I even approach it? I wonder aloud.
Marina raises her right hand, as though to swear by her words. “If you’d only begin, it would become an act of discovery.”
Her attention is suddenly distracted by something she sees at the villa. “Ah,” she says. “There’s Stefano. We’re getting a rare view of him.” I can just barely make out a man dressed in a bathrobe with long, straggly gray hair standing at a downstairs window at the far right corner of the building . “He is taking a break.” Gazing toward her husband, Marina breaks into a fond, beatific smile.
Stefano is staring back at us inquisitively but makes no gesture of salutation. A moment later he has vanished.
Marina suddenly seems to grow agitated. I can see her inadvertently chewing the inside of her cheek. I wait to see how this change of mood will manifest itself. Taking a deep breath, she continues, “Stefano writes many things that are unpopular. He has a remarkable intelligence that can take a premise and argue all its different angles with marvelous conviction. Even though he has written novels as I have, this sort of persuasive facility may actually be his strongest suit. He would never admit to this, by the way,” she informs me with a pinched smile. She suddenly appears uncertain , and now I’m sure something is bothering her. “He has, for example, written about the problems of Muslims who are living in Italy. And because of his articles he has made many enemies.”
I’m remembering the roadblock near Ventimiglia, which, according to Marina, was established to help screen for foreign terrorists who might be entering Italy. At the time Marina had mentioned that, unfortunately, people of darker complexions tended to be stopped more often; in fact, many became detainees because it was discovered that they were entering without visas. “Does Stefano think they should not be allowed to wear religious garb in schools?”
“Good God, no. He has written more about how we can protect ourselves from … shall we call them ‘home-grown terrorists.’”
“This is what you wanted to talk to me about,” I fill in.
She nods. “Precisely.” A cacophony of church bells in the nearby city intercedes for a few moments. Finally, Marina says, “About the men who broke into your hotel room.”
“What about them?” I say, feeling a sudden chill. When I inwardly replay the strange nocturnal episode, the invasion takes on the quality of heat waves visibly waffling into the air above a blistering roadway, the surrealist memory of men leaping through the French doors, of waking to their acrid smell and their jerky fumblings and their gruff orders, to the outrageous semiautomatic gun and the gutting knife. To Ed’s reckless outrage and then the intruders’ sudden inexplicable disappearance.
“I know this might sound very strange to you, maybe even James Bondian,”Marina continues. “However, my friend who works in the Italian intelligence office believes they might have been looking for
my
room.”
“
Your
room?”
She shrugs. “That is correct.”
“To attack
you?
”
“Not
She is visibly stirred by what I’ve just told her. Her pale eyes give the impression that she is deep in thought. At last she says, “Like one of my roses so perfect and seemingly so alive right before the petals begin to droop and drop. You do make it sound mysterious, Russell.”
“I guess it is kind of mysterious.”
“You might consider writing about it someday.”
It’s been so long since I’ve done any writing, and although I’ve not mentioned it, Marina seems to be aware. In the throes of Michel I eventually stopped trying to set things down on paper. Then, living with Ed, it was easier to focus on his work instead. Writing about the priest, how would I even approach it? I wonder aloud.
Marina raises her right hand, as though to swear by her words. “If you’d only begin, it would become an act of discovery.”
Her attention is suddenly distracted by something she sees at the villa. “Ah,” she says. “There’s Stefano. We’re getting a rare view of him.” I can just barely make out a man dressed in a bathrobe with long, straggly gray hair standing at a downstairs window at the far right corner of the building . “He is taking a break.” Gazing toward her husband, Marina breaks into a fond, beatific smile.
Stefano is staring back at us inquisitively but makes no gesture of salutation. A moment later he has vanished.
Marina suddenly seems to grow agitated. I can see her inadvertently chewing the inside of her cheek. I wait to see how this change of mood will manifest itself. Taking a deep breath, she continues, “Stefano writes many things that are unpopular. He has a remarkable intelligence that can take a premise and argue all its different angles with marvelous conviction. Even though he has written novels as I have, this sort of persuasive facility may actually be his strongest suit. He would never admit to this, by the way,” she informs me with a pinched smile. She suddenly appears uncertain , and now I’m sure something is bothering her. “He has, for example, written about the problems of Muslims who are living in Italy. And because of his articles he has made many enemies.”
I’m remembering the roadblock near Ventimiglia, which, according to Marina, was established to help screen for foreign terrorists who might be entering Italy. At the time Marina had mentioned that, unfortunately, people of darker complexions tended to be stopped more often; in fact, many became detainees because it was discovered that they were entering without visas. “Does Stefano think they should not be allowed to wear religious garb in schools?”
“Good God, no. He has written more about how we can protect ourselves from … shall we call them ‘home-grown terrorists.’”
“This is what you wanted to talk to me about,” I fill in.
She nods. “Precisely.” A cacophony of church bells in the nearby city intercedes for a few moments. Finally, Marina says, “About the men who broke into your hotel room.”
“What about them?” I say, feeling a sudden chill. When I inwardly replay the strange nocturnal episode, the invasion takes on the quality of heat waves visibly waffling into the air above a blistering roadway, the surrealist memory of men leaping through the French doors, of waking to their acrid smell and their jerky fumblings and their gruff orders, to the outrageous semiautomatic gun and the gutting knife. To Ed’s reckless outrage and then the intruders’ sudden inexplicable disappearance.
“I know this might sound very strange to you, maybe even James Bondian,”Marina continues. “However, my friend who works in the Italian intelligence office believes they might have been looking for
my
room.”
“
Your
room?”
She shrugs. “That is correct.”
“To attack
you?
”
“Not
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