The Conversion by Joseph Olshan Page B

the dark, straight hair away from her face that I thought was decidedly European. It occurs to me now that if she hadn’t made a point to speak to me in English, I might have listened to her accent and assumed that she was a French citizen of perhaps Germanic extraction. Because, outside of her manner of speaking English, there was very little about her that seemed American. Her way of walking and moving seemed—at least to me—typically French feminine: naturally balletic and confident, even a bit feline.
    “If you’re an American,” I said, “how did you end up with the name Laurence?”
    “My name is Laurie. Michel started calling me Laurence. Didn’t you hear his sister calling me Laurie?”
    I told her I did.
    “Michel has always wanted me to be as French as possible. Hence the name.” Hesitating a moment, she said, “So you’re probably wondering why I invited you in.”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, first let me explain that Michel and I are not always together. We often do things separately, even spend time apart. This is probably what the newspaper picked up on. However, I just want you to know, the idea of divorce has never even once crossed our minds.”
    I stared at her, wondering where all this was leading.
    “A few weeks ago, we took another small apartment in the Marais. It was given to us. Michel has been staying over there from time to time. He is terribly depressed these days and says he needs time alone. He’s about to turn fifty.”
    “Fifty?” I cried out.
    “Didn’t you know how old he is?”
    Without pinpointing his age, Michel had managed to imply that he was substantially younger. “He never really said. He certainly looks younger,” I pointed out, remembering that when I’d first met Michel I’d pegged him for thirty-five.
    She smiled tightly. “Are you sure he didn’t actually lie to you?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I ask this because he holds everyone to a standard about telling the truth. He’s told the girls many times that they mustn’t lie and that if they lie and are caught they will always be punished severely.”
    “So I suppose the question is: Does he practice what he preaches?” I thought but did not say that carrying on an affair by definition has to exact a certain amount of lying.
    Laurence at first seemed pained to answer. “Recently, when he started staying at the other apartment, I asked him if he was involved with anybody else. He said he wasn’t. But now you show up here. And so it makes me wonder: He may not be involved with ‘anybody else’ but he might once again be involved with
you
.”
    Laurence finally compelled herself to look at me steadily, and despite my own discomfort, I felt for her and cringed. “As I said before, it’s been over since he broke it off with me two months ago. I haven’t seen or spoken to him. As far as anybody else is concerned, I have no idea,” I said, hoping that as much as Ed wanted to assume it, Michel hadn’t merely just moved on to somebody else.
    At this point a lovely young girl appeared—perhaps fourteen or fifteen—dressed in stylishly tight, low-riding black jeans that showed her midriff and the developing curves of her body. Her face was a feminine replica of her father’s; I nearly gasped at the uncanny resemblance. However, she was pallid like her mother. Of course she’s desperate not to lose him, I thought of Laurence. Look at this exquisite child. Who can blame her?
    “My dance class,
Maman
, it’s time.” The schoolgirl English was spoken for my benefit.”
    “
Un moment,
” her mother answered.
    The girl threw me a look at once inquisitive but also unmistakably tinged with distrust.
    “I must take my daughter now. I really should go.”
    “Before you do, could you take my phone number and ask Michel to call me?”
    Laurence flinched with momentary vexation. “Michel already has your phone number,” she said with unmistakable disdain. “You live on the rue Birague with an