A Neverending Affair

by Kopen Hagen

  “Now I know which one you mean. They do get each other in the end like in any good movie, don’t they?”

  “They surely do. In the novel by Forster that the film is based on, the ending is less happy.”

  “Please take my room, Ronia,” he repeated.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  He opened his room, almost a bit embarrassed over it being next to hers. She went out on the balcony and saw how nicely it sat over the channel.

  “How could I resist this?” she asked after some hesitation. “Thanks, Olaf.” She pressed a kiss on his cheek.

  He got confused and embarrassed and didn’t know what to do or say, so he just stood there speechless.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t,” he blushed. “You didn’t, Ronia. You made my day,” he almost said, but didn’t. But not Liv’s, he thought when he hastily left the room. He went back to pick up her bag, and then started to pack the few things he had unpacked and brought them to the other room. They agreed to meet at six thirty.

  Olaf didn’t know what to do or think. There was no point denying that he was attracted to Ronia. A bit of flirting does no harm, he thought. He actually noted that his love making with Liv had improved lately, and so had she. She even mentioned it the night before he left for Gent. He told her that it was because she was so hot and attractive. Which of course made her hotter and more attractive, so it was all well. Perhaps the French tradition of having lovers isn’t such a bad thing, he thought. If everybody has them, it still works out nicely, and we are all equally wicked and not divided into saints and bad guys. Would I like Liv having a lover? Of course, Ronia wasn’t yet a lover; he was still afraid of that first step, of crossing the line.

  In the evening, they went out for a walk. It was a rather mild evening. They bought mussels and french fries from a frietkot and sat on a bench in a béguinage, something like a monastery, Ronia thought. A soft drizzle began to fall, and they sought refuge in a dark bar.

  “Do you like Belgian beer?” he asked.

  “You mean Stella Artois and such?” she said

  “No, no, I most certainly don’t mean Stella Artois, even if that is Belgian beer by name and origin. Stella is a beer and it is Belgian, but that’s the end of the story. It is no different from Heineken, Tuborg, Budweiser or any of the other big brands. No, I mean the real thing, beers like trappist beers, like geuze, like the ales.”

  “I’m not sure I ever tried any of those,” Ronia admitted.

  “But you like beer, don’t you, or do you prefer wine?”

  “It’s not either/or. I can enjoy both. Not at the same time though.”

  He ordered them a Westmalle trappist and a Hoegaarden wheat beer. He let Ronia try both while entertaining her with encyclopedic knowledge about Belgian beer and brewing.

  “Where did you get all that knowledge from?”

  “My mother’s family originates from Belgium, from a brewer’s family. I have cousins here and they made it their mission to teach me how to enjoy Belgian beer. After that, I was hooked.”

  “This white beer is nice.”

  “Shall we order another one?”

  “No, let’s call it a day and return to the hotel. We have a lot to do tomorrow, don’t we?”

  “Good question. I actually don’t really know. I mean, I do know that we’re both scheduled for this seminar at noon, but for the rest, I don’t know. I guess we’ll hang around at the stand and assist a bit.”

  “Who’s manning it, Selma?”

  “No, one of her underlings, and then Rachel, a basket artist from Rwanda, and Fatima, the gifted girl from Dar es Salaam, the Muslim girl I told you about,” he added, even though he immediately regretted that attribute. He didn’t like to use simple classifications for people, “black,” “socialist,” “Muslim,” etc. He felt they tended to dehumanize the person you are speaking about.

  “OK, let’s go.”

  He took her by the arm , and they wandered towards the hotel. The rain had stopped , and the air was fresh. He steered them via the Graslei and over the Sint-Michielsbrug, offering a piece of information here and there. She admired the view, the old buildings and the whole setting.

  “It is a great place,” she said. “There are all these old buildings, but it is very much a living place, not at all a museum, a bit like Amsterdam. Thanks for showing me around.”

  “OK, here we are,” he said as they approached the hotel.

  “Thanks again for a very nice evening, Olaf,” she said when they reached the hallway outside her room. “I’m afraid you spoil me. Beware, it can become a habit.”

  “I enjoy it, and I think you are worth spoiling.”

  “Olaf, please don’t say things like that,” she said, looking down, her lower lip trembling.

  “Ronia, what is it?” he asked.

  “Don’t be naïve, Olaf. It’s the whole thing, the romantic evening, the beautiful room, the allure of Gent, how nice you are to me, how much fun we have together…” She stopped, turned towards the door, put the key in the lock with a firm move and turned it. She opened the door. Then she turned back to look closely at him. He was just standing there, waiting for what would happen. She pressed a kiss on his mouth, turned around and went in, closing the door rapidly behind her without saying anything more or turning around.

  Olaf stood a while outside the room, contemplating what to do. Why didn’t I embrace her and return the kiss instead of just standing there? Should I knock on her door and ask if I can come in?

  In the end, he decided not to. If she went in like that, this is what she wanted, he had to assume. He went back to his room. He felt unsettled and could not go to bed, so in the end he went out again, taking a long walk. He tried to think, to probe his own feelings, what he wanted. There was no doubt that he was attracted to Ronia.

  But what does that mean? What do I want? Do I want to leave Liv? No, no, I don’t. But I feel so alive with Ronia. She brings something out of me I never felt before. To be in her company is to get an injection of a rejuvenating and invigorating agent.

  And well, he could not deny that he also had less noble and ethereal feelings. He was aroused just by her presence. His groin was aching. Coming back to the room, he took a shower. Letting hot water hammer his back, he released himself. He went to bed and slept well.

  Ronia pressed her back against the door and hyper-ventilated. What is it with this man? she thought. Why do I react so strongly? I should not fall in love with him. It’s one thing to have fun. Perhaps even making love is all fine, but not to fall in love. But that seems to be what’s happening. If I kiss him for real, I think it would be a done deal for me. I really have to quit this. I don’t even know if he’s really in love with me. He certainly made many of the right moves, but now when I kissed him he was stiff, didn’t open his mouth, didn’t try to hold me...

  She slowly went about her evening ritual, washing her face, brushing her teeth, taking off the necklace and the one copper earring she always wore in her left ear. The cuff had a Celtic design—she was attracted by the Celtic culture. She gazed into the mirror, looking for herself, looking for answers, but she didn’t pose the right question.

  How could she? There are no “right questions” to be asked when we are in that stage of emotional turmoil. Our intellect is simply not working as it should, or perhaps it is overpowered by emotions.

  In bed, she read a bit, a novel she had picked up at the railway station in Paris. It was a modern thing about a group of middle-aged people bored with life starting a sex circle with like-minded people. The novel was supposedly a great piece of work, a deep analysis of the existential angst of the modern human being, but for Ronia it came across as pornographic, and as such not a bad one. The only thing in the novel that really drove it ahead and made it worth reading was the sex. She felt her swell and her nipples harden and touched herself. She started off by thinking about the people in the book, but the closer she came
to climax, the more she thought about Olaf. She felt his hands all over her body. He whispered in her ear that he wanted to “fuck her hard and harder again.” She fell asleep afterward but had a restless night.

  The next morning, she was set at keeping the distance to Olaf. “This will not do,” she told herself. ”Keep away from him.”

  They met for breakfast. Ronia chose a business-like style for the conversation. Olaf tried to steer it toward more personal things, but also felt that this was not the right time for a deep conversation in any case. “Will you join me for a more serious dinner tonight? Last night was the easy fast-food stuff, but Belgium has some serious cooking, you know. They can match France without a problem. In my view, Belgian cuisine is perhaps even better than the French. At least, it is more generous, and I’m still growing, you know,” he said and stroked his belly. “Can I take you out, please?”

  “Olaf, that is nice of you—to ask me out—but perhaps you should take care of your wife instead of taking care of me,” slipped out of her mouth. She could hardly believe that she said something so rude. It was true, of course, but it was hardly something you said to a new acquaintance.

  First he wanted to argue, to refute her words, but then he realized it would be pointless. He decided to ignore the remark. “Anyway, you don’t have to decide now,” he said. “We have a whole day of work ahead.”

  They walked together, in silence, to the FairArtFair, which was held in a smaller hall of the Flanders expo. Olaf thought about the evening before and the morning and drew the conclusion that Ronia was a bit infatuated by him, but that she felt that his marital status was a serious obstacle. And of course, she was right.

  At the same time, it was actually she who had moved them ahead, who had increased the stakes. First, by saying that thing about spending the night in Arusha and now this time by kissing him first on the check and then on the mouth. And now she seemed to back off. It didn’t make sense to Olaf.

  And how could it? Olaf wondered. If your feelings don’t make sense for yourself, how on earth could the signals you send to someone else make any sense to that person? Aren’t we almost bound to misunderstand each other? Especially our minds and thoughts? Our bodies are more likely to understand each other, our lips find the lips of another person and very soon the lips have told each other what they feel, the tongues will take over and confirm that feeling. It is not our thoughts, our logic or our intellect and our mind—whatever the difference is between then—that then urge us to undress, to unite in love making. But then, if we did listen to our bodies all the time, what would the world look like?

  Ronia wondered if Olaf was just one of those womanizers that never have enough, one that needs affirmation and confirmation of his appeal for women again and again. But she felt he was not like that. And honestly, it was not him pushing for physical contact, was it? On the other hand, he was flirting. A married man should stay faithful and not mess around with other women.

  But then she thought about her father. He had had several affairs during his marriage with Ronia’s mother. She didn’t find out until the last one. She had bumped into her father and this woman, considerably younger than her father, but also—thank heavens—considerably older than herself, at a jazz club. The way her father had twirled a curl of the woman’s hair, and how they were looking at each other when Ronia saw them, left no room for misunderstanding. It had been a total shock for her—and for her father as well. She just stared at him. The woman saw her staring and said to her father, “Victor, there’s someone looking at you, at us. Do you know her?” in an almost inaudible voice.

  He came quickly to his senses and excused himself to his girlfriend, Valerie, and asked Ronia to follow him.

  First she refused, hissing at him, “Who do you think you are?” and “Get your hands of me” when he took her by the elbow, drawing some attention from the bystanders.

  “Please, Ronia, this is our chance. Don’t blow it,” he pleaded and she yielded.

  They went to a café and sat there until the owner chased them out. Her father tried to explain that even if he loved his wife, there was something missing in their marriage, a passion and excitement without which he had a half-life. He said he had three options: separation, suffocation, or adultery. Suffocation might be noble but was in his opinion unacceptable. After all, his whole devotion in life was to indulgences and beauty; he was a jeweler. Separation had long been a real alternative, and he had raised it several times.

  But she didn’t want to. She preferred to be married to him even knowing that he had affairs. “As long as your razor and toothbrush and your bank account are here, I feel safe and can cope with it. As long as you don’t bring any of your whores here or let them interfere with our social life in other ways,” she had said, according to him. Of course, Ronia’s mother never liked it, and there were times she had made a lot of trouble about it. At the time, she had been slowly wasting away to cancer, and she needed his care and his attention and his love, but not his body anymore. Her father was very glad that he had another woman who could comfort him. He said it gave him strength to care for Ronia’s mother, a statement that was perhaps half truth and half excuse.

  Ronia never fully liked or even accept the betrayal of her father, but she would not go as far as to condemn him. Why would she judge Olaf harder? she asked herself. You don’t know anything about his conditions. Perhaps his wife is a real bitch. Perhaps they have an “open marriage” to which they both agreed. Perhaps she has some serious disease that changed her, schizophrenia, bipolar disease. I guess I should find out, she thought. She almost asked him about his wife, but realized that they were at the entrance of the fair and that it would be futile to start an interrogation at that point. A second thought was Does it really matter how his wife is?

  The day passed with no surprises. Ronia took Fatima and Rachel around to see the supply, the competition, trying to explain what was good and what was less good. Of course, in the end, she had no clue what sold or didn’t when it came to African Fair Art. The buyers seemed to apply very different criteria than that for “normal” art, whatever normal art could be. She bought a coffee and sodas for the two artists.

  “Is this your first time in Europe?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve lived in Denmark for a year,” Rachel said. “I came from Rwanda, fleeing from the genocide.” Ronia didn't ask more, the fair cafeteria was certainly not a place for such deep discussion.

  It would explain the scar I saw when Rachel was adjusting her scarf, she thought.

  Fatima had never been in Europe. As a matter of fact, she said her experience in other countries were limited to some courses in Nairobi. “I thought it would be colder,” she said and added, “I hadn't imagined that there would be so many old houses. On TV, you only see big houses with swimming pools and everybody driving cars. Here, houses are small and narrow and most people walk or go by the tram.” Rachel nodded her consent, but also said that in Billund, in Denmark where she lived, “where they make the Lego blocks,” it was quite different than in Gent. Much more modern and wealthy.

  Fatima was surprised that so few people spoke English. Ronia explained that there were many European tribes, even if they were classified as nations or ethnic groups. But essentially, she saw little difference between the European ethnic groups and African tribes. “But then, I am no specialist or anthropologist,” she shrugged.

  They enjoyed her company, and at their urging, Ronia agreed to go out with them that night.

  “Will you bring Olaf?” Fatima asked.

  “No.”

  “We thought you were a couple,” Rachel said with a smile.

  “Or that you should be one,” Fatima giggled. Ronia tried to look cross at them, but their friendly smiles won.

  After lunch, Olaf joined them. He had organized meetings with some potential buyers. Ronia felt useless in those business meetings and went back to the stand to see if she could be of some service. She was a bit irritated b
y all the students and journalists and others visiting the stand and thought there were very few real buyers there. At five, Olaf asked her again if she wanted to join him for the evening, but she declined politely, stating that she would go out with “the girls.” The next morning, they saw each other for breakfast before both left for home. None of them made a move to continue where they ended the day before, or take up a new thread.

  Rome, April 2013

  “I do have another thing I want to ask you about; this Maria with the bazaars, is she is friend of yours?” Olaf asked Diana.

  “Sort of, not very close.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She worked for years in a center in Italy, with kids from Bosnia suffering from post-traumatic stress, from 1998 to 2006, I believe. They worked with drawings, painting and other art as a method to process the experiences. Then the center closed down. I mean, the war had been ten years earlier, and the kids grew up. I know she went to Bosnia, but I really know nothing of what happened there. She came back to Italy about two years ago. And she’s been helping with our bazaars since. But she’s very closed when it comes to her background. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, sorry, this is a purely personal matter. I have reasons to believe that she is an old acquaintance. Is she French? What does she look like?”

  “Yes, she’s French for sure. She speaks good Italian, but with an unmistakable French accent.”

  “Which probably means that it’s Marie and not Maria?”

  “Could be,” she said. “She’s quite tall, good looking. Her hair is a bit wild when she lets it out. She often wears a scarf, sometimes tied like a Muslim woman’s headscarf.”