A Neverending Affair

by Kopen Hagen

  “High cheeks, somewhat of an oriental or Slavic look, greenish eyes, marked eyebrows?” he asked. He could have asked about the big birth mark under her left breast, or her very large areola, the wart next to her navel and other intimate things, but certainly Diana would not know those details.

  “Yes, for sure, that’s what I thought of the first time.”

  “Diana, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think this woman, Marie, is an old friend of mine. There are many reasons I believe that. One was that in my hotel there were three paintings that the manager bought from this center for traumatized children from Bosnia, and I know they were painted by her, but the manager said the name of the painter was Marie de Grove. Her second name was Marie and her mother’s was de Grove. Both your descriptions of her looks fit quite well.

  “What I would like you to do it to contact her and tell her what I told you, and that I would like to meet her. That I’m staying in Hotel Amorina up to tomorrow evening. This is my number and this is the address of the hotel,” he said while writing on a napkin. “Can you read it?”

  “And if she doesn’t want to meet you?”

  “Then there’s not much I can do about that,” he said. “I have to respect it.”

  “I guess you’re right. She is quite a special person.”

  “One more thing, please tell her that I’m married and have a twelve-year-old daughter. Do you know if she has somebody? I mean if she’s in a relationship?”

  “I don’t think so, and from the way she looks, she either has nobody or has somebody that is more like a stable old friend.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Female psychology. Women normally do small things to make themselves look attractive if they have a lover or someone they want to impress. It would only be in a relationship that is based on friendship and very little physical attraction that she would drop that kind of behavior, even more so if she is from the Eastern parts of Europe, where she must be from, even if she lived in France.”

  After that, they talked a bit about their family situations and shared some reflections on the implications of Italy leaving the EU, and then they bade each other farewell. Diana promised to speak with Marie that night. But before they parted she asked, “Why didn’t you ask about her phone number and simply call her yourself?”

  “I don’t want her to feel that trapped. Please make her understand that I will let her be. It was just too much to have this double coincidence of proof of her existence here in Rome. Tell her that I thought there must be a divine interference here. She never liked my religious belief,” he said with a smile.

  Ronia saw on the display that it was Diana calling. She hesitated, but finally picked up. Diana said that she was sorry to disturb her, but there was a matter she needed to raise.

  “Go ahead,” Ronia invited.

  Diana told the story as Olaf requested. She added a few of her own reflections of how sympathetic he was. Ronia asked about the daughter, if he had said that the woman he lived with was the mother of the daughter. Diana thought he hadn’t but wasn’t sure.

  “Did he say why he wanted to meet?” Ronia asked.

  “No,” said Diana, which was true.

  After hanging up, she was thoughtful, thinking about the first time she kissed him, in Gent 1996. Ronia switched on her computer and looked for the file. She had not opened it in a long time. It was the file she had kept with her notes and important communication between them. It was far from everything, since they had sent so many messages between them. Anyway, her first entry in the file was a description of their first encounter in Arusha. It was drier and more factual than she remembered now. But it also contained many more details, such as the fact that the moon was full when she left the hotel on the way to the airport; that she had been surprised how cool it was in Arusha. And a description of how she saw Olaf.

  “He is the same height as me, normal—for a man, that is—average fit, has quite small hands but a big nose and medium feet (we know what that means, don't we?). His hair is blond and his eyes have a beautiful blue color. His smile is kind and sweet. He has a soft humor and looks after his company well. Not sexy but attractive.”

  A week after Arusha, she had gotten an email asking how she was, and what the weather was like in Savoy. She had responded after two days that the weather was fine and that she was also fine. She asked about his trip home from Africa. He responded rapidly, although she didn’t see it for three weeks. There was a thunderstorm, and it wrecked her modem. When she finally got the thing to work again, there was not only that message, but five more messages. One asked her if she hadn’t gotten his messages. The subsequent just told her that he was fine, that spring was finally coming to Gothenburg, that he had booked his ticket for the Geneva conference. The next one asked if she was still cross or embarrassed over what had happened in Arusha. Then there was one saying that he was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t responded. The very last message, written a week earlier said:

  “I am sorry that I sent you so many emails. I understand that you want to be left alone. All the best.

  Olaf”

  She remembered how she hadn’t known what to do. She wanted to explain to him that her modem had burnt. She wanted to respond to his messages. But at the same time, she asked herself, Why would I do that? He’s nice and he can be a friend and a colleague, but I think there’s an undercurrent in his messages, an undercurrent of something that more. Of course, I’m flattered, and I do like him—kind of—but the guy is married. So she did nothing. But then she realized that the meeting in Geneva was coming up, and that she would meet him there. It would be awkward meeting him without having responded. So finally she wrote:

  “Hi Olaf,

  I am sorry that I haven’t responded. This email thing is still new for me, and you know I am an artist and not an office person. Another, less mythical, explanation is that my modem blew up in a thunderstorm. It took the PTT almost a month to fix it. The weather is nice and the snow is gone everywhere, apart from the Northern slopes of the high peaks. I will arrive in Geneva on 12 June midday, so I guess we’ll see each other in the Palais des Nations the following day. Hope everything is fine with you and your family.

  Hugs,

  Ronia”

  She had called Selma and told her that she would arrive on the twelfth. She asked her to book her a room in the “same hotel as the rest of the crowd.” Selma said that she would book her in the hotel La Belle. Ronia thought a bit about the Geneva meeting.

  She hadn’t had a man for years. The last one was Antoine, a local guy involved in tourism. He had visited her to see if her place should be included in the Savoy Guide for the Art Lover. He had called beforehand, and she had been rather negative, saying that she didn’t have any exhibition of the paintings at the farm, so there was really nothing for the art lover to see. Antoine had insisted, “I have an errand to Mr. Montreaux about a sculpture for the municipality in any case, so I will be close by.” She reluctantly agreed. As she wasn’t keen on the idea, she intentionally didn’t make any arrangements. She even made it look messier than it normally was. Ronia was a tidy person and not at all the typical bohemian that people think artists should be. She hadn’t had a real visitor for months, so she thought it could be a bit stimulating. Of course, she greeted the villagers when they met, and she did go to Lyon once every month where her agent had her office.

  Antoine came and introduced himself. She immediately liked him and trusted him. He was a natural. Everything was easy with him and for him, she thought. No sorrows, no real deep thoughts, but nice and harmonious. He again explained the purpose of the visit. She showed her atelier, the studio, where she painted. In there was one bigger painting and two smaller ones in the making. The studio had a nice view over the valley and Lake Bourget. The paintings were positioned so that she would turn her back at the landscape. He asked why.

  “It’s a lovely view, but it’s too prett
y, too harmonious for me to look at, and it distracts me. Now I have it as a refuge when I get stuck, when I need to rest and unwind, but not as a distraction when I paint. You see, Mr. Subaru, this is not a place for tourists. There is not much to see. All my paintings that are ready are shipped to Lyon, and the idea of having onlookers when I paint completely terrifies me. I once had a friend, a boyfriend, who insisted that he should watch me painting, as it would help him to understand me better. That ended in total tragedy. He realized I was someone else than he thought, my painting was ruined and I told him to leave and never come back.” She couldn’t understand why she had told him this private thing that she hardly revealed to anybody. Perhaps just because it came to her mind, perhaps because she really did trust this nice-looking guy.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Ms. Davla.”

  “Please, call me Ronia.”

  “Call me Antoine then. I am sorry to hear that, Ronia, but even without that background I realize that this isn’t a place for tourists. I believe it’s too personal. I can’t explain it, but it’s as if the paintings and the house together are showing too much of yourself to expose it.”

  “You surprise me, Antoine,” she said. “How could you know that? I hate to sell my works because I think they reveal too much of my inner self, and the thought that some complete stranger, perhaps a guy that beats his wife in front of my painting every evening, will own a part of me in that sense is terrifying. That is another reason why I never sell anything myself. I don’t want to know who has my paintings and even less do I want them to know me,” she started to move towards the kitchen, saying in passing, “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She passed him close enough to catch his scent. It was a male smell with some animal traces. Perhaps he has a dog at home, she thought. No aftershave, no deodorant, no smoking, no drink last night, all good signs, she told herself, smiling. She all of a sudden felt the urge, and she felt naughtier than she’d felt in years.

  “So what more do you do besides trespassing on female artists?”

  “I bug male artists as well,” he said. She laughed over her shoulder, pouring water in the percolator. He continued, “You know, it’s a municipal job, and it comes with all kinds of nonsense. Suddenly, the Mayor has some brilliant idea, and I’m commanded to take care of it, even if it has nothing to do with my job description.”

  The coffee was brewing, which was the only sound for a while. She poured coffee. They sat opposite each other.

  “What do you do when you don’t work?” he asked.

  “Oh, I read, I take walks, I go to the stable of the Chamareau and visit my goats.”

  “You have goats?”

  “Not really, but I call them my goats, as they graze on my land, and when they see me they greet me.”

  “You never go out dancing or anything like that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Dining?”

  “When I go to my agent in Lyon, I normally stay overnight in her flat, and she takes me out. Sometimes to the Michelin star places—when we sold well—sometimes to simple neighborhood joints. Most of the time, she has a man hidden somewhere, like the son of the restaurant owner, or one of her male friends that shows up ‘by coincidence’. She has made it her mission to find me a mate, which is quite fine once a month. You don’t really need men more often than that,” she said with a playful smile.

  Antoine had been quite enlivened by that story. Perhaps he fantasized about Ronia and the agent picking up guys for joint adventures in the agent’s flat. But somewhere it didn’t fit. He said, “Would you mind joining me for the festival in Chambery in two weeks time? It might be nice for you to see.”

  She was about to say “no” but bit her tongue. It was time for her to get out a bit, and Antoine was nice. There would be no harm. She said “yes.”

  He came early to pick her up. She asked him in for a coffee. After the initial pleasantries, she asked, “Please don’t take it as an affront, but I wonder why a guy like you has a job like that. It seems to me that there would be many other opportunities for you, if not here at least somewhere else.”

  “Perhaps there would,” he said, “but I like it here. I was born and raised here. Most of my friends are here in the vicinity, or the half of them that didn’t move to Paris, Lyon or Grenoble.”

  He went silent. After a while, she poured them coffee.

  “There’s one more reason that I stay here. My mother is seriously ill and bound to bed. Since my father passed away five years ago, I simply feel I have to take care of her.”

  “Oh, that’s a noble thing to do,” she said, immediately regretting the word “noble,” but which word would be the right one? “Kind?” She remembered her own mother dying from cancer. Luckily, her father had been around and taken care of her. Her brother stayed away as much as possible, simply because he couldn’t cope with the fate of their mother. He felt betrayed, and in the end their mother had to comfort him instead of the other way round, but as her health deteriorated, she was not able to make the effort. Ronia went there once a month the last year, and the last two weeks she stayed with her parents. Her mother had been sent home from the hospital as there was nothing left to do. She got regular morphine injections and was slowly fading. Now and then, she had a bright and clear moment, but mostly she mumbled things or slept. Ronia was there more to support her father. She didn’t think that she would have had either the strength, or the will, to take care of her mother.

  Fortunately, her father was in good shape. Valerie, his lover, had discreetly moved into the apartment, even if she kept her own place, and when Ronia or George, her brother, came to visit, she stayed there. But nowadays, she didn’t bother to clear the clothes from the cupboards, and the main bathroom was full of her toiletries.

  She looked at Antoine with a kind and appreciative expression. Caring men have a certain appeal, and they don’t come by the dozen. In some way, despite all this equality stuff, women were supposed to be more into caring—are more into caring, Ronia thought. No doubt it had to do with motherhood.

  He put his eyes down, not daring to meet hers any longer.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I was thinking about what a kind person you are and what a very caring son you must be. I wish my son would be like that—if I ever will have one, that is.” She rose, turned her back on him and started to do something with the percolator.

  Antoine sensed a sudden change in mood and went towards her, “I’m sorry, Ronia. Am I distressing you? Should we skip it? Should I leave?”

  “No, no, don’t. I was just thinking about children. I often get sad when thinking about children.”

  He waited silently for something more, some explanation, but it didn’t come.

  After the festival, they went for dinner, and after dinner, he drove her home. There she invited him in for a drink, and he accepted. After three drinks, she told him that he couldn’t drive home, that it wouldn’t be safe. He agreed. She made up the couch for him. In the end, they both slept in her bed together, but that was after vigorous love making on the kitchen table. She still smiled when thinking about it.

  The following morning, he said, “I have something to confess. I never thought you would like the idea of having tourists coming. The reason that I came here was because I’ve seen you a few times in passing and once a bit closer at the last country fair in Rumilly and I just fell—helplessly—for you. So I abused my position to have an excuse to see you.”

  “There are worse things people do when they abuse their positions,” she said and pulled him close for a kiss.

  That was Antoine, and he lasted for half a year. Somewhere she lost interest, without really breaking up. He seemed to understand and made no scene about it. He just stopped calling. They met now and then in town, and when they did they often went for a coffee. She asked about his mother, and he asked about her paintings. They were cordial. He was clearly still in love with her, but not in that all-consuming pa
ssionate way that made any just-friends contacts impossible. Perhaps he never had been.

  Coming back to Olaf, she knew that most women say that married men are bad business, but from her perspective, it seemed like the opposite. If he was married, she didn’t have to be afraid of him wanting more, and he would not be much harmed if she lost interest, and she would not be much harmed if he stopped loving her. No love lasts forever, in any case. That was how she thought. Wishful thinking that was, but she didn’t know at the time.

  Now she knew. And now he was in Rome wanting to meet. I wonder where he lives? I know what he does. I see him in the news now and then. He’s still good looking. And he still looks kind. Why would I meet him? she asked herself. I was so hurt, and it was his fault, but after a while she corrected herself. It was actually also her fault. They had both been idiots, and they had both been far too stubborn to admit it. But still, she had managed—“well, haven’t I?”—without him for fourteen years, and he apparently managed well without her, as he has a wife and a daughter.

  Nairobi, November 1996

  After they met in Gent, there was little contact between them. But they were both due for a mission to Nairobi, and they exchanged some messages oriented to the job. The messages were kept professional.

  They stayed at the Peacock Garden hotel. Ronia was already there when Olaf arrived. When she saw him in the lobby, from the café on the Mezzanine level, the flood broke loose, and she had to run to her room. Fifteen minutes later, he called.

  “Hi, it’s me, Olaf. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes, it was good. I arrived two hours ago,” she said.