A Neverending Affair

by Kopen Hagen

  “He wanted them even more nationally romantic, but I managed to convince him that the overly nationalistic was dead, a thing of the past. I’m not at all sure that that is the case, but I just can’t do social realism or national romanticism. They are as much cause of the Armenian genocide as any other atrocity. Even if they, we,” she corrected herself, “were the victims, the perpetrator was nationalism, and Armenians have had their fair share of nationalism. Perhaps more as is often the case of people who are oppressed, it seems.”

  “Ronia, I realize we never spoke of this before,” Olaf said. “You know that I am politically interested and interested in human rights, and of course I know about the genocide of Armenians by the Turks—or perhaps we should say the Ottomans, which actually is something a bit different. Anyway, I must admit that my knowledge of Armenia in general and the genocide in particular is quite small.”

  “No problem,” Ronia said. “Just wait until you meet my cousins. They will give you a crash course, and they will never let you forget that you married an Armenian, or rather that you married an Armenian family. You see, she comes with the whole lot,” she smiled.

  “Ronia, we never talked marriage before. Do you want to marry?”

  “Olaf, you are setting new records in being non-charming. Is that a proper way to propose?” she scolded him. But he heard from the tone of her voice and from her special smile that she wasn’t really angry.

  “Sorry, but it was entered as a topic of rational discussion and not emotion,” he said, “and I know you approach them quite differently.”

  “Forget it.”

  Ronia had pre-prepared some food for their first dinner in La Fournier. It was full of local and seasonal food; a salad of goat’s cheese, walnuts, rocket, honey and vinaigrette, followed by wild boar cutlet with potato puree. For dessert there was apple pie with vanilla sauce. She was aware that vanilla wasn’t very local, but she wasn’t a fanatic. She would also serve a delicate Jamaica blue coffee, even if it wasn’t either organic or fair trade, both obsessions of Olaf. It was simply the best coffee and for Ronia, product quality was very high on her list of priorities. For the meal there was a white wine, Mondeuse blanche, which indeed was organic for a few years.

  Towards the end of the meal, Olaf set out: “How do you see children, Ronia? We discussed it once and then you were evasive. But when I saw that painting of the child, I thought perhaps you were more interested than I thought. You know how much children mean to me, and I have told you that I made a terrible mistake by accepting Liv’s ‘no.’ I am not going to repeat that. As you haven’t dismissed it, I assume you are not entirely cold to the idea of having children.”

  “No, I’m not entirely cold to the idea, Olaf, but I’m also not dreaming of children. And in particular, I am not dreaming of giving birth myself. I believe there are so many unloved children in this world and that we should perhaps take care of them first, before producing more ourselves. Not that I am ready to take care of any of those children at this very moment. But do you remember that orphanage in Arusha we visited? How can one want a child and not want to take care of one of those?”

  “I never thought about it like that. There are plenty of people who can’t have a child of their own, and for them, I think it makes a lot of sense to adopt. Personally I would choose that over spending years on fertility treatments. But for those that can have a child of their own, it seems like the most natural choice.”

  “That is a bit simplistic thinking, I believe,” Ronia said and fell silent.

  “For me, our child, a child of our flesh and blood, would be a manifestation of our love, a continuation after we are gone. But it is also something more. We have, we have been given, this ability to multiply. There must be a reason for it. It is our right, yes not only a right but somewhat of an obligation, to use it. A bit like you have been given this remarkable talent for painting, and it would be a shame that you didn’t use it, wouldn’t it?”

  “Olaf, I’m not so sure about that talent. I have worked hard to be where I am today, to be who I am today. I had no talent. I had a dream. It is that dream, my hard work and inspiration from other artists that made me into a painter, not my talent,” she argued. “You are an incurable romantic, Olaf. How many children walk around with the feeling that they are a manifestation of love, of their parents’ love? I certainly don’t. I mean, I know they loved each other, sort of at least, and I was produced by them. Hopefully that happened in one of their better love-making sessions, but perhaps it was just a quickie in the elevator. Perhaps it was after one of their terrible arguments when they had a make-up session. With their child, with me, something new starts. I don’t carry their love. I carry a mix of their love for me and a little of their love for each other—but that is more like an environmental factor—and then my own self, my own feelings.”

  She continued, “I don’t think we should breed children for that kind of selfish reasons. There are enough people on this planet already, more than enough.”

  “I get hurt when you call me selfish, Ronia. I don’t think love for a child can be selfish.”

  “Nothing is more selfish than love, Olaf. All love is selfish, not only the love for children also the love for another person, perhaps even more so thinking about it. Also, my love is selfish. And that is all fine. We need to accept that love is selfish and balance it with some reason and some morals. Love leads us astray; love is blind. It is the same with our egoism. Children are egoists. Nature is egoistic. Genes only want to multiply themselves. It is through upbringing and education we socialize children, make them altruistic and empathetic.”

  Olaf didn’t agree. He felt that Ronia devalued their love, his love and her love; that she made it dirty and into an expression of self-interest. Still he didn’t say more. Ronia’s mind and arguments were sharp as knives, and Olaf found it hard to stand up against her with argumentation, and if he were to refer to feelings in a discussion like this it made her upset. He chose to take up another thread of discussion.

  “I always thought that that ‘love is blind’ saying related to how few errors we see in the one we love, how we tend to overlook even apparent weaknesses, etc.”

  “Perhaps it was, I guess that was the meaning Shakespeare gave it in The Merchant of Venice, but I never thought about it like that. For me, it was always that you can’t trust love for guidance. Love is a dubious advisor and sometimes love is simply not possible in the real world,” Ronia said. “In relation to the other meaning, I have always had a critical eye to you, Olaf, even in the midst of the worst periods of obsession, I mean the most intensive periods. Even then I could see small and big things that I didn’t like.”

  “Such as?”

  “No, let’s not go there, Olaf. I will only hurt you to no avail. The things, the behaviors that I believe I, you, can do something about, I already raised. The others are just part of the deal. I don’t expect you to change. They are part of you. If you are honest towards yourself and towards me, you know there are things with me that you also don’t like. We already touched religion a couple of times. I also know that you think that I should not let the goats graze the forest; that I put pepper on my food without tasting it; that I am a bit sloppy; that I drink too much; that I look at other males with an anatomic interest, etc. But let’s not make the list longer. It makes me feel bad. The bottom line is that I believe you experience all these things more with me just because you love me, than if we were not lovers.”

  “Ronia, we are not lovers anymore.”

  “If not lovers, what are we then?

  “I left Liv to live with you. We are true-loved, we are engaged, we are life companions, anything but lovers.”

  “Kiss me, Olaf.”

  They kissed, long. They made love, there in the kitchen, observed by two of Ronia’s paintings. The paintings looked at them, sighing. “What will they become?”

  “I do want to live with you Ronia, you know that. It looks nice here and I could envision living her
e.”

  “But…?”

  “No, there is no ‘but’ from my side, but I do feel a ‘but’ from your side. Do your really want to live with me? Do you really want to live here with me?” Olaf said.

  His questions remained unanswered, all three days he stayed with her.

  Ronia wasn't able to deliver what he expected: unequivocal, unconditional love. She certainly loved him, and liked him being around. She just didn't know if she could bear him being around all the time. When she was high with desire, she could think of nothing else but him, making love with him, being with him—but then when the worst hunger was sated, she felt she needed to be alone, to be by herself. She didn't see how it would be possible to work, to paint, if he were around.

  But she also couldn't bear the thought of him being far away. She would be jealous. With Liv, she could not be jealous. After all, she was there before her, and it was because he was not happy with Liv that Olaf had reached out for Ronia in the first place. But now he was single, an attractive single male, with no kids and a decent job that brought him interesting places. He was almost like a jackpot in the dating market, she thought, even if she immediately scolded herself to think like that.

  Olaf was disappointed with her lack of response and commitment, but he didn't press for answers.

  When Ronia dropped him in Aix, she gave him a roll of canvas. “This is the African picture I started after my first trip to Africa, the trip we met. After Ngorogoro, I added some Masaai warriors and a few hyenas. It’s not really finished, but it’s as good as it gets, and it is us. I couldn’t put it in the market. Please take it.”

  “But don’t you want to keep it for yourself?”

  She didn’t respond. She pressed a kiss on his cheek and drove off.

  Chindrieux, May 2013

  Ronia sealed the envelope. All the time since they met in Rome the month before, she had been thinking about Olaf, how much she missed him, how much she regretted the break up. But she also realized that he was married—again—and this time had a daughter he adored. Still, she just could not refrain from writing him a short letter.

  It is so hard to be without you

  It was so hard to meet you

  It is so hard to be alone

  It was so hard to be with you

  I have learned a lesson or two

  I wonder if you have done so too

  Olaf, I will always love you.

  Again,

  yours,

  forever,

  Ronia

  “There is no one that can take your place or match the beauty of your face.” (Cher)

  Rome, June 1999

  After Chindrieux, they were in close email communication, but it was a sour communication. Olaf called a few times, trying to get back the old feelings, but mostly it failed. In mid-April he called.

  “Hi, Ronia, how’s life?”

  “Oh, fine, thank you. Spring is here in full swing. It’s really pretty outside. The bulbs are flowering, whatever they’re called in English, those yellow ones.”

  “Hm, here we still have a week or two to go before the daffodils flowers. They are just emerging,” he inhaled deeply. “I wonder how we can make things good between us again. I don’t even know what the problem is.”

  “You don’t?

  “No, I don’t. If you do, please explain it to me.”

  “The problem is that you try to push me into accepting things I don’t want, or am not ready to accept, that there is a God; that we should have children; that we should live together.”

  Olaf felt how hurt he was, especially from her last statement. Of course, they should want to live together when they loved one another so much! Because he was most hurt by that and it caused the most personal pain, he avoided speaking about it and instead raised religion.

  “That I want you to believe in God is not stranger than that both of us want to support the oppressed in the world, that both of us realize how women are still oppressed in most parts of the world, that we value human cultures, etc. You have made me appreciate art in a way I never did before. I made myself open and ready for that; I listened to you; I tried to understand what you wanted to say with no biases against it. You also made me understand the logic of an oppressed people, the Armenians. In short, I have made myself open to you, but you refuse to open your heart for things that are important to me.”

  “You see, now we are there again,” Ronia said. “Just drop it. Why can’t we just enjoy each other?” She said it as an accusation to Olaf, even if she deep inside knew they were both to blame.

  “I know I come across as the intolerant person here,” she added. “That I am the one who arrogantly thinks I know the truth. But I think that is an illusion. I think that you pity me for my lack of faith. I know that you want me to believe, and I know that you are as intolerant as I am in that sense. The tolerance with nonbelievers is just ‘tolerance’ in the same sense that you tolerate bad behavior from a child because it doesn’t understand better. I don’t want that kind of tolerance. I am no child, and I am certainly not your child. I believe there is more tolerance embedded in trying to understand and discuss each other’s perspective than to avoid it with reference to belief. That is just erecting a wall between us.”

  “You always turn the blame on me, Ronia. I don’t think that’s fair.”

  “Olaf, let’s talk some other time. This leads nowhere,” Ronia said and slowly hung up.

  By the end of May, they both longed for each other and put their differences aside, plotting what to do in Italy, how to do it, instead.

  They had agreed to meet in Rome. Olaf had a shorter meeting for the European Association of Fair Trade Enterprises, where he was a member, on the route to the Board if things continued like they were. Ronia came down the second of June, and they planned to do a bit of tourism together.

  It was steaming hot when Ronia boarded the train from the airport, and then in the metro leading to Palatino. In the end, she got lost, and soaked with sweat, hailed a taxi. The taxi found Villa di Antonio and let her off for a fat fee. She was early. Olaf was still in a meeting. She got the key from reception. Now they had a double room and not two rooms as they had mostly had before. The room was smallish for two people. It faced a wall in the atrium and the view down was on a plastic roof. Ronia was too hot to care so much about that. She stripped rapidly and jumped into the shower, under which she stood for quite a while. She felt a lot better. Inside the room, the heat was not so pressing. There was air conditioning, but she let herself air dry and felt no need to switch it on. She stretched out on the bed naked.

  Olaf smiled when she saw her stretched out asleep, in her birthday suit, on the bed. He silently put down his stuff and undressed. He pondered over whether he should take a shower, but ruled against it, not wanting to risk it that she would wake up from the noise. He lay down next to her, whispering in her ear.

  “My Ronia, I missed you so much. I long for you all the time. You are the dream of my life. I never want to leave you again. Let us live together forever. Let us make love every day for the rest of our lives.” His hand caressed her shoulder, his tongue licking her ear, his lips following her neckline down to the collar bone.

  Ronia moaned and pulled him over her, spreading her legs.

  “Come to me,” she whispered, without opening her eyes. “Come to me, Viking, ravage me; take me hard; come deep inside me.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” Olaf said.

  When Olaf woke up, it was already dusk. They were still entangled, in a way he normally wouldn’t be able to sleep. They were both sweating. He bit Ronia playfully in the earlobe and said it was time to get up, time to eat; that he was hungry as a wolf.

  Ronia looked at him, “I dreamed we made love. It was so wonderful.”

  “Silly girl, we did make love.”

  “No, it was a dream!” she protested.

  “Just feel with your hand and you will find physical evidence for us making love.”

&nbs
p; “So you mean we can still love like this? We haven’t ruined it forever?”

  “Silly sweetie, get up, take a shower, and then we are off to eat. I’m starving.”

  They found a cool restaurant with interesting food, not the typical Italian style restaurant, but supposedly as it was in the time of the Romans. It was pricey. They were supposed to lie down on divans. It was a bit “touristy,” but still very nice.

  “This was a wonderful start of our three days in Rome,” Ronia said.

  “Let’s go through the master plan,” Olaf suggested. “Tomorrow is allocated to getting an overview of the city. We take a morning bus tour, at nine departing from Colloseo, about half an hour’s walk from the hotel. The tour ends at one, which is time for lunch. We can jump off the bus before coming back to Colloseo in the area of Piazza Navona, where there are plenty of nice restaurants. After lunch, we can wander around, perhaps visiting the Pantheon. For the evening, I have booked a table at one of the boats in the Tiber. At seven.

  “The following morning, I would suggest we go to the Campo dei Fiori market, but that has to be early, otherwise the things are gone. Is that fine with you? In the Campo dei Fiori, they sell all kinds of food. It has a great atmosphere and you should bring your camera.”

  “Early means what?”

  “In order to be there before eight, we need to leave the hotel at seven, walk to the metro, take the metro and then walk a bit again. I suggest we don’t eat breakfast. Italian breakfast sucks anyway. We can grab a coffee at the market.”