A Neverending Affair (2 page)

             
“This is a Turkish olive soap massage,” he informed her. And he tapped her gently over the foam. 

             
He took the shower handle and rinsed off her breasts and then he took one nipple in his mouth, circled it with his tongue, and sucked it. When he felt it harden, he took it gently between his teeth. After a while, she said that he was filthy and that she would clean him. She showered him, soaped him, rinsed him and took his balls one by one into her mouth and squeezed them, squeezed them to the brink of pain.

She left the bathroom before him. When he came back into the room, she was crying. “What is it
, honey?”

“It will never be better than this
.” She was silent for a while. “I mean, it’s fantastic. I love you so much. Whatever we do, we will never have it better than this. From now on, we will just try to repeat what we’ve already done and felt before, again and again. And of course it will never be as great any other time,” she said.

“For me
, it is good enough,” he said with a question in his face. “If it can be like this the rest of my life, I won’t complain or show any regrets. It’s more than enough—it’s heavenly, it’s magic, it’s true, full love. As good as it gets, and that’s a lot.” 

“Don’t feel sad
, honey. I really worship our love, and I love you so intensely,” she assured him, looking into his eyes. ”Perhaps that is the problem, you know. My love is so strong, so consuming, so full, and I can’t possibly see that it can ever be better than this. Maybe it’s like a midlife crisis, when you realize that you have the best behind you, and that the future will be repetition, endless efforts to do more than before, but in the end failing, leaving you more and more frustrated.”

He was taken by aback by this. He had been looking forward to
talking about how they would live together. For him, that was the real step forward, the real development of their relationship. Finally together, and now this? He didn’t know what to make out of it and what it meant.

As with
most of their discussions, she took the initiative again and said, “Sorry, those were silly thoughts. It will be wonderful to live together with you. It will make our relationship deeper, our love fuller and I’m sure we’ll have as good love making or even better many times to come, if only your rod keeps up his good spirit! And now I know it is high time for you and him to get a massive five-course meal, and also for me, the tiny sparrow, it is time to eat. Let’s go.” It was left at that.

He was in Rome on a
business trip. Two main things were on his agenda. One was to present a report on human rights in Northern Italy, in the area known as Padania. This would be done in three steps: a meeting with representatives of the government of Padania (an informal meeting that would officially never take place), a workshop for some core stakeholders and a press conference. He would also have a meeting with their local group here in Rome. It was very active since a new leader, Diana, had taken the helm. He looked forward to meeting her, as their communication via email had been engaged and witty. He had tried to call her a few times in conjunction with his visit, but for some reason, he always ended up speaking with the vice president, a not so stimulating old lawyer.

When he arrived the day before, he noted that he had to get his European Union passport stamped, but otherwise there was nothing at the border that gave the impression that Italy’s departure from the
union was imminent, even if de facto it had acted as if it were not a member for almost two years.

He wondered about the hotel management. Ronia’s art was not really
the thing that you would put in a hotel dining room. It was unsettling. In addition, even if she was no mega-star, those paintings would cost at least ten times the total art budget of a small hotel like this, which typically has a nice set of reproductions in the main areas, and some Mediterranean landscapes and Roman ruins in water colors in the rooms. It was a nice hotel, he thought, one of those old “Roman villas” in three stories, with a couple of extensions here and there, which created a maze that made guests get lost even if there weren’t more than perhaps twelve rooms. He asked, in his rudimentary—and probably quite flawed—Italian, at the reception desk for the manager. The manager was not due in at all today, he was told.

“Do you know anything about the paintings in the breakfast room?” he asked
.

“I am sorry
, sir. I don’t know anything about those paintings.”

“Will the manager be here tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t know. He is not often here,” he was told.

He managed to get the
manager’s telephone number. He looked at his watch and realized it was ok to call at this time, eight-thirty. He greeted the manager in Italian and then asked if he could speak English, to which the voice responded, “Yes.”

He explained he was interested in some information about the paintings, and the manager said he would come in for breakfast
the next morning. When he hung up, Olaf realized that perhaps he had given the impression that he wanted to buy them.
Never mind,
he thought
. I will set that straight tomorrow.

The first meeting was with the representatives of Padania, the part of Italy north of Bologna. The area had pushed for autonomy for decades, and its final goal was independence from Italy. However, its strategy had been set back by the virtual collapse of the European Union after the crisis in 2010. Before, Antonio Prieto, the leader of the main political force, Lega Norte, had seen the EU as something that took power from the Italian state, but also something that left more space for the region to develop. It made the people feel less worried about being “left alone.” Prieto himself didn’t care at all for the EU as such. He saw it purely as a vehicle, but he realized that many of the ordinary citizens in Padania didn’t have the confidence to believe that they could manage. At least, that was how Olaf interpreted the situation.

Padania had pushed ahead with a lot of steps towards independence.
As mother Italy ignored the EU and disregarded most of its obligations, Padania acted the same towards Italy. It was not yet an independent country, had not declared its independence. Prieto’s strategy seemed to be to not do it until he was one hundred percent sure that it would be successful. And he wanted to act from a position of strength, where independence was already a
fait accomplit
, rather than risking a violent conflict. Most importantly, he had taken command over the taxes, and only minor flows went to Italy. Secondly, he had taken over the police and the judiciary. The Italian laws were still the laws of Padania, but they were enforced by his police force and interpreted by a judiciary of which the most vocal opponents were sacked, and a few of them had even disappeared. The police were known for their brutality and they were heavily armed, to the extent where they felt more like a militia. Unfortunately, their idea of justice and police work was also more of a militia’s. And that was the background of the report that Human Rights International was about to present the next day.

Olaf was the Secretary General of Human Rights Inter
national, HRI or “hurray,” as they called it internally ever since Romas, a Lithuanian intern, once pronounced the acronym like that. Also with him on this mission was Sandra, the researcher who had written most of the report on Padania. Sandra was one of the most committed and loyal staff persons he had. She was completely committed to the cause and completely uninterested in other things, or at least that was the impression Olaf had. He remembered asking her once if she had a husband or a boyfriend or any other kind of partner. First she said a plain “no.”

“Sorry,
I didn’t want to pry. It’s up to you how you live,” he responded.

“Oh, no offen
se,” she said and fell silent. After a short pause, she added, “Once I had a partner. We even lived together for half a year.”

Olaf sat silent
ly, leaving it up to her if she wanted to tell more.

After some minut
es, she continued, “After that half year, he told me that it was either human rights or him. I couldn’t do both. He said I was so committed to my work that there was hardly any space for him in our relationship. I asked him what he wanted me to do instead, not that I really cared much about his response after that first remark. Do you know what he asked me?”

“No
, I have no idea.”

“Maybe we could have children
. ‘You like children so much, and I also like children,’ he said. I responded: ‘Having children is no job, Jeremy’—that was his name, Jeremy. How can one talk about children like that? It was like it was some kind of project that would make things good between us.”

“Would you ever say such a thing?” she continued after a
short silence.

“We humans say a
ll kinds of stupid things all the time,” he said.

“You don’t,
” Sandra told him. “That’s why I respect you.”

“I guess you
’ve only seen my professional side,” he answered, and fell silent.

He had smiled and said, “
You really are an artist!”

“Why
?”

“Only an artist would see the beauty of this. Anybody else would just see the neglect
.”

They had been sitting in
the café inside the Simba hotel: Gladys, the local project leader; Janat, the project secretary; Selma, the UNESCO officer; him, Olaf, the “business man”—he always felt a bit embarrassed by that term. He just happened to buy and sell things and move them from one place to another; Ronia and perhaps someone else. It was the evening before the first workshop for the EFFAA project, Export of Fair Female Art from Africa.

Hard to think
of something that could be more politically correct than trying to help female artists from Africa through fair trade, isn’t it?
Olaf thought sometimes. He believed in what he did, but in cynical moments, he questioned the value of his fair trade engagement. Was it really anything more than window dressing, making some engaged people in rich countries feel a bit better, just enough that they would not take any further political action? They were changing the world with consumer choice, weren’t they? Isn’t that a nice thought?

His friend Bo and his wife Liv often questioned the relevance of fair trade and rejected
—well, that’s perhaps too strong, let’s say questioned—the mere notion of fair or green consumerism, seeing them as window dressing to keep capitalism going. The idea that “markets” should shape society was awful in Liv’s view.

“Do you want society to be shaped and ruled by enlightened cybernetic dictators? Is that really bette
r than markets? It’s no coincidence that cybernetics is a pet of dictators, is it?” Olaf once asked her when they discussed it. Liv studied cybernetics and this was a way for him to give back. Mostly they didn’t discuss those things any more.   

Ronia was invited as an artistic adviser to the project. She had made a positive comment about the interior design of the café.

“I hope our Tanzanian hosts were not offended by my remark,” he said and looked at Gladys and Janat.

“What can I say
?” said Gladys. “I must admit that I didn’t think a lot about the interior design. You know these places are designed for you guys and not for us. They’re supposed to inspire some kind of African feeling, but I think they are mainly demonstrating what you expect to find. But I also agree that the upkeep here is pretty awful.”

“Perhaps I am a bit carried away
,” Ronia said. “You know, this is my first time to Africa.”

“Ah, that explains it
,” Olaf said. He looked at her and took a deep breath. “Do you know my first African experience? Of course you don’t. Let me tell you. I landed here in Arusha. At the airport, there was this
Bahindi
guy, a Tanzanian Indian, that is. They run most of the business. Anyway, I had been put into contact with him as a person who should be able to organize things locally for my fair trade business. He picked me up, and we went straight into the field. It was a four-hour drive up into the Lushoto Mountains. Everything was new to me. Everything was strange, and this Indian guy, Feisal, was talking and talking. I tried to understand the situation of the female artisans with whom we were going to trade, or so I thought. That was the deal, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was back in Europe, but here the deal was quite different. Yes, there was a female. Mama Pata was her name. She was the one. She
was
Fair Trade Incorporated in Lushoto,” he said with a laugh.

The story went on
, and the bottom line was that he had been quite fooled by this Indian guy and Mama Pata. They sold him a story where all the money went to the women, and they were just the conduits for the business. He had insisted on meeting some of the women, but as they spoke no English and he no Swahili, there was no possibility for him to check anything. In essence, his first fair trade business was somewhat of a scam. He told all this with a self-mocking style and Ronia thought it was mainly intended to make her feel good about being new in Africa.

At that moment
, she decided that she liked him. There was something there. He seemed to be a friendly, humorous and playful fellow.
His looks were nice, not stunning in any particular way, but his face matched those characteristics. His eyes were gleaming blue and there was this twinkle in his eyes, even if they were deeply sunk in his face. This actually made his gaze even stronger. His frame was rather normal and his height average, on the slim side, but looking as if he was in the process of getting a tummy already. Age? Well, most likely the same as her, a few years above thirty.

The rest of the evening was pleasant
, and they spent most of the time planning the workshop. Ronia didn’t feel a lot of confidence in what she could contribute. Leaving for the evening, Olaf looked at her and said, “Don’t worry. It will be fine. Also, don’t have too high expectations. Things are rather slow down here, so take it easy and slowly. Make sure everybody follows and be prepared to repeat some things a few times. Throw in a few jokes.”

“Thanks for the advice
,” she said. “I’ll try most of it, but not the jokes. I’m simply not a jokey person.  It never comes naturally for me and therefore they are never successful. I have stopped trying, as a badly delivered joke is such a turn-off.”

The following night
, Ronia realized that her feelings for him might be more than “like” as she woke up from a dream in which he had just touched her breast and said, “Let’s do it.”

But then, she
had similar dreams about all kinds of men. She even remembered having such a dream about a drunkard she once met in Paris. He was a really filthy old man, who had asked her for change. She had given him a ten franc note, and he had gone down on his knees, saying, “Mademoiselle, you saved my life.” In the dream, he came to her saying, “It is payback time,” and he sported a rather thin but very long and bowed cock that was bursting out of his pants. He reeked of alcohol, urine, and sex. To her relief, or perhaps out of agony, she woke up before he came into her. So dreaming about Olaf didn’t mean a lot, she thought. How she fooled herself.

The workshop was good. The purpose was to set up the work program for the project and also to define the proper organization of the female artists. There were about thirty people, the group from the previous evening and a number of invited artists and artisans. Ronia didn’t speak much during the workshop. After all, it was her first time in Africa and her role was to be an adviser to the artistic content and not the organization or the finances.

In the hour of death just after lunch
, she was supposed to make a presentation about the European market for art.  She felt that it was OK, but she noticed that quite a lot of the people seemed uninterested. Some slept; probably it was a bit too far away, too distant for them. Even if they were supposed to serve the market, the divide between their reality and the reality of the European art market was just too big. She also felt, rightly, that she was no great performer or presenter.

Olaf had a presentation about the organization of the marketing. He suggested that they sho
uld try to use the tourist hotels for marketing and perhaps even sales. He explained a bit how his fair trade business worked. He had picked up some of the African ways of speaking, such as making a statement by asking a question and supplying the answer. “And when the consumer in Europe sees the what?”—pause—“the fair trade market!”—pause—“they know they can trust that many shillings go to the ladies back in Africa.” She thought his presentation was good, perhaps a bit paternal. But she also realized that mostly she was looking at his mouth, following the movement of the lips but not really paying attention to the words. Afterward, she could remember almost nothing of what he said.

After the workshop
, they had a debriefing, the same group as the day before. Very few of the Africans stayed at the hotel. They got a nice per diem from the United Nations and preferred to stay somewhere else. That saved them some seventy dollars per night, which was perhaps a week, or even a month, of income.

U
ltimately she, Olaf and Selma had a bite at the Ethiopian restaurant. Selma and Olaf seemed quite familiar with Ethiopian food so she let them order. She was surprised when the waitress brought out a joint giant dish/bread/pancake, the
injeera
. And there were no utensils for eating. “Are you supposed to eat with your hands?” she asked.

“Welcome to Africa
,” Selma said.

Olaf showed her how it was done and
offered, “If you want to, we can ask for utensils. They have them, but it is less fun.”

When she started to eat, he
said, “Oh, no, no, wrong hand! You are not supposed to eat with your left hand. Use only the right.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I want to explain that while we’re eating,” he said and Selma burst out, “No, don’t please.”

She remembered feeling a bit s
tupid, but she did as she was told. Ronia was fascinated by the tall, thin women that were serving in the restaurant. Their skin looked so nice and their hairdos were quite special. She remembered how she had asked one of the participants in the workshop, Mildred from Uganda, if she could feel her hair. The young woman looked at her with a surprised smile and consented. Ronia tried to explain that she had never felt African hair before. In the end, most of the women from the workshop also wanted to touch her hair. They had never touched the hair of a Caucasian woman before either. African hair surely had a quite different feel than Caucasian hair.

Selma was tired and withdrew after the meal. Olaf in
sisted that they should have Ethiopian coffee in the form of a coffee ceremony. “It is magic,” he said. “The coffee taste like shit, but they do it so well. It just proves the old saying that you can sell everything if the presentation is good enough.”

She noted that he had a tendency to diminish the im
portance of many of his views by adding on something—often half jokingly—that negated or modified the initial statement. A bit like those people that give out an insecure laugh each time they speak. But he gave no impression of being insecure. Perhaps it was some Scandinavian modesty thing?

It was indee
d a lovely ceremony. The roasting of the coffee beans was done in a flat pan over a tiny charcoal stove, the pungent smell mingling with incense burned during the ceremony. When the coffee beans had turned black and shining, they were ground in a mortar. The ground coffee was slowly stirred into the black clay coffee pot, the
jebena
, which is round at the bottom with a straw lid. The coffee was strained through a fine sieve several times. The young lady finally poured a thin, golden stream of coffee into each little cup from a height of one foot without an interruption. Ronia liked the taste of it. It was similar to the coffee her father used to make.

They exchanged some typical information about their interests. He loved movies
, he said, and blues music. She said that she read a lot and that she loved being in nature. The latter was perhaps true, but the reality was that even if she lived on a farm, she spent little time there, always on the go for some job or exhibition. Even when she was at the farm, she worked with her paintings rather than enjoying the landscape in Savoy.

He asked in more detail where she lived, and she had
to explain it. She had a converted farmstead in the Alps where she also had her studio. She had gotten it as a present from her wealthy—but absent—father. Olaf had a good sense of the area, as he had been there a few times. She tried to speak about the work but he was a bit evasive as he preferred not to, and came back again and again to more private things. It made her feel uneasy.  Not that she feared him. She just was very cautious about revealing things about her private life, and she thought it had no interest for anybody else. Not once did Olaf ask anything about her painting.

She was due to fly back early the next day. When they parted in the lobby
, he looked into her eyes and said, “You know, it has been a real pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask anything about your paintings. I understand they’re pretty much your life. I’m just such an idiot when it comes to art in the sophisticated sense. I know what people like and don’t like, what is demanded in the mass-markets and what sells. I guess I don’t want to expose my ignorance.”

“No offense
. As a matter of fact, all my friends, or the very few I have,” she corrected herself, ”tell me that I should relax more from work and painting. Now I can go back home and tell them that I spent a wonderful night with a man in Africa.”

Reali
zing her mistake and seeing his startled and amused look she said, “
Merde
, I didn’t say that. I DID NOT say that. You did not hear me saying that.
Merde
, I am so embarrassed. I meant evening. I meant an Ethiopian coffee ceremony.”

He didn’t know what to say
. He just smiled, and she grew increasingly alarmed.

“I don’t think I can ever meet yo
u again without being so ashamed that I will sink through the ground. Good night,” she said and rushed away.