Free Glass Grapes by Martha Ronk

Perhaps with the man, an American in charge of the language program and having an affair with Paola, thedirector of the college in Bologna which houses the program, an affair that cannot—fortunately they agree—be acknowledged even by the two of them even in private, in part because such acknowledgment might change their behavior in small but perceptible ways, and in part because to acknowledge it would be a confession that one’s body is not ruled by one’s mind. Or perhaps it all begins with the narrator herself who might describe herself as attentive and agile, but also a bit out of her element, having just and somewhat awkwardly arrived from the States on invitation, an invitation that turns out to have been issued prematurely, from the man.
    To begin with, Paola is trying to attain a more prestigious position as Cultural Affairs Director in the local government and since her boyfriend, a minor but influential politician, can help her to this position, he must be kept in the dark. Indeed neither of the lovers is willing to be fully cognizant of the affair, not only because of political complications, but more importantly for reasons which have to do with temperaments which in this case are similar in an uncanny way, as when one finds a match to a plate one already owns in a junk store in a distant and entirely other corner of the globe, a match which provides its own vivid if not especially significant pleasure.
    They always have, the narrator surmises, so much to attend to with the students, one of whom tries to commit suicide ineffectively and theatrically. Indeed, all of the theatricality of the lovers is transposed ontothe students and they—Paola and the man—tell endless stories of the students’ sexual adventures, their hysterical reactions, their betrayals—not to contain their own and certainly not as substitute, but as simple fact. It is not that their many meals together, cooked for themselves, students, friends and other colleagues, are a means to spend more time together; rather, they are part simply of the ordinary unfolding of a day in summer in Italy—what anyone would expect. Nor do they glance at one another longingly across the room while they serve wine or pasta—such would be shabby and beneath them—rather, they are fully in the event as it is, not in coy relation to it, not wishing to be elsewhere, not living with the pressure of time and an imagined next encounter.
    They exchange no symbolic gestures, no bits of paper, no gifts. His having brought her a knife for cooking is only a knife for cooking since he must prepare food for the guests, since her kitchen was without one, since it is a practical thing and, moreover, since it is only a mildly generous gesture, not excessive or out-of-keeping. If anyone were to point to the obvious symbolism, they would scoff and be embarrassed, not for themselves, but for the person who would think such an obvious thought. The absence of such thinking is what binds them. The power of ideology is what makes it possible for them to turn from the metaphysical and sentimental in a manner which implies neglectful lassitude, no matter the depth of the roots, the tangle of historical precedence. Whatthese lovers are so adept at is simplification by means of high drama, but always high drama not their own.
    Also the man’s daughter is visiting and it might be, the narrator once thought wrongly, necessary for painstaking discretion, but, neither lover has noticed her presence, or rather neither has noticed in any excessive way, although he praises his daughter’s adolescent beauty at every opportunity and especially in public when she has gone in to bed for the night. For the daughter’s part, she adores him and is always pulling her clothes aside to show her sunburned skin or talking about the reaction to her see-through bathing suit on the beach or insisting on shoes so high-heeled and uncomfortable that her father