All Russians Love Birch Trees by Olga Grjasnowa Read Free Book Online Page A

and tried to localize my anger. I felt like I had to defend something that under different circumstances I would criticize.
    There was a knock on the bathroom door. Cem poked his head in and looked around carefully. His eyes were large and green, like a deep lake early in the morning. He said he didn’t want to come in, because it was the women’s bathroom. His voice was shaky. I said I didn’t care if he came in or not. He asked if other women were in the bathroom. I said that I cared even less. He came in.
    “Come on.” Cem said. “Let’s go back. There are plenty of other wars on TV.” He put his arms around me. “I have an orange. Do you want it? Please stop. Did you know that there are tunnels underneath all of Gaza and that there are more Mercedes than here? Seriously, Gaza will soon get its own Goethestrasse.”
    I buried my face in his shirt. Cem smelled like good intentions and expensive cologne. He held me tight and whispered, “It’s going to be OK. He’ll be back soon.”

    The walls were covered in silk tapestries, white flowers on scarlet red fabric, interwoven with gold strands. I stood in a former brothel in the area close to the central station and looked around. Heavy, artfully cast golden frames decorated the walls, couches and chairs were covered with red velvet. A bartender wore rouge and a tiara, another a nylon stocking on his head. Both served with demonstrative disinterest. Gorgeous girls with shiny mouths and sweet perfume danced to the beat of aggressive house music. The young beauties knew how to accessorize a fetish. Many wore masks and feathers. The men were scantily clad and tried to look like catamites. Everyone smiled, danced, flirted.
    I adjusted my dress in front of a mirror. Sami casually leaned on a column. He wore dark jeans and a black leather jacket and was giving the girl next to him a light. The girl was very blond and the contours of her small breasts showed against the thin fabric of her tight dress.
    I approached Sami from behind and placed my hand on his broad back. The gesture was both instinctive and surprising, and I stood there with my hand on his back, unsure what to do next. When he turned and smiled at me, I heard myself say, “I didn’t know you were in Frankfurt.”
    The hug was friendly and when we came apart he rested his hand on my arm for a moment. I didn’t move until he let go.
    “For a month now,” said Sami.
    “How long are you staying?”
    The girl in Sami’s company made a show of yawning. I looked at her condescendingly, trying to place all my hatred into this glance, but she ignored me.
    “Not longer than necessary,” said Sami. “My student visa ran out and I’m waiting for it to get renewed. I’m crashing with my parents and visiting old friends.”
    Both of us took an awkward sip of our beers. The other girl whispered something into Sami’s ear, ran her tongue across her teeth, and finally left.
    “Masha, I wanted to call you, but I didn’t quite know …”
    Sami came closer, so that his mouth was close to mine. I stood up on the tips of my toes, stroked his hair out of his face, and kissed his forehead.
    “I missed you.” Sami breathed into my ear as he had done in the past when we made love. We breathed heavily and almost in the same rhythm. Sami looked like someone who knew exactly what constituted a good life, where to get it, how to hold on to it, and, in the end, how to cast it out before it got too boring. In short: he had the air of something dangerous without being daunting. His gaze was always a little too serious.I found his nose very erotic. It had a little bump that he’d acquired in a fight in a rural disco that he had started himself.
    Even though it had been a long time since we broke up, from time to time I reflexively reached out for him. Sometimes when I felt his body close or when I looked at him for too long, everything was back: love and lust and hunger and greed. Besides, we’d hurt each other so deeply