Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

His absence had come as a shock. It was almost like back when Sibel left. The apartment had been too full of emptiness. Elias hadn’t been there to eat, to sweat, to sleep, to breathe, or to look at me. Everything in our apartment belonged to him. Most of the furniture, the kitchen, the table, the bookshelves. Elias had built our bed himself.

She said she was from northern Germany. She said Rügen, but I didn’t believe her. Her family was Turkish, and very traditional. Three older brothers — all born in Germany, equipped with an old-fashioned sense of honor. Sibel wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or talk with Germans, Yugoslavians, or Russians. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house after dark. One of her brothers accompanied her to school. When he decided that Sibel had looked at her teacher a little too long he branded her back with a flatiron. Sibel’s father was appalled, he walked in circles on the living room carpet and then beat Sibel’s brother. Then he drank some tea and slapped Sibel’s mother in the face, because the tea had cooled too quickly and because she allowed her daughter to dress like a German. Sibel was pulled out of school and her father started researching in an Internet cafe for a husband. Sibel’s father was determined to get a good deal. Even if Sibel wouldn’t get a big dowry, she was a German citizen and therefore attractive to many. Marriage was the only legal way to get into Europe and Europe was the big hope.

Sibel refused the first potential husband and the second as well, and for that she got a beating from her oldest brother. The youngest, a year older than she, held her, slipped his hand in her panties and whispered into her ear: “You are a disgrace to our family. We will kill you.” Her mother said: “He is a good man. He will work for you, protect you. Do you think anybody will fall in love with you, just because you are young and pretty? That he’ll stay with you forever? That he’ll love you? Don’t be so naive. Please don’t be so naive.” Sibel stood facing a mirror and cried because she was naive. Wanted to be.

Sibel ran away and at first stayed with a German friend. But her friend’s parents were afraid of Muslim men, without even needing to be told about Sibel’s own experience with Muslim men. Or about Islam. After three days Sibel was back out on the street. Bitter and alone.

She only wore dresses, skirts, silk blouses, and shoes with shiny buckles. She walked on tiny, clattering heels and looked like candy. Innocent, irresistible, and absolute. Twice she fucked my lovers. I had hated her for it, in a Germanly thorough fashion. But I couldn’t stop desiring her. The apartment and landline were in my name. I did money transfers for her and when she had to go to the doctor she borrowed my insurance card.

She slept without a cover. Her underwear shimmered dusky pink. No, she only pretended to be asleep. For a long time I looked at her skinny body, the bent knees and the straight dark hair that spilled across her pillow. The curtains were drawn and the room was bathed in a soft light. We’d had a week of beautiful weather. Nothing in the sky moved. The closest thing to a cloud was the occasional vapor trail from a plane. Sibel breathed calmly and regularly, didn’t hear the buzz of the house-flies. I pulled my dress over my head. In the window across the street the curtain moved. I unhooked my bra, took off my panties, and sat down on the bed. I leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. She smiled without opening her eyes. I traced her areolas with my fingers.

“You dirty little thing,” she whispered into my ear and laughed. “Did you know that Kurdish girls always kiss each other on the mouth, as a substitute for real sex? They can’t afford riding lessons.”

“Are you a Kurd, Sibel?”

She looked at me, grinned, but didn’t answer. Then she turned over onto her stomach. Her entire body was covered with scars.

The calls had started when we made love almost every night, first in the middle of the night, then on late mornings, then during the day. The caller didn’t say anything. We heard nothing but his heavy breathing. Sibel started leaving the lights on in the hallway at night and didn’t leave the house by herself anymore. She took taxis, even if her trip would only take her five minutes on foot.

One evening the entire apartment went dark. At the same moment, Sibel’s cellphone rang. The number was blocked. On the other end, somebody breathed heavily and remained silent.

“My brother works for the secret service!” Sibel yelled, as I fumbled with the fuse box. I was almost as scared as she was, if for different reasons.

When I came home from school the next day, Sibel was gone. She had taken with her her shimmery dresses, hair clips, cosmetics, and perfume samples, as well as my passport, my insurance card, and cash.

I met with Sami in a small cider bar that smelled of beer and frying oil. Nonetheless it seemed to be very popular with the local alcoholics and tourists. We sat at the last free table, right by the swinging door that led to the kitchen and the bathrooms. The regulars wore sweatpants and sweatshirts. A group of Irish tourists provided some variety, commenting loudly on their hotel and World War II. Older gentlemen with reddish faces and good spirits. I forgot who had suggested this as a meeting place, Sami or me. At least we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew.

Two waitresses lingered behind the bar, giggling. The older one sported a leathery tan and blue eyeliner. The younger looked like she still stood a chance. Although the bar was packed, they didn’t have a lot to do. The guests didn’t order much. The younger one glanced at Sami and approached our table.

Earlier, Elias had sat on the sofa while I got ready. I’d put on a tight dress, rouge, and a bit of perfume behind the ears. All for another guy. Where was I going? he’d asked. I’m meeting Sami, I’d answered, and tried to hide my nervousness. But Elias understood anyway. Angrily remained silent. He had used up all his energy on the fifteen steps it took him to get from our bedroom to the living room.

Now, sitting across from Sami, I remained quiet, still feeling Elias’s eyes on me. A cross adorned with rhinestones dangled over the waitress’s generous cleavage. Both of us ordered cider, although neither of us liked it.

“My visa application was rejected,” Sami said. Deep shadows hung under his eyes. He sat across from me with hanging shoulders and held my hands in his.

“Again?”

The waitress placed the two ciders in front of us and smiled at Sami, but he ignored her flirtation. The glasses were scratched. Sami had been my first boyfriend. Before him, love had always ended in rejection.

“Now what?” I said.

“I’ll definitely lose this semester. I just hope it won’t be an entire year. I don’t want to be thrown out of the Ph.D. program.” His voice sounded tired and uncertain. In the past he’d been the stronger one, always busy and determined. The one who blazed his trail undeterred.

I wanted to say something encouraging, anything that would wipe away his resigned expression. “Do you think they’d throw you out?” I asked instead and bit my lip.

He gave a little laugh: “It would be a miracle if they didn’t.”

Sami clinked his glass with mine and drank. I had expected that the meeting would be strange, or at least awkward, but everything felt natural. I stroked Sami’s cheek. He turned my hand over and pulled it closer to his nose.

“You smell good.”

“I smell like I always do.”

“That’s what I mean.”

I pulled my hand back, shifting nervously on my chair.

Sami put his hands on the table, looked at them, and said: “I can’t sleep. I drift off, but in the middle of the night I get up again. Wide awake. I lie on the couch in my parents’ living room and can’t figure things out. I don’t know what to do with myself. I pace the apartment, read magazines and novels. Mostly Russian ones.” Sami paused and looked me directly in the eyes. I didn’t avoid his gaze.