Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

I laughed. I couldn’t believe something like this was happening again at the very same airport. My laughter was so contagious that even the tour group joined in. I approached the security guards. Confused, they let go of Ori. One pointed his gun at me and I swallowed down my laughter. But then I started up again. I finally stopped for good when I saw Ori’s hurt and humiliated look.

Afterward, we sat in the manager’s office. Neither the office nor the manager had changed since the execution of my laptop.

On the table in front of us sat salty cookies and a thermos full of coffee. Ori kept on shaking his head and the manager kept on smiling at me in a professionally encouraging way. He wore a shiny gray suit and big sunglasses, pushed up on his bald shaved head.

“How are you liking Israel?” the manager asked, offering the plate of cookies. I took three and ate them quickly — it was the first thing I’d eaten since last night.

“You got a tan,” the manager remarked, clearly pleased. He had recognized me, too.

“You think?” I looked at my upper arms. Indeed they’d turned a few shades darker over the last months.

“Suits you.” The manager grinned.

“Thanks.”

“How long is this going to take?” Ori interjected.

“Could take a while,” I answered and the manager nodded in agreement.

“And what about your computer? Did you get compensated?” he said.

“Last month.”

“Glad to hear it.” The manager’s smile widened.

“I had to wait four months and then I only got eighty percent of the purchase price. Not exactly wonderful.”

“Do you have any idea how long my grandfather had to wait until he got his reparations from Germany?” The manager said with only a monotone laugh.

“Doesn’t work,” Ori said. “She’s Jewish.”

“Oh, then you’re not a shiksa?” the manager asked.

“Her grandparents are Holocaust survivors,” Ori said.

“ Ori! ” I yelled at him.

“What? If we have to play Jew-Monopoly, then let’s at least play fair.”

“Would you like another cookie?” the manager asked.

I took one. It was already soggy.

When I wasn’t at work and it wasn’t too hot I went on walks through Tel Aviv. That summer Jesus sat at the entrance to the market, right next to the intersection of three busy streets. The messiah was a burly guy with coarse features and long blond hair, clad in a toga made from red velvet. In the first days after his arrival he was sweating horribly and always had a bottle of water nearby. After a while a few hippies gathered around him. The tourists followed and Jesus started lecturing on the meaning of life. Now he needed a lot less water.

Tal was still gone. She didn’t call me and didn’t answer a single one of my thirty-three texts. Since Elisha’s death, her hand on my hip as we fell asleep, our breathing in sync, had been the first thing that had felt right. Every evening I hoped that she would come back. Every morning I walked past her house to see if she had returned.

The Carmel Market provided a reprieve from the hot sun and the air smelled of fruit. Oranges, watermelons, and cactus fruit glowed. Vendors proclaimed their love for each potential customer. I flirted in Arabic and Hebrew and still paid more than old, glum Russian men who slowly slid the coins through their hands and went for a swim in the ocean at seven a.m. I also loved the juice stands on every corner, which were predominantly manned by guys with remarkably hairy arms. At these stands the oranges were cut in half and squished by the juice presses. A bit like a guillotine. The shiny orange peel fell into the trash.

Honestly, every day was equally shitty. I stared at my cellphone as if I could conjure up a call. I checked my e-mails every fifteen minutes and ran to the window every time I heard a motorcycle pass by. Which happened quite frequently, since I lived on a major road.

I made one more attempt to visit Aunt No. 13. At the checkpoint I got off the bus, but just couldn’t bring myself to enter the settlement. Not necessarily because of Tal, but because of three young Palestinians who were waiting in front of the fence for an Israeli employer who would take them to a construction site. Illegal labor in an illegal settlement. I took a taxi back to Tel Aviv.

Hannah had also lost interest in me. She never called anymore and if I called she was always short with me. The reasons she gave were work, her boyfriend, and the dog she didn’t have. I didn’t know what had happened, or if anything had happened at all. I was looking for a reason for her loss of interest.

Months later I ran into Hannah on the street, her belly round like a globe. I hadn’t known about her pregnancy and was hurt. A week later she called and I got an invitation to the baby shower, which I politely declined.

I hit rock bottom one day while lying on the beach. In front of me sat two tourists, tightly entwined in an embrace. She was tall, blond, about fifty, and with freckles all over her back. He had only a little hair left, a heavy gold necklace, around seventy. Both were raptly watching a game of matkot, their heads turning from side to side, in sync, following the ball. When the ball was out, both shook their heads in disappointment.

The woman lying in front of me turned onto her back and I thought of Anne Frank. At age eleven I had read her diary and understood that I wasn’t the only woman who desired women and that these feelings didn’t exclude the others. The homoerotic passages in her diary had reassured and aroused me, just like the woman who lay in front of me and, spreading her legs, so enticingly presented her pelvis. I’d been watching her for half an hour already. The sky was completely clear again, not a single cloud, and despite it being only morning, the sun already burned down.

My cellphone vibrated, Sami’s name on the display. It had been a long time since we’d talked and I was excited and excited and excited to see his call. Then I held my breath and hoped that he wouldn’t notice.

He asked whether we could meet in Vienna.

“Come on, seriously? Why don’t you come here instead?” I answered.

“With my kind of passport? Thanks, but no thanks. In case it slipped your mind, I was born in Beirut.”

“But I would love to see you,” I couldn’t help saying.

“I just sent you the booking confirmation.”

“What booking confirmation?”

“For the hotel and flight.”

The woman in front of me turned around and was now lying on her stomach.

“Cem and I have signed you up for an exam.”

“What kind of exam?”

“The United Nations Competitive Examination for Russian Language Interpreters, in Vienna.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Sami, I’m not prepared at all.”

“Come on. Cem also thinks you need to get out of the Middle East.”

“Cem is from the Middle East himself. And you guys can’t just enroll me for an exam.”

“Not true.” Sami was laughing now. “We forged your signature.”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago, when Cem was visiting you.”

“Are you guys completely out of your minds?”

“Are you coming?”

“What I wanted to tell you …”

“Yes?”

There was a pause. I heard Sami’s breath and had all possibilities right at the tip of my tongue, and all I said was, “I’m not prepared.”

My boss was a small, pudgy man with a slight paunch and expensive suits made from light fabrics. He had asked me to come into his office for a serious talk. Serious talk were his words. I was afraid that meant he’d finally discovered just how superfluous my job was. When I entered he was standing behind his desk. With his right hand he pointed toward two armchairs in the corner. Above us hung a portrait of the chancellor.