Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

“Yes,” I replied.

Tal’s dress was light blue. Not dark blue, not ultramarine, not azure, not gray blue. Light blue. She didn’t even look at me. I rummaged through my bag for some benzodiazepine pills, but I couldn’t find any.

“When I arrived in Prague, I knew nothing. I’d never even set foot in a lab before. They were forbidden in Palestine. Israel was afraid schoolkids would learn how to build bombs instead of studying biology.” Tal winced at the word bomb . Maybe she was thinking of her aunt and uncle.

“I was like a Bedouin seeing a city for the first time. I had to learn everything, even how to hold the equipment. When I finally caught up with the other students, the Soviet Union collapsed. As the others were celebrating, I was packing my suitcase. My stipend was through the Communist Party, which had collapsed along with the Soviet Union. I couldn’t afford the tuition. I didn’t have rich parents, or a rich husband. In Palestine, I enrolled to study diplomacy.”

“Why diplomacy of all things?” Yoni asked. He was one of the two guys who had come.

“Why not? There were still no labs so I couldn’t continue my studies, and diplomacy seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Not anymore?”

“Not as long as it contributes to normalization,” said Tal and she looked Salam directly in the eyes. Salam nodded and smiled. They understood each other.

I felt nothing for her anymore. Neither hate nor love, not even affection.

Small groups of men and boys passed me in the opposite direction. Suits, dark mustaches. Most shops were still closed, the sky was gray and I had goose bumps from the cold. I looked down, trying to avoid the long puddles. I was searching for a cafe where a woman by herself wouldn’t get into trouble. It had gotten dark and I knew that what I was doing was pure insanity anyway.

“I’m Ismael.”

He introduced himself in English and I answered in Arabic. Ismael respectfully held out his hand for me to shake. He had a surprisingly limp handshake for a man of his height. He seemed very young.

Once I’d realized that my feelings for Tal had vanished, I’d excused myself, saying I had to go to the bathroom. Then I climbed through the window and ran into the street. Now I was sitting by myself in the center of Ramallah. Surrounded by a dozen men in suits. But Ismael was the only one who spoke to me.

“Where are you from?”

“Germany.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He sat down next to me.

“Where did you learn Arabic? From a man?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

I nodded.

Ismael sighed. “Me, too. Difficult. You don’t look like a German at all.”

“How do Germans look?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Russians?” I asked him. “How do they look?”

He shrugged and said, “Like people who love birch trees.”

“Americans?”

“Look around you. Palestine is full of them.”

“And Palestinians?”

“Like people who are used to waiting a long time.”

I laughed and Ismael grinned, pleased. Leaning back, he lit a cigarette.

“You are cold,” he said.

“No.”

“You are. I can see it. Take my jacket.”

“No.”

Ismael took off his jacket and placed it on the table. I shook my head and the jacket remained where it was. Now we were both cold.

“What are you doing here?”

I smiled and shrugged.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

I shook my head no.

“Do you work here? Are you part of an international organization? Or did you marry a rich Arab?”

Ismael ran his fingers through his hair, slowly and with both hands, his brows furrowed. He had the same gestures as Elisha and a similar voice.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Mostly … I get myself into trouble.” He laughed at his own joke. “I’m a photographer.”

I grinned. It all matched up.

“You’re smiling for no reason. I’m not an artist. I’m a wedding photographer.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Such a question can only come from a German. It pays the bills, that’s what matters most. Well, almost. The middle class in Palestine is pretending to be American high society. Which is good for me, since I’m making money off of that. Tomorrow I’ll take pictures of a wedding here, in a hotel in Ramallah, and the day after tomorrow I’m going to Jenin.”

“I was born in Azerbaijan,” I said.

“That’s far away.”

“Not that far.”

“That’s a Muslim country, isn’t it? Are you a Muslim?” he asked.

“No.”

“Christian?”

I shook my head. Ismael laughed and said, “Great! Then you’re a member of my denomination.”

“What is your denomination?”

“Rastafarian. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No thanks.”

Ismael came back with two cups of Turkish coffee. He set one down in front of me, his eyes meeting mine.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Put on the jacket. You’re shivering. And seriously, what are you doing here?”

“Running away.” The words slipped out.

“From your husband? Did you cheat on him?”

I didn’t answer. Ismael ran both his hands through his hair again.

“Your husband is Arab, right?”

I nodded.

“Oh, man. That’ll end badly, I’m telling you.”

I shook my head and suddenly realized that a tear was running down my face. I couldn’t believe that I was crying over my own lies. I had a German passport, a well-paid job, and an apartment in Tel Aviv. I was free. Instead, I was sitting by myself in a cafe in Ramallah, crying and making up stories for a complete stranger. Just because he resembled Elisha. I felt a pain in my chest, like a needle piercing my lung. Everything went black. I shivered, struggling to remain conscious.

“Do you have anybody you can stay with?” Ismael’s words reverberated, muffled in my head. He put his jacket around my shoulders. I wanted to calm down, swallowed deep breaths, massaged my temples. I tried to look at him, to smile, but the pain grew worse, insistently clawing deeper into my stomach, my lungs, my heart, until my whole body was one black mass of pain.

I slowly breathed in and out — the pain was gone.

It was only then that I opened my eyes. I realized with some relief that I wasn’t in a hospital. I was lying on a sofa in a small, dark room. Ismael sat on the other end of the sofa, making sure that my legs were up. When he saw that I had come to again, he immediately took his hands off of me.

“Where am I?”

“In the cafe’s office,” Ismael whispered. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I got up.

“Where are you going?”

“To settle the bill.”

“I guess you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“I’m fine,” I said as I swayed.

Ismael regarded me seriously.

“And where are you going, anyway?”

I raised my shoulders and let them slump again. “I don’t know.”

“You can stay with me. We can figure it out from there.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll get the car, then I’ll come and pick you up. Do you have any luggage?”

I shook my head. Ismael left the room, then called out from the stairway: “Brave of you to marry an Arab.”

When I woke up it was midnight. I turned on the light. On the nightstand was a plastic bag, the colorful logo of a drugstore printed on the side. In it I found a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, and skin toner. Ismael had thought of everything. I got up and went to the window, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly, like a voyeur. It looked out onto a parking lot. Nine rows of parked cars, illuminated by powerful neon lights and a guard booth with a TV flickering inside.