All Russians Love Birch Trees by Olga Grjasnowa Page B

her large body, hugged me, and said, “I hope you’ll come back.” With these words she left the room.
    “ Alors ,” I said and took a bite of the pancake that had been sitting on my plate.
    “How are you?” Sami asked after a while.
    “Hungover.”
    Sami stirred his coffee noisily. He stood up, opened the fridge, took out some jam and put it on the table. He stopped behind my chair and massaged my shoulders. I didn’t move. Sami kissed the part in my hair, gentle and exploratory. I felt his warm breath on my neck and tightened all my muscles to keep from reacting. His hands left my back and he returned to his seat across from me.
    I stayed where I was, paralyzed, unable to say anything. Sami took the jam and looked at the back of the jar, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. He read: “ ‘Arabic Dream—Peach fruit spread with vanilla and a hint of coffee. Our fruit spreads are made from handpicked fresh fruit from the garden, the local region or mixed orchards.’ What are mixed orchards?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    “ ‘… which are then turned into exquisite compositions by partially blending them with exotic fruit.’ Do you think the exotic fruit are also grown on local mixed orchards? ‘A high fruit rate, a pleasant sweetness without artificial additives mark the hand-stirred specialty of our artisanal jam production.’ Something is not right about the grammar here.”
    I wished he would stop reading out loud, but he seemed to enjoy it: “ ‘Not only breakfast, but many othermeals are enriched by fruit spreads. Indulge in the delights of our exquisite compositions.’ What the fuck?”
    “OK. Let’s talk,” I said.
    “Do you want coffee?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “Sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “I could make some. No trouble at all.”
    “Sami.”
    “You could add a spoonful of the Arabic Dream to it.”
    I stood up. He looked at me. “OK, you want to talk.”
    Sami jumped up, poured two cups of coffee, full to the brim. Then he started searching through the drawers, turning his back to me.
    “What are you looking for?” I asked.
    “Sugar,” he said.
    “I don’t take any. As you know.”
    “But I do.”
    “You don’t take sugar in your coffee.”
    He turned around briefly and said, “I do.” Then he resumed digging through the cupboards.
    “No you don’t.”
    “In the States I got into the habit.”
    “You used to find that disgusting. You can’t suddenly like sugar.”
    “Everything there is way too sweet. Why should coffee be an exception?”
    “I can’t imagine that Minna wouldn’t have any sugar,” I said.
    “Maybe she used it up, or I can’t find it. What do I know?”
    “Let’s talk.”
    “Now?”
    “Preferably.”
    “Fuck, I think I have to go to the gas station. We’re all out of sugar.”
    Sami ran out of the kitchen, then I heard the door slam. I raced back into the room, grabbed my things, fell over my own feet, landed flat on the floor in the hallway, and then tried to leave the apartment as quietly as possible. In the stairwell I did my best to avoid another encounter with Sami by climbing up the stairs and waiting one floor up, crouching down while monitoring the staircase. When Sami returned and closed the door behind him, I left my hideout and fled the building.

9
    My subway was late. The stream of pedestrians on the opposite track reminded me of a viscous trail of honey, embedded with a few lonely raisins. The woman across from me was wearing a burka. I could only guess her shape. The veil left a thin slit for her eyes. She was following behind a small man who repeatedly turned to her and the child—a chubby-cheeked boy—seated in the stroller she was pushing. The boy clung to a plastic airplane. I leaned on a blue campaign poster for the conservative party: STOP YPSILANTI, AL-WAZIR AND THE COMMUNISTS!

    When I arrived they were just handing out dinner. A plastic bowl full of brown soup and two slices of wholegrain bread. From the shared bathroom