All Russians Love Birch Trees Read Online Free Page A

degree: interpretation and Arabic.
    The librarian wore large horn-rimmed glasses and stared at my T-shirt. I pushed the books toward him. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. They’re beautiful. Your breasts, I mean.”
    I looked him straight in the eyes—they were cold and gray. Obviously he was at ease, didn’t feel embarrassed or caught in the act, and smilingly handed methe books. Probably he had deconstructed his own sexism and now felt that he could get away with anything. I was tempted to drop the heavy stack of art monographs onto his fingers, but he withdrew his hands just in time. Then I thought about spitting at him, but that seemed a little overly theatrical.
    I was so angry that I walked the entire way to the university. I hoped that would calm me down. On foot it took an hour. I had to cross the crowded downtown and financial districts. En route I was asked to donate money three times, smiled at six times, two people asked for a cigarette, three people asked me for a euro, and an aging hippie asked me to give him a tantra massage. I was too late for my seminar and my French translation was subadequate. In general, I wasn’t in the mood for Simultaneous Interpretation French–German III and Introduction à la problématique des techniques industrielles . Or any translation for that matter.
    My professor asked me to come to his office hours. Over the course of my studies I had never gotten worse than a 3.7 and that was by accident in the first semester. This afternoon he would be sitting across from me, stirring his spoon around his blue mug and asking me to work harder. Then he would inquireabout vineyards in Azerbaijan and would pity me for becoming multilingual so late in life. I would never be a native speaker, nothing to be done about that. And I would remain silent and stir my unsweetened tea and not mention the superb cognac from Ganja. A cognac that is available neither in an elegant bottle nor at a fancy specialty shop on Fressgass Street, but only in Ganja and only in small canisters that are mailed exclusively to real connoisseurs or close relatives. I furthermore would abstain from mentioning that I didn’t learn Azerbaijani from my parents, but from our neighbors, and that I’d spoken it fluently and without an accent until we emigrated to Germany, where I no longer had a reason to speak it in my daily life anymore. And I would leave him in the dark about the fact that in Azerbaijan, starting at age five, I had a private tutor in English and French and that my mother had to sell her mother’s diamond ring to pay for it. I wouldn’t tell him that people who live without running water aren’t necessarily uneducated. But my professor was my professor. He sponsored foster children in Africa and India. His multiculturalism took place in congress halls, convention centers, and expensive hotels. To him integration meant demanding fewer hijabs and more skin, hunting for exclusive wines and exotic travel destinations.

    When I arrived at the hospital I was even angrier. Rainer said that Elias was in the middle of an examination. Heinz added, winking: “It might take a while. But don’t worry, stay with us. We’ll take care of you.” Both laughed.
    I slammed my books on the table and went straight back out. There was a little park between the different wards, but it wasn’t quiet there either. The benches were constantly occupied by old people, the narrow paths congested with wheelchairs. I sat down on the only free bench and lit a cigarette. Not five minutes later a delicate old lady with a colorful hijab and golden front teeth sat down next to me. From her hospital pajamas she produced a bag of sunflower seeds, cracked them in her mouth, and spit the empty shells onto the ground directly in front of my feet.
    “It’s not allowed inside anymore. The neighbors complain to the doctor.”
    I replied in Russian, and her face lit up. She waved the bag of sunflower seeds in my face.
    “Do you have a