Vitaliy Romanov. Iranskaya
Chapter 7:
Nyusha
*Not young, but attractive, sociable, cheerful, with a good sense of humor—and a fully “made” Iranian woman. A deceiver and a liar.
Her intelligence was below average, like that of many local women. Cunning. But you understand—when intelligence is low and cunning is high, at the very least it’s funny. Especially for me, a man born and raised in Odessa. Women from Odessa are more beautiful and far more cunning. I arrived at the first date with Sayud—my good friend. He stays with us in the story, so more about him later. The three of us went to a small restaurant. After Odessa, it was an ordinary place with a bar counter—some kind of lounge café called Riva. This is where the city party crowd tries to meet people. But after Odessa, none of this was interesting. We danced; she drank a lot, I didn’t—because I was driving. I drove her home. In the car there was a sour smell of alcohol coming from the reworked mouth of the Persian princess. I didn’t even kiss her. Good night, see you tomorrow. Nothing interesting.
We started texting. She said she wasn’t Iranian but Persian, and that she was considered extraordinarily beautiful because she had big eyes. She was not my dream woman. But for lack of something better, I started seeing her. She constantly lied, telling me how “everything should be done here in Germany.” She said I understood nothing and had to accept my new life.
On the next dates, when I tried to touch her silicone breasts, Nyusha said I shouldn’t even hope for anything and should prepare myself for the fact that there would be no sex for the next several months. After dates with this untouchable woman, I went straight to a brothel. Once, I was there with a German woman. A student. Nineteen years old. Yes, yes—don’t be surprised. They exist there too. Studying and education don’t feed you, and you still have to eat. By the way, if I had seen her on the street, I would never have thought she was a prostitute. We don’t see them on the streets at all. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Female prostitutes don’t ride trams or trains.
That was how I responded to lies. Nyusha didn’t know about this and thought I had fallen in love with her. Now she could deceive me and pump money out of me. That is prostitution as well. She told me she had been alone for ten years and worked at some very large but little-known company. Of course, she was lying. I never did find out where she worked.
When her boss came to town, we weren’t allowed to see each other. This could last up to a week. One can only guess about the nature of their working relationship. Nyusha was with him around the clock. Then he would leave, and we were together again. She dragged me to restaurants, dreamed with me about traveling. A bit later, I would take her to Milan for a week, with a three-day stop in Lugano. And that wasn’t the only trip.
On Fridays, the Persian princess would suddenly have a lot of urgent matters, and we couldn’t meet because of her endless business negotiations. On Saturday morning, she would call me and tell me something in a sleepy, hoarse voice. That meant she had spent the whole night at Riva or at Meer Bar. The deceiver was trying to turn me into a “Sunday Freund”—someone to recover with after parties, sobering up with me in not-cheap fish restaurants in the Netherlands. And I have to admit—she succeeded. Sometimes she looked strangely at my hands, and specifically at my fingernails.