8
4ajbukisja. Or: Orient meets Occident. A Hint of Home
4ajbukisja was a belly dancer.
And she was beautiful, the most beautiful young woman in her home village, it would later be said.
Even when she had her hair cut boyishly short at the nape and longer (up to three centimeters) on top, and although she was of slender build, her femininity could be perceived from several meters away. Today, twenty years later, gender boundaries are less strictly defined, and one might notice her appearance without any reaction.
Perhaps - because she is no longer here.
She, whose performance leaves no one indifferent: her belly dance in the kindergarten of 4ajbukoshka, who feels a bit embarrassed for her but then joyfully joins in.
4ajbukisja is wrapped in colorful scarves, with which she plays and decorates a bikini by Verena. Her belly undulates and makes wild movements in all directions. It seems she can direct her hips and belly with her hands and has bones made of rubber.
The song for the performance, Tarkan's "Şımarık," will be stored in 4ajbukoshka's mind for a long time as "Mwah mwah," and when someone asks, she will murmur, "Tshinga dadinga tshickahaha..." it couldn't be more Occidental. And yet it is actually Turkish.
A hint of vanilla surrounds 4ajbukisja as her dance begins - and leaves as the last spectator departs the audience, after a thunderous applause.
The audience, consisting of showcase Brigittes and Sabines, joins in the dance even before some of 4ajbukisja's scarves fall, and she throws them into the crowd while laughing wildly.
This performance should be one of the last times 4ajbukoshka encountered her:
this not classically beautiful, yet exceedingly lovely woman with black, wavy hair, striking, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, and a subtle tan, which is perhaps accentuated by her freckles.
She looks oriental - and yet she is not.
In fact, she tries her best most of the time to be as German as possible (unless it’s about the multilingual upbringing of 4ajbukoshka).
Her temperament is not always easy to hide, and so one often hits a wall or gets a full blast of pepper in the face. A sweet (mandarin), she is not. She is a cheeky little fruit that only sparingly uses her charm: enough to turn men's heads, but not enough to be taken lightly by anyone, women or men.
Next to her, the brightest orchid looks pale, and even the fresh bouquets of flowers that 4ajbukoshka or some admirers shyly present to her cannot overshadow her.
She with vanilla-colored skin and lips like rosewood.
4ajbukisja: A piece of the Orient in the Occident. One. Meter. Fifty-six. Full power.
Somehow she seems out of place wherever she goes: in the Orient, she is Occident, in the Occident, Orient. A stranger at home.
She may convey an appearance of calm and strength. What is going on inside her, no one will ever know. In 4ajbukoshka's memory, she is old, although she has only recently blown out the '0' on her birthday cake for the second time.
Isn't it usually the case that one takes things for granted until they are no longer there?
The monthly performance of that one woman who is no longer here.
She had the evil eye but a loving heart, somewhere beneath what was seen, smelled, and heard.
And all that will remain in the future is the memory and the information "was discontinued."
And she was beautiful, the most beautiful young woman in her home village, it would later be said.
Even when she had her hair cut boyishly short at the nape and longer (up to three centimeters) on top, and although she was of slender build, her femininity could be perceived from several meters away. Today, twenty years later, gender boundaries are less strictly defined, and one might notice her appearance without any reaction.
Perhaps - because she is no longer here.
She, whose performance leaves no one indifferent: her belly dance in the kindergarten of 4ajbukoshka, who feels a bit embarrassed for her but then joyfully joins in.
4ajbukisja is wrapped in colorful scarves, with which she plays and decorates a bikini by Verena. Her belly undulates and makes wild movements in all directions. It seems she can direct her hips and belly with her hands and has bones made of rubber.
The song for the performance, Tarkan's "Şımarık," will be stored in 4ajbukoshka's mind for a long time as "Mwah mwah," and when someone asks, she will murmur, "Tshinga dadinga tshickahaha..." it couldn't be more Occidental. And yet it is actually Turkish.
A hint of vanilla surrounds 4ajbukisja as her dance begins - and leaves as the last spectator departs the audience, after a thunderous applause.
The audience, consisting of showcase Brigittes and Sabines, joins in the dance even before some of 4ajbukisja's scarves fall, and she throws them into the crowd while laughing wildly.
This performance should be one of the last times 4ajbukoshka encountered her:
this not classically beautiful, yet exceedingly lovely woman with black, wavy hair, striking, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, and a subtle tan, which is perhaps accentuated by her freckles.
She looks oriental - and yet she is not.
In fact, she tries her best most of the time to be as German as possible (unless it’s about the multilingual upbringing of 4ajbukoshka).
Her temperament is not always easy to hide, and so one often hits a wall or gets a full blast of pepper in the face. A sweet (mandarin), she is not. She is a cheeky little fruit that only sparingly uses her charm: enough to turn men's heads, but not enough to be taken lightly by anyone, women or men.
Next to her, the brightest orchid looks pale, and even the fresh bouquets of flowers that 4ajbukoshka or some admirers shyly present to her cannot overshadow her.
She with vanilla-colored skin and lips like rosewood.
4ajbukisja: A piece of the Orient in the Occident. One. Meter. Fifty-six. Full power.
Somehow she seems out of place wherever she goes: in the Orient, she is Occident, in the Occident, Orient. A stranger at home.
She may convey an appearance of calm and strength. What is going on inside her, no one will ever know. In 4ajbukoshka's memory, she is old, although she has only recently blown out the '0' on her birthday cake for the second time.
Isn't it usually the case that one takes things for granted until they are no longer there?
The monthly performance of that one woman who is no longer here.
She had the evil eye but a loving heart, somewhere beneath what was seen, smelled, and heard.
And all that will remain in the future is the memory and the information "was discontinued."
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Absence of a fragrance...