Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (12 page)

‘Zhana has already called me and explained what happened. She is very upset.’ Alessiya winked at Rita who looked as if the governor was on the line while she waited for the verdict of her death-row plea bargain.

              ‘I am upset too’ Bronte replied. ‘I have almost a week remaining and I don’t want to be alone. I was hoping the agency can help me meet someone else.’

              ‘Why do you want to meet with another woman? Zhana is a nice girl, don’t you agree? And she is very sad about what happened.’

Rita is a young bitch. I wanted to slap her.
‘Zhana and I are not suitable for each other and really, she is too young,’ Bronte replied emphatically.

              ‘She was upset that you thought she should have sex for money’.

Bronte pulled the receiver away from his mouth while he cursed,

Stupid bitch. She thought I was an Australian ATM with legs. Do I have ‘Bankomat’ stamped on my forehead?
‘That is not true. I only said I would not give her money while we did not have a relationship. Zhana is too young… I mean, how hold is she Oly, twenty two?’

              ‘Bronte she is very sorry for the misunderstanding.’ Alessiya looked at Rita and with cupped phone again, whispered ‘smart boy guessed your age.’ Rolling her eyes and pulling a face simultaneously she continued,

‘She wants to come to you and cook. Maybe you can watch a video together?’ Rita sat wide eyed, nodding her approval at the suggestion of community service and not the death of some income.

             
‘Oly please, help me here. I’d really like to meet someone else. We are not suited and Zhana is too young. I don’t even like her…. and she made it clear she doesn’t like me.’

Alessiya looked away from Rita who still sat on the edge of a flat world waiting for a lifeline, watching dollars fall over her horizon.

              ‘Bronte you chose to arrive here and meet Zhana and then you were angry and rude to her. She is very upset and wishes to see you tonight. If you do not want this, there is nothing I can do for you...’

‘Alessiya I do not believe that Zhana really wished to be with me. Surely you have other women more suitable on the agency books … maybe someone would like to meet an Australian man… you can introduce us? I mean… I really do not wish to pursue things with Zhana… or Rita.’

‘Well I am sorry to hear that but there is nothing I can help you with now. Goodbye Bronte.’

The line went dead leaving him standing like a street sign, Dumb and Dumber. His plan A had turned out a total shambles and now his plan B had just been blown to smithereens by a scud from a Russian Marriage Agency. And what sort of a professional operation had no available or suitable women on its books? It really pissed him off that she had virtually hung up on him. He looked for the number again to call her back, at least wanting the last say.

Meanwhile, Alessiya was annoyed that the young student sitting to her right had not handled her first real assignment at all well. Certainly not in the fashion she taught or practiced. And now Alessiya was taking his rejection and her failure to rectify the situation personally. Until this episode, she could always salvage things with any man. Bronte was just about to call her back when his phone rang.

              ‘By the way, I forgot to mention that your rent expires tomorrow. You must be out of your apartment by twelve o’clock. Thanks.’ She hung up on him again.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Somewhere else, the real Zhana had also just rung off from a call with her good friend Katya. They’d made plans to meet in the park and have supper. Zhana hadn’t seen Katya for the four months she’d been in Holland with her fiancé. So much had happened for Zhana since they last spoke that they were both eager to tell their tales. More than ever they shared something in common – they both had foreign fiancés. Zhana revealed only a little over the phone, saying she would explain all her news at their get together.

              Katya wrote and spoke English fluently, so she had no trouble communicating with her English speaking Dutchman. She’d previously been employed by Alessiya to do English translations, paid per letter as required. The work lasted about 3 months until Katya lost interest after realising the degree of deception taking place. She wished to have no part of it. After she left, Alessiya started doing the translations herself, becoming an attentive student when each of her
clients
arrived to her. English was almost always the second language for a foreign man wishing to meet a Russian woman on the net and after Katya left, Alessiya virtually insisted on it.

              Zhana unravelled the damp towel around her head and went to work with the hot drier, thankful that doing her hair was not an elaborate procedure. Thick and long with a natural wave and curl, training it to do much else was futile. Untamed, it was indeed her crowning glory and a vivid indication of the animated character it adorned. Like her hair, it would take a lion tamer to subdue her and if her week with Willy had told her anything, he was not the type to possess the leather boots, chair and a whip. Her father used to say she should learn piano but sadly for her, she never did. That part of her life still remained a dream. Even her fantasy marriage proposal had been a serenade by her singing, piano playing lover. Willy went close, having planned to pop the question over dinner in a posh restaurant complete with piano bar and overlooking the river in Moscow. But he went weak at the knees. The lion tamer within deserted him, right when he needed him most. He summoned the courage the morning of departure while she bathed.
Some romantic marriage proposal
she smiled!

Her father died when she was 10, distinctly the worst day of her life. That day, her life and family were thrown into everlasting turmoil. Prior to the accident, she used to walk to church on Sundays with her grandmother. She enjoyed the entire routine immensely. Church was strange and mysterious for a young girl like Zhana. She marvelled at the temple structure with its enormous ceilings, its amazing art work, the different incense and aromas, the strange singing, the priests’ alien like attire and the tinkling bells. She loved it when grandma took a candle and then allowed her to light it. But her favourite of all was when she got to buy ice cream on the way home. For the young Russian girl with the cute pigtails growing up in the country, that was the highlight of her entire week.

She recalled her youth prior to losing her father with fondness. She had been daddy’s girl. Her mum was always the one to scold while Papa never raised his voice. One time mum sent her to the shops and when she came home with candy and insufficient change, she copped a terrible mouth-full from her mother who kept repeating,
do you think money grows on trees?
Later Papa called her outside and insisted she cover her wet and miserable eyes so she couldn’t peek. He led her to an orange tree in the garden and when told she could take a look, sad little Zhana was amazed to see money growing from all the oranges. Money indeed grew on trees and papa had stuck notes there to prove it. Now, she guessed it was probably why her small office at work was always smothered in ‘Post-its’.

But the happy memories also passed away with papa and Zhana and Grandma ceased attending church altogether. She hadn’t been once since his death, other than for weddings or the odd funeral. She used to pray before sleeping every night but after his death, she had stopped believing in God completely. No good God could be so cruel to allow a drunk driver to slam her father onto the road while he loaded the family groceries into the back seat of the car. It took her all of one year to accept papa wouldn’t simply walk through the door again. It wasn’t such a theological matter for the grandmother however. It was simply the fact that the drunken killer of her son was also a priest and blood was thicker than water. From that day, granny said she and the family had a feud with the church.

              Zhana did a final take in the mirror and pleased with what she saw, grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. Closing it behind her, she pulled the hood over her head. Though cold out, there was an unfamiliar chill in the air that particular evening.

The face on the TV jabbered on about some choice some guest had to make to win some amount of money. Bronte really had no idea what the game show was, but it appeared to be a Russian version of
Jeopardy
broadcast live from a
Jerry Springer
type set. The host looked like
Jay
Leno
with a double chin. Not that any of it mattered, for as far as Bronte was concerned, the lights were on but no one was home. He was some place else.

The couch had become a mire of quicksand and unless he could get off the thing soon, it would no doubt swallow him. Drowning in a sea of padded green leather, it was sucking the life out of him slowly, painlessly, relentlessly. There was simply no respite from the sinking, depressed feeling that gripped him. Bronte had no plan C and now, no energy or will to even attempt to devise one. In fact, he couldn’t even muster sufficient motivation to head out and drink beer.

His life was in the gutter and the street sweeper had just washed over it. His great Russian love adventure had become The Holiday from hell. He could see it all unfolding. It would be screened in Australia on
The Crime and Investigation Channel
as a serious doco about Russian love traps. And it would screen in Russia as a sitcom and become a national hit.

              He must have spent at least an hour lying on that couch just bashing himself up. While he flicked through TV stations again and again, he called himself for every possible slur he could think of. He was an idiot, a moron, a sucker, a stooge, a dim wit, a dip-shit! How did he walk into such a crazy situation? How did he manage to stumble into this place? What did he do to deserve this crap?

He was paraplegic with the stark emptiness of his predicament as his spirit drowned in the swamp of that couch. These were the first feelings of depression and failure Bronte had suffered in as long as he could remember. As a young man, he found he could target almost any girl he wanted and win a date. Now, he couldn’t even buy companionship which was tragic considering he had tried to buy it, sending Zhana the $1500 for her nose, money for her internet and now buying those bloody boots. …
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
. Bronte cursed again.

              Finally the urge to relieve himself got him off the couch. And all the while the Sinatra song kept repeating in his head. Standing at the vitreous china bowl doing his thing, he began to sing out loud, ‘These boots were made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do!’ Yes, to hell with the apartment and the situation that ultimately he had dumped himself in. He would take matters into his own hands and get out of there. That damn agency and all its women with too many pseudonyms could go to hell for all he cared. It was time to take a walk, maybe meet some genuine woman who’d help redeem his holiday from the complete damnation it faced. If he set his mind to it, he knew something might eventuate. Maybe the girls he’d met with Rolf would be back in that café? There had to be someone out there, some decent, attractive woman who wanted to meet a sincere foreign man. He simply knew it! Now, if only he could find her.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

‘If you’re talking about when you blew it, your first mistake was admitting you did not write the letters…’ she was speaking very quietly. Although the teller was behind the counter and barrier, Alessiya’s words were intended only for Rita who stood next to her. They were waiting to collect money wired from the USA that day. Alessiya continued, ‘But I’m not talking about when… all those mishaps were not why you lost him. You didn’t win his….’ she glanced at the teller who was still writing in a ledger ‘…you didn’t win his penis.’ The teller looked up, said nothing and shoved a wad of notes under the screen.

              ‘Wow, how much money was that you just got?’ Rita’s eyes looked like they had been blown out from the inside of her head. They were bulging, straining to take a look at the sum Alessiya was already counting. It always paid to check and they both knew that.

              ‘One thousand dollars. One man sends one thousand dollars every month’ she stated proudly, like the instigator and benefactor of a major corporate business coup.

              ‘That’s fan-tas-tic’ Rita said slowly, drawing out the syllables. So impressed, she couldn’t possibly have said it any faster.

              ‘Another from Germany sends me 800 Euro, and one or two from USA send $500. It’s not much, but the other sixteen or so start to add up’, she giggled. ‘All there, lets go.’

She folded the money and started to descend the stairs leading away from the Western Union money exchange office, situated on the ground floor of an old hotel.

Western Union was the preferred method of money redemption for the scamming industry – paid always and only in cash. All cons preferred Western Union and the fact there were offices all over Russia said Western Union and the Russian Federation loved each other. As long as the amounts were under $1000, there was even a minimum of ID needed. Best of all, there was no fear of tax audits or questions from powers with the interest and ability to crawl under the skin of any man’s affairs. It was important she remembered that what she was doing was illegal after all.

In Russia she could be charged with what is commonly termed ‘swindling’, as one who had taken money by false or deceptive claims. And there were typically two types of swindlers. First, those that duped men out of money via services like Western Union; money for visas, air tickets, family illnesses, accidents, cosmetic surgeries and one million possibilities limited only by the deceptive imagination. Second the ‘gold diggers’ - those who entertained men while they visited screwing them in more ways than just sex. This method was more demanding physically and emotionally and required fearless deception and pretence. It was also more fun. Alessiya had both practices well polished.

The consequences of getting caught receiving money fraudulently from numerous men every month was not enough for her to even break sweat, least of all lose sleep. That would not send her to jail in a worse case event – even if every man found her out at the same time and took action. After all, what could they prove? How many would travel to Russia to stand in front of a Russian magistrate and listen to the defence and prosecution go at it in Martian? Even if they did, what could they do? Act like kids who lost at marbles? Complain through a Russian public defendant who’d know little more English than ‘Would you like some cream with your coffee’, that they should be the only one in her romantic game? No, they’d all write off being duped silently and do nothing. So getting busted barely raised a shudder of remorse or dread for Alessiya. And definitely no pangs from a bad conscience.

But this time she knew she’d taken the game beyond the rule book by instigating the unlawful and unauthorized use of another’s identity with the purpose of gaining money by deception. With that ploy, she would definitely win qualification as a swindler. In that event, she more feared someone asking about all her money and wanting to see evidence of its origins – someone like the Tax administrators for example. She used the Marriage Agency as a tax shelter and concocted all manner of paperwork to launder her excessive cash income.

She owned three or four apartments, a decent car, had three mobile phones, six Pentium computers, thirty four pairs of Italian shoes and selected boots, wardrobes of designer label clothes, D & G sunglasses and every reputable and expensive perfume known to man and then some, known only to women. Each apartment had been renovated with new furnishings, appliances, televisions and DVD’s. Her daughter was envied when she announced to school mates she had a Playstation. Even the boys started to like her then. Alessiya admitted unabashedly, she loved her lifestyle and would do anything to protect it - absolutely anything.

She also had a drawer full of gold and diamond jewellery. Each piece, some miserable unsuspecting foreign sucker believed she was wearing for him daily, with love. A perfectly reasonable assumption of course, as no man likes to buy his woman such gifts to see them thrown into her trousseau drawer, buried somewhere beneath underwear. At least Bronte believed Zhana – or Rita - was wearing the nose he gave her, even if he would never see the boots hit the sidewalk.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Funny how things often loathed in childhood grow into assets of wisdom. Bronte had endured religious instruction thanks to his strict and conservative Christian parents. He attended Sunday school, morning church, afternoon youth Bible study and evening church every Sunday with the family until into his teens. By then, he resented his parents insisting he went, especially when the wind and tides were just right and his local surfing break would have perfect waves. Somehow, the surf was invariably crap on Saturday and Monday. Still, this instruction had taught him the value of faith, hope and the love of life.

And from the age of six, they had him taught piano. Growing up, the practice and lesson regimen was a chore. His parents insisted on an hour’s practice every day after school. While he was learning scales, arpeggios and Bach he lost precious play time with boys from the neighbourhood. That was torture until years later in High School classmates overheard him fooling on the concert piano. The girls idolized him after that.  He also played guitar decently enough to play professionally, ‘though he dare not mention that to Rolf the drumming beer tech. So between the religion and music classes, that Sinatra song motivated him to find hope, get out of the apartment that night and take the walk he was starting to enjoy.

He crossed the intersection, rounded the old Krasnaya Kiniteatra and descended the amphitheatre stairs. As he straightened out onto the ancient walkway, a young couple arm in arm and pushing a stroller with baby was a saddening reminder of his miserable loneliness. He swore to himself that he’d never venture onto the net again in search of a woman.

The park on that evening was straight out of a Grimm’s fairytale. Alone at night the place would be spooky. A yellow tinge emitted from the nineteenth century lamps hanging from their elaborate posts and bathed the entire place in an old world tint, like a giant discoloured brown photograph. The massive trees lining the walkway and growing throughout the entire park waved and spoke to each other as the wind gave them arms and voices. Swaying and moving about in the breeze, the place was alive.

This was a world within a world, where lovers strolled in their own cone of silence and sincerity. Springtime was in the air permeating everything, enticing the romantic senses of aged and young alike; except Bronte of course.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Despite the fact Zhana had made a resolution to speak only English when she was next in Katya’s company, they spent the first thirty minutes simply getting reacquainted, babbling in their native language about the previous few months. She respected with a degree of envy her friend’s knowledge of English but now they were together, it was much easier and faster to get all the important stuff out of the way in Russian.

Katya was almost luculent in every sense of the word. Her family life was rich and endowed with luxury compared to the average Russian and she too was voluptuous and well endowed. As a result, she tended to be just one of the girls and downplay her affluent background. She also dressed down to camouflage herself from the relentless radar of spying males. Now as they strolled arm in arm headed for a café, Katya assisted Zhana with some English.

‘How do I say ‘Ya kochu bit s toboi, po angliski’’ Zhana asked.

‘I want to be with you. Kochu means I want, and you know the rest’. Katya’s reply was slow and methodical.

‘And how do I say, ‘moi lubimi mushina’?’

‘My favourite man’ replied Katya.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Bronte wasn’t certain where he was going. Right now he was on a mission to clear his head and drink beer. He had no idea where that would take him but with renewed confidence the liquid amber would provide, he’d see what unfolded. He passed a couple on a bench kissing, their faces glued together. To his right stood a blackened statue of a bucking stallion with some warring, macho Cossack wielding a sword. On the adjacent bench a couple in their seventies sat in silence, smiling and holding hands. They grinned graciously as he passed prompting Bronte to wonder why they shouldn’t erect a monument to them and not the bronze warmonger on the horse.

              Everywhere couples meandered and strolled arm in arm, cuddled on blankets under trees, held hands or kissed on park benches. There were children on bikes, children with kites, footballs and roller-boards. Bronte was almost run over by Batman on a skateboard. In front, two ladies walked at snail pace, arm in arm, lost in the serenity of the place. They meandered so slowly he had to walk off the path to go around them. As he passed them he thought he heard one say, ‘Hello my darling.’ He kept walking but began to slow as he replayed the words.
Did that girl just speak English? Stop, go back and say hello.
He stopped and turned to look at the women who regarded him momentarily. When their gaze met his, he turned and pushed on.
I’m talking to myself
he thought.