Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (8 page)

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The next round the waitress made, Bronte refrained from the goo-goo gaa-gaa and stuck with ordering beer only. He tried to forget about the lonely night before, his day, Rita and the boots. The girls opposite helped keep his mind off these things until he looked at his bill and realized he could have bought about 430 beers for the price of those boots.
Two beers a day for the next 7 months!
The boots were in fact two to three months pay for the average Russian worker.
A lot of money for shoes,
a
lot of bloody money
he thought, considering Zhana appeared to be taking time from work.

The girls on the other table were looking at him again. Was he talking to himself? Was it that obvious? He looked away. And as if the entire journey had been programmed into the matrix, the overhead speakers played English Beatles music. ‘
Lovely Rita meter maid, where would I be without you? Give us a wink and make me think of you…
.’ Where would he be without Rita? He’d be home and at least $375 richer
.
He thought about throwing a chair at the speaker suspended in the corner. From that moment on he decided she was Rita. He’d liked the Zhana he thought he knew but he definitely didn’t like the Zhana he actually knew.

From where Bronte sat in the canteen, it was less than ten minutes walk to Zhana’s house but of course he had no idea of this. Months earlier, she provided all her details including mobile phone and address. But at some point around meeting Lena he contracted a computer virus, it ate all his email and he lost Zhana’s details. In fact, this was the reason he did not even reply to her last few letters. Back then, he had been trying to arrest the invisible worm munching away at microscopic particles of information on his hard drive. It had been man versus computer and man lost.

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Alessiya and Rita sat perched in front of a computer, still sipping sparkling wine.

‘These are the men who send me money each month’. Alessiya began to count, ‘one, two, three…’ she stopped after nineteen.

‘My god, that’s a lot... How do you manage to keep so many men?’ Rita asked aghast, incredulous to the figures she confronted on the screen. Alessiya answered in smug fashion,

‘It’s a fulltime job I assure you. I send a common letter to them all and work on a rotating basis with each one to address specific questions they ask, just so they don’t get suspicious. They all think they are the only one’. She laughed and clicked to view page 2. ‘They each send from $100 to $1000 every month,’ she added proudly before being interrupted by her mobile. The good secretary Rita answered,

‘Da, da… okay, just a moment.’ She pressed the phone against her chest, ‘It’s Anton, Bronte’s in
Fkoosni’s,
drinking alone.’

‘Damn, we could have sent him to Valya. If Anton gets the chance, try and direct him to Valya.’ Alessiya’s wheels were in motion, thoughts and ideas racing around like hooligans in a car park. Rita said a few words then hung up.

‘Anton says that’s easier said than done, and he only has another couple of hours before he starts work’… Looking closely again at the computer screen she continued,

‘At least you know where Bronte is now.’ She paused a moment as if recollecting where she’d left off before Anton called.

‘So, what do you do when they want to visit?’ Rita was trying to get her head around the growth potential of her new career, even glancing at the numbers while she spoke on the phone.

‘It’s obviously very difficult. You know that… it’s why I hired you. I have to go to Moscow again on Friday for 5 days.’ She paused and lit a cigarette. ‘It is not ideal that you met the Australian here. I usually arrange to meet my guys in Moscow. You wouldn’t want to bump into your mum for example while you’re out with him, would you? And you don’t want everyone to see you with a different man every few weeks, sometimes days!’ Alessiya giggled stating firmly, ‘God woman, we are not whores!’

Of course had Rita been privy to details, she’d have known Alessiya had sex with almost all the men who visited. Alessiya realized at an early age the power she could exert over men with the benefit of her prominent female traits. Sometimes not so subtle she could look at a man as if to say, ‘take me; rape me.’ It would take a devout celibate, priest or homosexual to turn her down in a one on one situation. She used sex like a weapon and she could use it several times in a day or as often as she thought necessary.

It mattered not where or when: Home, hotel, restaurant, bathroom, car, park or even public transport. Alessiya was truly a piece of work. She could gain any man’s attention by an accidental exposure of some breast or thigh. She could even make her skirt blow up at an appropriate time when there wasn’t any wind! The woman knew the exact moment to rub a man’s crotch, especially in a crowded room. She could make most men forget about their homes, their wives, their kids and their wallets. After her assault, the man would return to his city and pour out money in the hope that when he returned, there’d be more of what he just had. And single or married, they were usually planning the return trip as they boarded the flight home.

‘And what if you like him?’ Rita asked curiously.

‘Then we get it on’. It felt good for Alessiya to say it.

A stranger approached Bronte’s table but stopped at the last minute to address the girls seated adjacent and now preparing to leave. Studying his clothing and complexion, Bronte realized his own obvious foreign appearance in the place. The girls readily acknowledged the male now at their table and suddenly in unison they all looked at Bronte, giggling at something the stranger said.
The reject foreign fart over there is probably fantasizing about meeting girls like you.
One by one they stood, collected their things and walked around the table straight towards Bronte.

‘Good evening. Do you speak English?’ The man had a thick accent. ‘My name is Rolf and my friends and I thought you might like company’. It sounded good to hear a language native to Bronte’s planet, even coming from a foreigner. Happily, the alien intruder also escorted beautiful women.

‘Hi, I’m pleased to meet you all, I’m Bronte, and yes, I speak English’.

‘We thought you could use some company…’ Rolf was a German about Bronte’s age. He looked in reasonable shape and wore his fair and thinning hair long to his shoulders. He dressed in a pair of brown slacks with a well worn cord jacket over a business shirt. In a swooping motion to the waitress, minus baby talk and hand signals, Rolf ordered more beer. After asking the girls to introduce themselves he exclaimed in English, much to the confusion of the ladies,

‘Let’s drink German beer’. They all sat and a young blonde with short hair politely began naming all her friends.

‘My name is Olga, this is Svetlana, Oksana, Yuliya, and Marina on the end.’

Although she spoke English well, the names went in one ear and vanished in a jumble of ‘
ovas’
and
‘inas’
before passing out the other. The corporate classes on name retention Bronte attended were never designed to work with Russian names. A saucy looking blonde with long hair he’d admired earlier in the evening asked something and Rolf interpreted.

‘So how long have you been in Krasnodar?’

‘Just long enough to wonder why I came here… I arrived yesterday.’ Rolf merely laughed and said something in Russian. The girls only raised eyebrows collectively.
Maybe everyone still does everything on a collective basis here?

‘How do you like Krasnodar, and why are you here?’ The short moon-faced blonde with pigtails asked in English. Rolf sat rolling a smoke waiting for an answer and when finished offered it to the girl on his right. She accepted curiously, as if uncertain of its contents.

‘Krasnodar looks to be a very nice place and I really like the park and the amphitheatre’ Bronte answered, hoping they hadn’t noticed failure to mention the reason for his visit.

‘You are here to meet a girl, Ja?’ Rolf said with the casual innocence of an interrogator. Probably every English speaking foreign male in the place only went to Krasnodar to meet girls and if Bronte was typical, they did.

‘Maybe… is someone offering?’ Bronte laughed as if pretending he was joking. Suddenly a smart looking young lady probably in her mid twenties popped the dreaded question.

‘How old are you?’

Bronte squirmed. Although he felt like the dumped teenager after his episode with Rita, he knew this was no game for a man of his maturity to be playing. He’d have given anything for a blackout to occur so he could slither out of the place and hide before the lights came back on. Rolf even left off playing with the girl he’d given the cigarette to earlier and stared waiting for his answer. Worse, the entire table stared waiting for his answer. Bronte cleared his throat, a sure sign that he lacked confidence in what he was about to say. Cringing as he spoke the words,

‘I’m forty six’.

‘O, that’s great, you simply must meet a young woman while you are here.’ The young lady grinned enthusiastically from ear to ear. Bronte was stunned. Rolf resumed teasing the young woman adjacent while the young blonde continued, ‘I think it is good that an older man takes a young wife,’ she added with the close attention of her girlfriends.

‘The man wants that his woman looks good all his life, but she can only look good for maybe fifteen years after marriage, so it is better if she is considerably younger.’

Bronte ran his hands through his hair, a signal he was conscious of the father daughter fears he held. When the waitress brought another jug of beer, the girls said their farewells and left in unison, leaving him alone with Rolf.

‘What did you say to those girls to bring them over here?’ Bronte enquired.

‘I asked them to come and join you for drinks. I said you were famous’.

Yes, I’m the Pied Piper who attracts female vermin and gives away boots.
‘My reputation precedes me?’ Bronte laughed at his own stupid thoughts. ‘And famous for what?’

‘I said you were a famous English musician’ Rolf said feigning seriousness. ‘Well, aren’t you?’ Bronte ignored Rolf’s question.

‘So why did they leave? I was starting to enjoy the conversation.’

‘Ja, ja … they had another engagement… probably the boyfriends.’

‘Obviously you can speak Russian? How’d you manage to learn Russian… seems too bloody hard?’ Bronte asked.

‘Ja, ja, it is sehr difficult. The company gave me a full time interpreter and teacher for the first year. The second year they gave me two teachers and the interpreter and next year, I hope there’ll be a third teacher.’ He threw his head back and laughed.

Rolf explained he worked for a German brewing company which had bought a large stake in a local brewery and were undertaking a modernization of the plant. He was some sort of beer engineer, or that’s what Bronte figured from his rather poor English. There was no way of knowing if he was a good engineer, but judging by the amount of beer he took in one gulp, he’d make an excellent taster. Rolf continued,

‘And after my contract of six months was up, I requested they should keep me here. There was still much to do and I’m the best man for this job’, elaborating on his brief life history in Krasnodar.

‘So I wrote to the wife and said sorry honey they want me to stay another 6 months and I stayed’. Most of the time Rolf looked down, rolling another cigarette from a well worn leather pouch. He took another gulp from his beer mug,

‘And after this 6 months I wrote again and said sorry honey they want me to stay another six months.’ He lit the cigarette, swallowed another gulp then continued.

‘And after that 6 months, I wrote again and said sorry honey they want me to stay another six months.’ Bronte wondered when the punch line was coming and he hoped not after another six months. Rolf continued,

‘And after this six months I wrote and said keep the house and everything honey, I am not coming home. Apologies to you and the kids, Goodbye.’ Rolf was laughing by now although Bronte wasn’t sure which part he’d found more amusing. Only Rolf could really appreciate that.

‘Why… or how could you do that? I mean, to your wife and kids? You didn’t feel a heel?’ Rolf took a last swipe at his beer, looked at Bronte and then burst into laughter.

‘Man, if you saw the girls I have for girlfriends, all seven of them, and saw my wife, you would understand, believe me …and besides…. I like Russian life.’

Bronte did a double take on Rolf’s comment ‘
All seven of them – seven girlfriends!’
He had one for every day of the week! Meanwhile, Bronte had none for every day of the year. He grew more annoyed each time he thought about his situation with Rita, but he dared not mention it to this playboy. He didn’t want to look like the nerd who couldn’t get a date to the school dance. Or worse, the jackass who got led by the nose from shop to shop, buying world’s most expensive boots for a cowgirl who kissed him on the cheek and then threw him from her horse.

Rolf ordered yet more beer, ‘You have wife? Girl friend maybe?’
Damn
. Bronte knew he’d ask.
My wife left me and I came here to meet with a girl half my age who is in love with my wallet but has no interest in me or else we’d be in bed right now
. ‘No, not really, I am divorced’ Bronte replied impotently.

‘You want to meet Russian girls?’ Rolf smiled with his eyes. Moments earlier, Bronte wondered whether his smile was inherited from some former relative from the Nazi SS.

‘It would be good to meet a nice girl if that’s what you mean… but not just for sex” Bronte replied, wondering about the verity of his words even as he said them.

‘Any girl is a nice girl for sex’ Rolf chuckled. ‘So what are you doing in Krasnodar?’

‘Just looking around and visiting a friend, you know the tourist stuff,’ unable to think of a more illustrious and believable story in a hurry.

‘Well come and look around and visit me later. I play drums in a group with friends and we play from 10.30 tonight.’ Rolf was already getting up from the table. Now he’d revealed his night-time identity, he looked more like a beer tasting musician than an engineer. He scribbled an address on a napkin.

‘This is the address of the restaurant. Give this to any taxi driver and he will take you there, Okay? There are lots of nice girls there! Davai, let’s drink beer!’ And with that Rolf shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and with rounded shoulders, walked off. Bronte looked at the address and map scribbled on the napkin. What the hell had he written? Was it Russian or German? He couldn’t decipher it but concluded it must be Russian, based on Rolf’s statement that any taxi driver could take him there. He finished his beer and tried to sober up, determined not to look like the lonely father figure waiting for a rendezvous with his daughter. His plan was to follow Rolf’s treasure map to the restaurant marked on the napkin with a single X and with a little luck, meet a real woman.