Moonlight in Odessa (10 page)

Some men looked intimidated when they heard the women laughing. And rightly so. They were in a foreign city, outnumbered in a room of women, some of whom were sociopaths who felt no remorse about using their bodies and faces to ensnare. Men who should have known better, and who were smart in so many other ways, became victims.

Take my former classmate Alexandra. She wore a tight, low-cut turquoise top to match her eyes. Every time she leaned over – and she leaned over a lot – her breasts reached out to mesmerize the eyes. She rubbed herself, seemingly unconsciously, and the men followed her fingers as they crossed her neck, shoulders, her hips, her hand as effective as a hypnotist’s medallion. She’d learned enough English to ask the right questions. Where do you live? (Initials need only apply – N.Y. or L.A.) What do you do? (Only three possible occupations: dentist, lawyer, and/or oil.) She could ask other questions using her elementary English, but didn’t care about the answers. She smiled attentively and rubbed her hand up and down his arm, her eyes never leaving his. Sirens, these women.

I watched her go in for the kill. Bells should have gone off in that man’s head, but Alexandra had already dismantled his alarm system. Jane and her American friends had called these women ‘Robo-babes’ and said that you could shoot them or set them on fire, but they’d repair themselves instantly and keep moving towards their target. Why am I talking about these women? They are common: girls who think their looks will carry them through life as easily as foam floats down a gentle river. Surely they are everywhere.

I played romantic Western music, from ‘The Sea of Love’ to Stevie Wonder’s ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’, but the dance floor was nearly empty. A barmaid in a short black skirt and a white see-through blouse ran to the Grande Dame. ‘Valentina Borisovna,’ she said in a panic, ‘some men ordered rosé, but we only have red and white wine. What should I do?’

‘Fool! Don’t you know that red and white make pink? Just mix a little together. No one will know – just be discreet. Why isn’t anyone dancing?’ She put on a techno CD and cranked up the volume. The men moved towards the women, choosing partners using the only index available to them – looks.

I’d been assigned to five women, the first of whom was Maria, a woman twice divorced who took care of her elderly parents while raising her young daughter. They all lived in a two-room apartment. Maria made forty dollars a month as a waitress, though her degree was in physical education. English and math teachers made extra money by giving private lessons. Unfortunately for Maria, there was no call for tutors in dodge-ball. I looked at Maria; her eyes told me that she needed to make a match. Tonight.

An old man, his every facial capillary broken, approached and asked my name. I made it clear that I was not the one available by instantly introducing him to Maria. He took in her brown eyes and tight figure and barked, ‘How old?’

Shocking. Not even a hello. No Odessan would ever be so rude. I could not bring myself to show how uncultured this man was and translated, ‘He says, “Delighted to meet you. You look like a teenager. Just how old are you anyway?”’

‘He said all that?’ she yelled over the techno music.

‘Remember the English you learned in school. Americans use contractions,’ I replied.

She nodded knowingly and said, ‘Twenty-six,’ lopping nine years off her age as efficiently as my grandmother trimmed ears off potatoes.

I split the difference and said, ‘She’s thirty.’

‘How much money does he have in the bank?’ she asked.

Odessans did ask blunt questions. Perhaps it was best not to generalize.

‘Maria says she welcomes you to Odessa. She wonders what you do for a living.’

‘Engineer,’ he replied. ‘Does she have kids?’

I nodded. He walked away.

‘I don’t need a millionaire,’ she said, looking relieved. ‘Just a nice man who is closer to my age. One who will respect me. And be a good father.’

I squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Maria. We’ll find you that man.’

Over the next hour, we talked to James, Pat, Michael, Kevin, and George. Too old, too immature, too vague, too intense, too much talk about sex. Maria was hopeful, since I didn’t exactly translate word for word. I started to despair.

I surveyed the room and saw a shy, gentle-looking man. I looked into his eyes and could see his yearning. I grabbed Maria’s hand and pulled her towards her destiny. But before we reached him, a Siren appeared. It would have been easy to get rid of her with a whisper, ‘There’s a dentist with a Porsche on the other side of the room.’ But a scene was definitely the best way to proceed – Odessans love drama. Our opera house is the third-most beautiful in the world after Venice and Bratislava’s and we have dozens of theaters. I yanked Maria in front of me so she was standing at the side of the Siren and declared, ‘She is the one for you,’ gesturing to Maria. ‘She is the kindest woman in the room and will make you an excellent life partner. I sense that friendship and love will grow between you.’

The man looked at both women. His gaze fixed on Maria. ‘That’s what I want.’

The Siren stalked off. Maria was buoyed because in her eyes the man had been gallant and chosen her over a younger, more beautiful woman. We spoke. Or rather, they spoke and I interpreted – this time no need for lies.

The Grande Dame witnessed the scene I’d orchestrated, and later that night she gave me a small raise, sighing, ‘If only everyone were as dedicated to the cause of true love.’ We stood in silence for a moment, watching the scene unfold. She gestured to the men, who were slowly approaching the women. ‘Look at them! My vodka punch has finally taken effect! Can you help Anya?’

I interpreted for Anya, Masha, Vera, and Nadia. The Americans seemed pleasant enough, a little rough around the edges, but nice. Of course many needed guidance on clothing, haircuts, and flattering spectacle frames, but what man doesn’t need a woman’s touch? It was strange that their relationship depended on my English. I advised the girls to start studying. By the time we locked up the ballroom, my ears were buzzing with the questions that had been repeated over and over.

‘Does she like candle-lit dinners?’

‘Find out if he likes kids. (I’ve got two, but don’t tell him just yet.)’

‘Does she like going to plays?’

‘Does he earn a good pay?’

‘Tell her I think she’s beautiful.’

‘Find out if he lives independently from his parents.’

‘Does she like going to the gym?’

‘How old is he?’

‘Does she like to travel?’ (Raucous laughter followed this question; most women hadn’t left the city in years.)

‘Ask him in a nice way if he drinks, I don’t want a drinker.’

All fifty men came away with dates, even that rude old man, but over one hundred women went home empty-handed. As usual, the odds weren’t good for our women.

Meanwhile, at the shipping office, work relations were complicated. Olga circled like a shark on steroids, making sure I didn’t talk to Harmon, making sure he didn’t look at me. She eyed everything on my desk while ignoring me. Olga swiped the digital clock – the only one I owned that didn’t tick, that didn’t make me nervous. I stood and tried to grab it, but she held it behind her back and hissed, ‘You owe me. If
I
weren’t doing the job
you
were hired for,
you
’d be known as the office slut instead of
me
.’ I let her keep the clock. And sat down, stunned. Why had I cared so much about the trinkets she’d taken? Didn’t she deserve them?

I watched Harmon and Olga with a mixture of curiosity and animosity. How could I help but watch and wonder especially when they were back and forth and in and out of my work space? How much was passion? How much irration? How much was commerce? How much carnal? How much convenience? After all, he’d spurned half of Odessa while he pursued me. How is it with her? I wondered. Easier, without a doubt. She didn’t speak English, so they couldn’t argue. They couldn’t even talk. She tried, and the result was, ‘David, I like. David, you so good, so nice.’ ‘No,’ he replied, ‘you so nice.’ Her English wasn’t improving, his was disintegrating. In the evening when they left the office, they didn’t even notice me sitting there. Didn’t even say goodbye. He forgot me so quickly. It’s embarrassing how quickly.

I translated Harmon’s documents by day, and two evenings a week, I interpreted the longings of desperate women and lonely men at socials. I corresponded with Will from Albuquerque and, in my more foolish moments, hoped that this friendship would lead somewhere – maybe even to the altar. Not because he was The One, but because most of my former classmates were married, and I felt left out. I craved the love they described. I was ready to start my own family.
Dearest Daria, During my break at work, I wrote another poem in your honor. ‘Purple twilight, fast asleep, dusk’s promise on the steppes of the Ukraine. I will come my darling one to save you from the Hun.’ Your new job certainly sounds interesting. Hope you aren’t working your loverly self too hard. Maybe I could visit this summer so we could get to know one another. No pressure, I would stay in your guest room. Where there’s a Will, there’s a way . . .
What guest room? We didn’t even have a bedroom. Boba and I made the couch into a bed each night. Will and I really did come from different worlds. His was not quite tangible, his letters not quite gibberish, but they were enough to keep a deep-seated loneliness at bay. When men asked me out I could honestly say I had a boyfriend, even if we’d never met.

The socials were so popular that the Grande Dame begged me to interpret more and more. ‘I need you,’ she cajoled, and I fell for it. So I agreed to work three more nights a week. Faces, professions, and questions blurred. I was so tired. Work all day, work all evening, the grocery shopping on Saturday. Between the pickpockets, gypsies, and vendors who cheated clients to see if they were paying attention, the bazaar was an arduous outing. Regardless of my schedule, Boba and I always took breakfast together. Over tea, she scolded me gently about working too much and eating too little. I knew that this chastisement was her declaration of love – the more one is scolded the more deeply one is loved.

One evening, Valentina Borisovna pointed to a well-dressed man with gray hair, gray eyes, and gray skin and said, ‘Help him.’

I offered the client a glass of
champagnskoye
to put him at ease and asked what he was looking for. ‘I want a beautiful woman with a small jaw.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Like you, you have a small jaw.’

When he looked at me with eyes as cold as Siberia, I felt something very disturbing, something very wrong. Most men who came to Soviet Unions were a little awkward, but seemed genuinely kind. This man was different.

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said, grateful to have Will as a screen.

Valentina Borisovna hovered, discreetly hissing, ‘Help him.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ I asked, swallowing my misgivings. ‘I know a lot of the girls here. The more you tell me about what you desire in a spouse, the closer I can come to finding her.’

He surveyed the ballroom and said, ‘It’s like a sea of breasts, thighs, and hair. And I’m the captain.’

What a snout. He must have paid a lot because the Grande Dame was still circling. I gave her a pleading look and she responded by tightening her lips and narrowing her blue eyes.

‘I like blondes,’ he said after a moment.

I rolled my eyes. Any woman could be a blonde.

‘What do you like to do on the weekend?’ I asked. ‘Read? Go sailing? The opera?’

‘I’m a lawyer. I don’t have hobbies. Time is money.’

I nodded. ‘Katya,’ I called out and spoke quickly in Russian. ‘Here’s the kind of guy you were looking for – a rich attorney who’s never home.’

She looked him up and down. ‘Perfect,’ she said in Russian to me, though he looked old enough to be her father. ‘Hhhello,’ she said to him. She wore a brittle smile and her eyes were as hard as Soviet concrete.

I couldn’t do this work anymore. Suddenly it all seemed wrong. And I was exhausted and missed my Boba. How long had it been since I’d been to the sea? Since I had time to think about something other than work? Since I had read a book? I marched up to the Grande Dame and said, ‘I resign.’

‘You can’t quit; I need you. So you’re a bit disabused and cynical. That’s life, my sweet little fish.’ She swept her hand out, gesturing at the people in the room. ‘This isn’t love. It’s commerce, for the most part. But remember dear Maria? You did right by her. She’s wildly happy in America.’

True. Once a week, we received a thank you from her. Valentina Borisovna decided to create a testimonial page for our website. I was glad for Maria. She gave us all hope. Yes. Perhaps it could work out for me as well. ‘My Russian beauty, I hope to meet you soon,’ Will had written. Would he really come all the way to Odessa? I rubbed my eyes. The days seemed longer and longer.
Lonely night stood around me. I wanted friends. I wanted myself
.

‘Darling, you look tired,’ the Grande Dame said. ‘Help one more, and you can go home. Have I been working you too hard?’

I shook my head.

‘The computer technician created a program to match up our women with Westerners. Why don’t you give it a chance?’