Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (2 page)

Two days later Zhana visited the Marriage Agency again. Winter was at last taking up its familiar annual residency in Krasnodar. It was an effort just to get her son to school and yet arrive at work on time. Not that she faced any more chores or dramas than any single mum lacking hot water on tap in the morning. It was when she got out of the house that the fun began. Without a car, there was the succession of mini buses, treacherous walking and more mini buses. Although this was southern Russia, Krasnodar still got cold and this day was no exception. The Indian summer belying winter’s abrupt onslaught had vanished as quickly as a weather forecast. She almost dreaded the slip and slide in heels on the icy pavements, the sardine packaging of fur and woollen coats in the bus, the chills from the freezing wind cold enough to crack her face. As she turned the corner in Severnaya Street, she pulled her scarf around her mouth as the cold, blistering wind bit. She took solace in the head to toe bandaging of her winter attire, affording a high degree of anonymity. No one would recognise her entrance into this internet club for wannabe brides.

The marriage agency was located in an apartment complex not far from the centre of town. She pushed the door open and immediately felt a blast of warm air emanate from the heated interior. After closing both inner and outer doors, she unwound her scarf, gently brushing the light snow from her shoulders. She slipped the knitted beanie from her head and while removing her overcoat, noticed again what nice premises the agency occupied.
Thank god they can’t see my place
she thought, shoving gloves and beanie into one of her pockets. She hung her coat and scarf on the large brass stand near the door and while taking a moment to glance in the mirror, straightened her thick and unruly hair.

By stark contrast, Zhana lived in a classic, run down one room apartment attached to an old, dilapidated house inhabited by an elderly couple. She had an improvised kitchen, bathroom, living room and bedroom all in one room not larger than a converted garage for a motor vehicle. But the agency apartment was modern and spacious with separate bathroom, kitchen, living room and bedroom. The open plan living room had been emptied to house desks with computers. Behind French doors to a converted bedroom sat an office desk with phones.

‘Priviet Zhana,’ Alessiya the administrator offered, peering over designer specs from behind a computer. ‘You have three emails: One from Germany, one from France and one from Australia’.

‘Spasiba’ replied Zhana with a smile not yet jaded by frustration and despair. Noticing all the desks were occupied, ‘I can use this computer here?’

‘Yes, that is fine’. Zhana wondered whether Alessiya was in fact the owner
and
administrator because she was not just there often – she was always there. And she sure acted like the boss. She pushed the girls into writing to lots of men and judging by the ever increasing number of new faces on new computers, the men were paying. Money was rolling in.

‘And you should write to more men, Zhana. There are plenty on the list… on the desk to your left’.

Ignoring Alessiya’s request, Zhana opened the first of her electronic mail - from Germany - and began reading slowly. She spoke no German, but gained some degree of comfort to see it was written in English. Knowing it would take her maybe 5 minutes to complete a thorough reading, she scolded herself for not making more of an effort to study the language. As she scrolled to look first at the attached photo, she promised to be more diligent with her study. The man was of average height and appearance with a number three razor cut and he wore gold rimmed specs. In casual attire, he stood relaxed in front of a fountain, presumably somewhere in Germany. She liked that his simple, honest statements about himself and his life were refreshingly modest. She smiled and made a note next to his name
Willy - write to this man
.

The second letter, from Paris, had been translated by the agency into English and perhaps this accounted for the stiff, cold feeling she felt reading it. In fairness, no one at the agency spoke French so she guessed it had been run through a computer translator. And she wasn’t taken by the male’s attached photo. The Parisian had too many tattoos plainly visible on his forearms. Pretty much your typical modern, old fashioned Russian girl, Zhana didn’t like body piercing and tatts. She moved on slightly disappointed, taking consolation from Willy, the German prospect she had. But it wasn’t long before she was smiling again as she read the last…

Hi Zhana. Thanks for your letter. It was a nice surprise to discover that you are from Russia. I must say I know little about your country and I had never heard of your city…At first, I had no idea where you were from... I was sad to read you had been to the dentist. I have also suffered on numerous occasions at the dentist and it is no fun. Hope you are okay now… regards, Bronte.
Zhana realised she’d been holding her breath all the while she read. As the computer ground away processing kilobytes, she began to erupt with anticipation. Unfolding on her screen was the photo of a tanned male with cheeky smile, leaning casually against a veranda post. She wanted to leap from her seat. The Australian portrayed a manliness she found most desirable. Suddenly out of the cold, grey afternoon, her dreams of warm exciting places far away were becoming reality. Australia her dream, she immediately pointed the mouse and smiling as only she could, clicked the
Reply
button on her screen.

For the first month or two of internet romance, Bronte’s imagination ran wild on all sorts of possibilities with Zhana. He imagined how they would look together, people’s reactions to meeting her, even what his ex would think. Suddenly, he’d gone from desperate and dateless to having a beautiful, young foreign girlfriend writing every two or three days. It mattered not that her letters were usually brief. Zhana had a way of expressing unadulterated femininity with few words. Though evident she worked with a limited vocabulary, she chose every word thoughtfully. Bronte knew he was reading mail written by a real woman, using this limited understanding of English to her advantage. Her writing reflected innocence and manners, and while he had no knowledge of day to day Russian life, depictions of her activities made for captivating reading. Anyway, it sure captivated Bronte. The way she expressed her dreams and desires, her likes and dislikes left him with a sense her scent lingered over her email. It was unique and refreshing. He had not received anything like this from any woman before, ever.

‘... again, too much work today. When I arrive to my home, I wish only to sleep. But nothing stops me dreaming… my dream lives on and on… so I learn to love the dark, cold nights… I know it is my time to escape with you…’
Her words flattered his ego, satisfied his desire for female contact and importantly, helped rebuild his battered self esteem after divorce.

For the first weeks he opened his mail with great anticipation, excited by the mere fact it was from a beautiful stranger in a strange place on the other side of the world. But like anything new, the intrigue lasted for a short time only. Slowly, fascination and interest began to wane. The common illness afflicting most computer dating and long distance relationships, a lack of sound and vision, began to take their toll. Desperate internet lovers fell in love with photos and words, something Bronte couldn’t fathom. He’d read the warnings. The net was full of unscrupulous foreign women, bleeding unsuspecting western men of cash for internet costs, air tickets which were never bought and visas which were never attainable. He’d heard the horror stories and maybe this also played on his imagination and gnawed away at his enthusiasm.

Whatever the reason, it was no surprise then that when single, thirty two year old Lena from the other side of Sydney flew into his life, Bronte’s emails to Russia became less frequent. ‘
A bird in the hand
’ was suddenly a wise expression. Meanwhile, Zhana became more and more like ‘
two birds in the bush’
than a probable partner.

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

Lena was petite, slim and quiet, though not too smart. The conservative type with a happy disposition, she dressed like a church choir girl and looked the perfect type to take home to meet mum. Fortunately for mum’s sake, only Bronte knew how much Lena loved sex. Her appearance and demeanour belied her devilish streak so that a perfect night for Lena was staying in and having sex - and more sex. This voracious appetite for passion was appreciated when he was on a tight budget because a night with Lena negated any
need to go out spending money. Sometimes she’d even bring the food. But when he was tired and not up to it, what a chore! Lena was hard work, or
work for the
hard. And it was also hard work having an intelligent conversation.

‘Who do you hope wins the upcoming elections Lena?’

‘Who cares? They’re all idiots… they can all go to hell as far as I care…’

‘That’s interesting… what’s your take on life after death?’
              ‘Who knows? Party tonight… we might be dead tomorrow…’

‘That’s my point… and what happens then you think? After death I mean’ Bronte asked.

‘I don’t know… no one knows…I’m horny…’

Sometimes she’d finish work late and bring a change of clothes for the next day. But she wouldn’t need clothes after she arrived. The faster he ripped them off, the better her night was. Mum would’ve had a heart attack.

Lena’s place was at least 80 kilometres from his, so the visits were not too frequent. Worse, she lived with her mother so he was reluctant to go to her house. And who wouldn’t be? The mother was only a few years older than him so he didn’t know how mum would react and nor was he in a hurry to find out. Bronte was convinced distance was conspiring against him too. As far as Lena or Zhana was concerned, he knew the miles of separation weren’t enhancing his love life. Sure, Cupid had helped him to some degree, but her arrows had found targets too far from Bronte’s home.

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

Looking at the hundreds of websites available for introductions and the tens of thousands of singles all over the globe searching them, it was inconceivable to think men from different corners of the planet found and communicated with the same woman from yet another corner of the planet, at the same time. And for a certain man in Frankfurt Germany, inconceivable is exactly what it was. Willy had been communicating with a beautiful young lady from Russia, a single mum whom he already knew was the girl for him, the girl of his dreams. From the moment they began correspondence, Willy forgot all about searching those hundreds of websites and cleared all room in his heart for her occupancy. He had not even considered the possibility that across the world, an intruder had begun breathing on Zhana’s fires, fanning her flames. Unbeknown to Willy, an Australian had already plotted leaving a shoe under her bed.

Willy was far more single minded in his romantic endeavours than his Australian counterpart. Maybe it was German engineering applied to everyday thinking? If a Volkswagen will do the job, why test drive numerous models? Bronte would’ve said Willy was the type to fall in love with words and photos. On the recommendation of a colleague from Frankfurt, Willy had been single minded about meeting a Russian girl. He’d seen and heard enough from his friend’s Russian spouse to believe good former Soviet girls differed from the average ladies he’d grown up with in an appealing sort of way. Generally they had old world innocence, naivety and family values not seen since the days of his grandmother. Yet they were well educated, industrious, smart, sensitive and far from subservient. Typically proud of their femininity, they knew how to use it to their benefit when necessary. On the street and in the home, they were strong and caring wives and mothers. And from the little he’d heard here and there, they were porn stars in the bedroom.

Willy preferred old fashioned, simple and uncomplicated women. In fact, uncomplicated was the best way to describe his life. He had intentionally kept it that way. After finishing school, he started on an electrical engineers course at the Kassel University in Frankfurt, though with no real determination to enter the career his qualifications would deliver. His best friend went to university in Berlin, his parents separated and he wound up living with his childhood sweetheart. But that came about more as a means to an end than from the great need to be with each other. Making ends meet, paying the rent and keeping them both in school eroded Willy’s desire for electrical engineering. He quit and went to work in telecommunications. Soon after his girlfriend moved back home anyway, having decided they were too young to be involved and that it was better for them to play the field. “Have fun while we have our youth” she stated.

When she told him she needed some space, it didn’t make sense to Willy. In fact, he felt more like an astronaut kicked into space and way out of his comfort zone. Life was safe and familiar as he knew it, with her. He could’ve settled then and there and simply carried on the way they were. That sort of commitment wasn’t complicated at all really, it was basic instinct. And all those years later, when Zhana showed interest in Willy it was still uncomplicated. That good old basic instinct told him she was the girl he had dreamed to meet. There would be no one else.

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

Zhana was sitting at a computer daydreaming, thinking of her two boyfriends and imagining what different characters they might be. If she compared the letters, mail from Bronte was more often light and breezy, funny or crazy.

‘Hi Zhana… walking the dog this morning on the beach…she took off after some rug-rat that barked all the time… you might have thought the woman’s dog would be breakfast for mine… my shepherd was only trying to play… I laughed…’

              Meanwhile Willy’s mail was all business. Zhana could have no doubts where he was coming from.
‘My dear Zhana …I think about you all the time… I so look forward to meeting you…I wish to be together soon… I have dreams and plans…have you considered plans?’

Alessiya’s voice brought Zhana back to earth. She’d snuck in earlier and went straight to a desk while Alessiya had been in the outer room. She’d been trying her best to avoid the agency boss these last weeks.

‘Zhana, you should write to more men. I want you write to some men from those websites I have listed for you. You have not written to any new men for a very long time.’ As always, Alessiya was peering over her designer specs. Zhana’s cheeks were red. She could sense her temperature rising as the other girls in the room all looked her way.

‘But I’m happy with the men I write to’ she replied rather meekly, though feeling anger flare. Neither meek nor timid she really disliked how Alessiya made her feel.

‘You received money only one time from the man in Australia and three times from the man in Germany. How do you think I can keep this place operating?’ The others witnessing the exchange refocussed on their screens at the mention of costs.

‘Excuse me? I thought I joined here to meet a good foreign man, not to support your business’ Zhana replied sharply. ‘How you keep the place operating is not my problem, is it?’ From a desk at the back of the room one of the girls giggled audibly.

‘Zhana, I am simply saying you should write to more men’ Alessiya snapped, retaliating. Then lowering her tone said, ‘I’m trying to help you here.’ 

‘And I’m happy writing to the two men I correspond with now… two’s one more than enough, thanks very much’. Her comment brought more chuckles and whispers from other girls in the room.

‘You have no guarantee of anything with only two men you’ve never met. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?’ Alessiya kept peering over her spectacles. Zhana wanted to shove them back onto the bridge of her nose. Her old school teacher, Ms Klyukina used to peer over her specs with similar threatening outlook. Zhana hated it then and she hated it now.

‘If you read your contract, you will see you are required to write to a minimum of 2-4 men every week. This is to guarantee we have the best opportunity to help you find a good man.’

‘Okay… thanks you have helped me, but I am not interested. Besides, I’m paid up to date. If you don’t like it, I can leave.’ Zhana was finding it hard not to tell Alessiya to pull her head in before she shoved those glasses someplace else. Alessiya glared over her specs before disappearing into the outer office. Zhana knew by the silence she had won the battle, but she also had a good idea Alessiya never lost a war.

Zhana had guessed correctly that Alessiya owned the agency and controlled its purse strings. Her specialty was promising girls she could help them meet sincere foreign gents. The cost was fifty dollars per month, which the girls were required to pay. However, each girl was expected to request $100 per month from each corresponding foreign male, negating her charges. Obviously, the more men the girls wrote to and strung along, the better for the agency who received the money on their behalf.

In return the girls received computer and limited internet use and lists of potential male contacts. When a girl fell for a particular man and wished only to correspond with that man, she was of no further use to Alessiya or her agency. Now Zhana was sure the only love Alessiya felt was the type she could withdraw from the Bankomat and fold into her wallet.

Besides, she didn’t like that she had to ask the two men she wrote to for money every month. She thought it rude to ask a man she did not have a committed relationship with for money, least of all a man she’d never met. She was prepared to pay for her rent, her clothes, her son, her living expenses - and her internet use. Her upbringing was typically strict, conservative and simple - a country childhood in a time and place where your word was your word, even for better or worse in marriage. Now with every passing minute, she found herself liking Alessiya less and less.

In her mid thirties, Alessiya could appear much younger thanks to an active lifestyle and small frame. She was not prone to put on excess weight and had remained in good shape, working out when she found time. Her dominant feature was her remarkable eyes. Truly, ocean blue eyes. But there was another side to Alessiya that Zhana sensed. There were sharks lurking in those eyes of deepest blue so that she could be ruthless, tough and downright not to be messed with. And when Alessiya was in a mood like that particular evening in January, she looked every bit her years. Observing now, Zhana thought she looked forty.

‘Anyway, the man from Australia has not written again,’ the young lady emerging from Alessiya’s office announced. ‘Only mail from the German man’ the girl added, as if already knowing the content of her email.