Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (6 page)

Bronte’s apartment was located at the head of the main street, Ulitsa Krasnaya. The run-down complex sat opposite the Old Krasnaya theatre which in turn sat in front of an amphitheatre and fountain, complete with the mandatory statue of Lenin. The place wasn’t much, but at least its central location meant it would be easy to find the centre of town and the return route.

The street, or correctly boulevard, was divided by a large wooded median strip which was more like an enormous park between the north and south lanes. Krasnodar was officially founded in the seventeenth century and this monolithic median strip with its hundreds of majestic trees growing throughout its entire length could’ve been that old. Towering over nineteenth century street lamps, the trees stood like sentries guarding the paved pathway. It was evident this path had been well trodden over the centuries, its features surviving wars, revolutions and invasions.

              His rendered apartment complex was dilapidated with individual balconies facing inward to overlook a central courtyard. Children’s swings, merry go round and slippery dips made of old galvanized, rusting steel would be deemed dangerous in any western city, but were in almost constant use here. Now at night, while the kiddies lay quietly sleeping, their beloved playthings sat preyed upon, victims of rust, the chronic insomniac.

No sooner had they opened the door, Zhana began her guided tour of the place. Bronte dropped his luggage to admire the clean, sparsely furnished unit. It was comfortable with a daybed sofa, a green leather couch, a TV and VCR with DVD and a modern kitchen. Zhana’s mannerisms rather suited a real estate agent sniffing a commission while presenting a property for sale. She even pointed out extras like the ironing board and new LG iron.

Before long they stood at the entrance to the bathroom and sure, the restaurant had been nice and the food tasty, but after the never ending flight from Australia, he was dying to take a shower. He was about to ask her to excuse him for five minutes while he freshened up when she said,

‘I must go now. I will come here tomorrow at 1 o’clock, okay?’

Completely unprepared for her comment, he was speechless. He could only scan her eyes for some hint she might be bluffing. They’d only been there ten minutes and if she hadn’t the time for him to take a shower, he knew sex would be off the evening’s agenda.

‘I’d hoped you would stay with me,’ he offered pathetically, sounding more like a little boy trying to bribe his mum into staying at kindergarten with him.

‘I must go to my mother… she’s not well, I’m sorry,’ Zhana replied, already zipping her jacket and putting on her most cute and apologetic smile.

‘But Zhana 1 o’clock tomorrow, it’s too late!’ Bronte was wondering what he’d do for the rest of the evening, least of all ‘til 1 o’clock in the afternoon the next day? In this strange place and with no knowledge of anything or anyone, that was unthinkable.

‘Can’t we meet earlier? Say Ten?’ He considered that was reasonable. One o’clock and the day was half gone.

‘Okay. I see you at eleven’. Zhana gave him a peck on the cheek and then as if by rehearsed movement, whisked out the door backwards, closing it in her wake.

He stood motionless for god knows how long. Time stopped, suspending him at thirty thousand feet in an unearthly silence, somewhere between Moscow, Sydney and Krasnodar. There had been a lot to take in for one day and how he could sleep at the end of it all, he had no idea. Everything was still hurtling through his mind at the speed of a jumbo jet. And the one reason he was standing alone now in that crazy country and that bloody apartment had simply pecked him on the cheek and gone. So much for the torn clothes and shredded underwear, there would be no grappling at bra straps or silky skin tonight. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower and as he washed, he wondered if Russian women had the Russian smell. One thing was certain, the answer to that would have to wait.

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On her way home, Zhana made a call.

‘Do you think he knows?’ the voice echoed from the other end.

‘Nyet, he has no idea. I said I will see him after one… no wait, eleven.’

‘And what are your plans for tomorrow my dear?’

‘I’m going to get those new boots,’ Zhana said confidently, signalling instructions to the cab driver to turn left.

‘Yes please - pozhalusta ma’am!’ The woman on the other end of the phone said with a laugh.

‘There was one thing ‘though Oly… Oh, it’s not important, but I thought maybe I’d mention it… I had to tell him you wrote the letters.’

‘You did what?’
Stupid idiot!
‘Why’d you tell him that?’

‘He wanted to know why my English was good in my letters but I can speak nothing. I had to tell him, it was obvious.’

‘Nothing’s obvious! You used a translator for your mail after you’d written it in Russian. God, that answer should’ve been easy!’

‘I didn’t think it would matter… but I can see it was silly…’

‘Don’t worry about it… Look, let’s speak tomorrow, but please, no more stuff-ups like that, okay? Don’t tell him anything.’ She said goodbye and hung up.

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Zhana lay in bed thinking about the next few months ahead. It was still hard to believe she had committed to marriage. True they had spent little time together but she had learned, often the hard way, to rely on her feelings and they told her Willy was a good and calm man. Though living without his own child, he was quite capable of loving her son. She was sure of it. But in some ways she still considered it an inadmissible pity that things did not eventuate with the Australian. She had the same instinctive feelings about him which said he was a good man and she felt she had seen enough in his mail to know and believe that.

Her experience of life had taught her how to judge character with a minimum of information. It had become a survival technique developed as a teenager, for from the age of fifteen she had fought off hordes of testosterone driven boys and men. Although only 168cm and 49 kilos, she had ample breasts and a little waist with legs that reached to her stomach. She would still be desirable dressed in a potato sack. Fortunately, striking physical attributes had forced her to assess men more accurately and with more skill. These skills said she’d be safe alone in Moscow with Willy. Also, that the Australian was a decent and passionate man. But when she thought about Bronte in light of what might have been, she felt sad. She rolled over and snuggled into foetal position, annoyed that she was even thinking about him. The alarm clock showed 12.35 and if her life had more colour now, it was still black at night, alone.

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After flicking from TV channel to TV channel and back again, Bronte fell asleep late and woke early, ready for Zhana’s visit. Realising it was only a quarter to seven, he feared he’d die of boredom in this strange country and not too elaborate apartment. He wandered around for some time in his underpants drinking coffee and smoking. When this reached the point of insanity he decided to dress, take a walk and observe the amphitheatre and parklands. He’d only caught a glimpse of their grandeur the night before while they bathed in mixed shades of artificial light. As he approached, thousands of doves littering the terraces and steps barely moved from the path. He felt uncomfortable when birds did that.
They were supposed to be scared of people
he thought, albeit reminded of the Hitchcock film ‘The Birds’, where the bloody things take over the town.

People sat casually on a small retaining wall bordering the Lenin fountain. Every Russian city has its own Lenin Statue and all of them depict him in a heavy overcoat. Either Lenin made no public appearances in summer, wished to appear one tough son-of-a-bolshevik or was determined to lose weight the hard way. It could climb well into the thirties in Russia during the summer - certainly in Krasnodar - and luckily, bronze didn’t smell. Those sitting around the base of the statue cared nought that the bronze icon stood solemn, drenched by spraying water. The morning was warming up rapidly so Bronte removed his jacket as he wandered back to wait for Zhana. He almost felt sorry for old Lenin, especially with dove droppings all over the old boy’s head.

Eleven o’clock came and went. Bronte drank coffee after coffee and smoked too many cigarettes. Every minute or so he’d move onto the balcony hoping to catch a glimpse of her strolling through the large arched entrance to the apartment complex. When he ran out of ways to pass time, he went downstairs to the courtyard and watched the children on their rusty equipment. Somehow they all managed to safely negotiate the dangers of their toys without the need of an ambulance.

Zhana eventually appeared at a quarter to one. She had turned to a different page from the fashion catalogue, wearing a fluffy pink sweater with tight pink jeans, black ankle length boots and her black hair tied loosely. Against the dull apartment backdrop, she was a neon sign in the middle of a highway. When she saw Bronte in the courtyard she smiled through pink tinted sunglasses. She kissed the side of his face so not to spoil her perfect pink lip gloss.

‘I am sorry I am late. My mother is not well’. The sweet charm again.

What’s that? You murdered your mother and you were late, disposing of the body?
‘That’s okay’ Bronte replied, kicking himself he was such a sucker for a pretty girl. All the premeditated remarks intended to demonstrate control went to water at the sight of the beautiful young lady in front of him. He had wondered a thousand times how he would react when he saw Zhana, if and when he saw her at all. But now he just wanted to kiss her, smudge the perfect lip gloss and taste her wet mouth. ‘What’s the plan for today?’ was all that came out after the million possibilities he’d preconceived earlier.

‘Let’s go eat something, I am hungry. You are hungry? You have eaten?’ she asked. He hadn’t eaten a thing all morning and now into the afternoon, his stomach was beginning to rumble like a subterranean cavern. He wanted to reply that he’d like to eat her.

They took a cab then walked to a café in the town centre. Magnificent old sandstone buildings stood crowded over by modern glass shop fronts and on every street the signs of western free enterprise were on display. Gucci, Dior, Benetton, they could have been anywhere in Europe and here could have been a plaza in Milan. Sure the buildings and sidewalks were old, but modern Russia was now a far different place to what it had been not so many years before. Bronte spied an empty booth and before even climbing in, grabbed a nearby waitress and ordered a beer. He figured if any country on earth should understand alcohol with the first meal of the day it would be the one with the heaviest drinkers.

‘Sok pozjaluista’, Zhana asked for juice.

‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’ Bronte lit a cigarette, enjoying the fact that he could actually light up freely in a café.

‘Nyet… its okay…’ Zhana declined one from him.

‘Its good I can smoke here. Back home they’ve outlawed it…’

‘Sorry… what?’

‘Someone figured smoking is contagious and can damage the other person’s health - or something like that.’

‘I am sorry, I not smoke…’ Zhana’s words came as a surprise. He was certain she’d mentioned in a previous email she smoked.

‘So when did you quit smoking?’ Bronte asked. Zhana looked at him as though offended, then answered,

‘I have never smoked. I don’t want to ruin my health… but you can smoke if you wish.’

‘I seem to remember a letter from you asking if it bothered me that you smoke.’

              ‘No, I do not smoke…’

              ‘Oh really? Maybe you quit?’ Doubting she really understood what he’d said.

‘No… you are wrong. I have never wished to smoke and have not even tried it… but I do not mind that you smoke.’ Zhana did her look away thing again. He’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles she’d mentioned smoking.

‘That’s good… It would be a pity to see leprosy attack your nose now and eat my fifteen hundred’ he mumbled.

‘Sorry Bronte… I not understand…’ Zhana picked up his mobile phone, then added,

‘Very nice, I like your mobile’. She carefully observed all the functions, ignoring the long curling strands from her fringe falling in her face.

‘It’s the latest model, top of the range’ Bronte replied. ‘It’s almost new. I have a habit of baptising my phones in the surf… I only live eighty metres from the beach and I like to run my dog and wade or swim. I forget too often… and swim with my mobile in my pocket… they don’t work after that. Salt water is Chernobyl for a mobile.’ Zhana looked at him quizzically then said,

‘You would like to present it to me?’ Zhana was now mustering all her charm – coy smile, innocently batting her eyelids and leaning closer across the table.

‘Sorry… what?’ Too astounded with her request, it was his turn to answer with feigned ignorance.

‘I can have your mobile?’ Zhana was about as direct now as she was going to be and was no longer ignoring questions or her hair, which was back in place. She couldn’t make her question any plainer even if he had understood Russian.