Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (3 page)

Some friend
Zhana thought, burning. Only months before she’d helped this girl Rita find work, and now who was she?
S
he tried hard to ignore her and the tense atmosphere of sideways glances from the other girls. She sat staring at her computer while she found inner calm. Though wanting to unload on the two agency bitches, her anger was rapidly diffusing into sadness. She had hoped that today at last, her secret heart-throb from Australia might have written again but now the silly little bitch Rita had just burst that bubble. The bloody Australian, what was wrong with him? What was so uninteresting about her that he wasn’t writing? What was he up to?
Maybe he is away with work? No… maybe he has found someone else?
She didn’t really wish to contemplate the latter possibility, but intuition prompted it was the likely scenario.

Now the words and comments from the two bitches had thrown her right off track. Concentration was impossible and she was unable to compose thoughts in her present state. Finally she decided to write one last time to her two foreign boyfriends, explaining she would leave the agency that day. They could contact her on the same Hotmail address or her mobile number which she wrote again. She’d already sent it weeks prior. When finished she quietly slipped from the computer desk and headed for the door. She pulled her woollen beanie over her ears and managed a fleeting goodbye to the women. Little did Alessiya realize, goodbye meant Zhana wasn’t coming back. Little did Zhana realize, Alessiya would screen her mail and delete the phone number from the two letters.

As she emerged from the building onto the icy January street, her mobile beeped with a sms. Stopping to retrieve the phone from her bag and fumbling in kid gloves she read,

‘Hi Zhana, just now thinking of you. Hope all okay. I will arrive to you and meet in March. I’ll let you know the times. I can’t wait! William
.’ It was from Germany and her heart jumped, ‘
that’s only 8 weeks away!’
She thought. ‘
Who needs this agency anyway?’
She turned to face the cold and headed for the bus, feeling strangely warm. She smiled. It was already dark and in the headlights and street lamps the light snow falling magically out of the darkness above shone like jewels floating in the night.
Could be diamonds?

By the time things fizzed out and Lena had moved Bronte’s correspondence with Zhana was in a heap. He had barely written to his Russian sweetheart for two months and worse, he hadn’t replied to her previous emails. He’d been a tart through and through and he knew it. It had been easier to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season with Lena, than suffer the slings and arrows of a righteous relationship with Zhana. He hesitated to press the send button, hoping she would still be interested to reply. He’d been off like a bull roaming another paddock for a cow closer to home. He had learned enough of Zhana already to know that beautiful she may be, but stupid she wasn’t and she’d have probably guessed about his fling. He knew smart women don’t need to read maps - they pay attention to the signs. He clicked the send button anyway. His gut feeling told him Cupid sent him Zhana and if letters had been anything to go by, he was yet to meet anyone that was quite like her. 

When her reply came in so quickly the next day and with no hint of suspicion for his harem antics, a relieved Bronte noticed the tone, even the quality of her English had changed. Okay, the letter was more formal but that was to be expected he figured, after a lengthy period of estrangement, the silence on his part. Still, Zhana’s English had improved remarkably and Bronte was impressed she had made such an advance in a relatively short time. Meanwhile, he knew almost nothing of Russian. Attempts to find a teacher in his local area were futile leaving only books for tuition, and too many times he’d wanted to throw the things out the window. Restraint was the lack of a good excuse for the damage inflicted when it came time to return the book to his library. With the local Chinese post office lady offering language lessons, it would’ve been easier to learn Mandarin.

Now though, with Zhana making such rapid progress, they would be able to enjoy a very reasonable level of correspondence in English. So from that day, the letters continued to flow again and more frequently than before. He agreed to send her one hundred dollars every month for her agency fees and another fifty dollars each month for her telephone expenses. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. And he had already made plans to visit, deciding to follow through with meeting his e-mail delivered sweetheart.

There were about 17 years between Bronte and Zhana and that bothered him. Not because he felt too old, but he didn’t want to be seen with someone hanging on his arm that could well be his daughter. He felt more at ease around younger women and didn’t feel the pressure of a same-age relationship. The younger were generally more accepting; not too concerned with sizing up the degree of his success or failure and his less desirable habits like smoking. After losing the home with divorce, he was on a road to rebuilding a base but far from adding to his success. More than likely, older local women were too wise, too educated and too responsible to be interested in a man like Bronte.

But it wasn’t all bad news. The upside of his surfing lifestyle was that he’d remained in reasonable shape and his year-round suntan gave an air of a healthy lifestyle. Few knew that he lived on too much coffee, beer, bongs and a moderate intake of tobacco. Living alone with only a dog and cat, Bronte held little regard for his own dietary well being. During the years of his marriage, the boundaries of his culinary expertise lay somewhere between scrambled eggs and pancakes, while his ex was a gourmet chef. Reflecting later that this had not been the most equitable of kitchen skills in a marriage, and driven by the necessity to occasionally eat something decent, he learned to cook. Like many men dumped by the missus and forced into domestic duty, he was now a better prospect for marriage than he was as a married man.

And he hadn’t begun to take care of himself until after his marriage broke up. The thrust into the single man’s life had brought about a change in routine, so Bronte started to use creams enough to rival the average housewife. He even used a much vaunted lotion for hair loss, though it didn’t do much more than leave a slightly oily smear on his pillow. The island in the middle of his crown had not sunk beneath waves of new hair and neither had the creams done anything to even vaguely remove his lines and wrinkles. Inevitably, the years of sun and surf had left their mark on his rather weather-beaten face and like scars from the waves on a cliff face, were irreversible.

His brother was the only one that knew Bronte tried laser treatment on his face. It still didn’t seem manly for an Australian male to go there so he never mentioned it. Women on the other hand were at ease speaking about cosmetic surgery and what they’d like to do. Young or old, they each broached the subject readily. They almost admired that he had done something about his appearance - with that little help from his friends at the clinic. When one lady asked him would he support his wife or girlfriend wanting cosmetic surgery, he answered with a definitive yes. But who could’ve guessed that supporting aesthetic surgery would soon be dumped on Bronte from a great height, or more aptly put, distance?

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

Willy had the contraption out of the box and was trying to figure out how it best attached to the round water tank. The manufacturer didn’t seem to have taken into account that the purchaser may have a bowl for his fish and not a traditional square tank. There were only two fish after all, and Willy’s apartment was too small for much more than a bowl. He settled on some coat hanging wire and after testing his fish would be well fed for the coming week, turned for the bedroom. He may as well pack now, he was leaving for Russia the day after tomorrow and he didn’t like to rush things the night before.

Living alone with fish was an easy formula to a simple life. His worldly belongings were sparse and comprised a bed, a desktop, sofa and chairs, kitchen suite, some knick-knacks in a wall cabinet, a spare bed for his almost estranged son when he visited, a slot car set for the same purpose and his DVD player with a liquid quartz TV. There was also his 1992 BMW motorcycle and ‘96 M5 in the garage downstairs, though they rarely saw light of day. It was easier to run around Frankfurt in his work van and he was technically always on call, so he got away with some extra curricula mileage.

But there’s usually a story behind people who keep fish as pets and like people who keep birds, live as some kind of jailor overseeing a degree of captivity without a second thought. You can’t walk fish, they don’t respond to calling them by name, you can’t teach them tricks, to sit and lie down. You can’t cuddle them and they don’t seek you out in bed on a cold night. On the other hand, there’s no need to wash them, feeding is a breeze, they’re not particularly fussy eaters, they don’t need house training and they don’t break the door down when they hear the car keys jangle or the food box rattle.

Willy’s life was more ordered and calculating than the cat or dog owner might appreciate. For him fish were the superior pet for all the above reasons and now he was happy not to be concerned with dog hair on his prized rug. He had more grandiose, better things to think about and a bigger fish to fry.

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

Zhana had her son stay over with grandma that night. She started work at 9 am and finished at 9.30pm. She’d usually finish at 6 or 7, six days per week, but she had agreed to close the shop for her boss who had a family party to attend. It was now too late to pick up her son, drag him through the cold and into bed before school the next day. Outside the wind had pushed the temperature down to minus fourteen degrees and Zhana had to be back at work at 9am. It was early March, and although the night was not blanketing everything with darkness until 5.30 in the afternoon, it was icy on the street. Back inside her home, all she wanted was a hot coffee, a cigarette and a glass or two of red wine.

She struggled to find matches while she dug through kitchen drawers, cursing she was not more organised, eventually settling for the lighter in her handbag. She struck the thing and lit the single gas element atop the ancient cast iron stove. Then placing her equally antique kettle down to boil, she slid into a chair at the old and chipped wooden table and poured herself a wine. When the chair rocked on the uneven floor she spilled some onto the table cloth. She cursed again.

Glancing at her surrounds made her giggle as she contemplated her untidy bedroom. In a one room apartment, the bedroom is where the bed is. And the bed is where the sofa is, which is where the television sits in the television room. So in the rush of the morning, Zhana hadn’t converted the bed back to being the sofa. Of course it didn’t matter a whole lot. She was too tired and it was too cold anyway in that apartment to do much more than get into bed. Besides, Russian girls love bed.
They were definitely born in bed
the men joke, really a reference to their love of sleep when it’s cold.

With no hot water on tap and no central heating she would almost sit on the electric heater until the place warmed up. And if she placed the large tub of water on the stove now, it would be hot enough to wash before bed leaving no time to cook anything. Her one gas element would be tied up for some time with all that water and she already knew there was little food in the fridge.

As she turned to rise from the table, her gaze fell on a photo she’d printed at the agency months before and hung next to the fridge: blue skies, clean shoreline, a tanned man, naked above the waist and holding a large fish.
It should be a postcard:
‘
Greetings from Australia
’, she thought. With a hint of sadness for what her life might have been in a far off dream, she looked at the other photo, the relaxed looking man in front of a fountain, somewhere in Germany. She sighed and whispered, ‘Oh well Willy, let’s see what will be in 2 days.’

On the other side of the world Bronte had been moving heaven and earth in search of a suitable babysitter so he could take leave of his cat and dog. Bronte’s life was far more disorganised and spontaneous and a fair reflection of the carefree retirement enjoyed by his pets. Though both men lived alone, Willy would never relate to the eternal problems with impossible answers Bronte faced. Who could feed the animals while he was away, let them in and out of a night, walk the dog, change their water and stay during thunderstorms? Bronte’s brave German shepherd dog would lose the plot completely and run for the sanctity of a safer place one hundred miles away when she heard thunder. Then there were the bales of dog wool on the carpet when he’d arrive home. Who could come in and vacuum all that hair? These concerns meant that invariably Bronte would wind-up packing the night before.

A fortnight out from departing for the Russian Federation and Bronte still hadn’t told a soul. By family standards, jetting off to the other side of the world to meet a stranger on a blind and dumb date was hardly the conventional way to meet a woman. After all, that’s what it really was – the world’s furthest, most challenging blind date. And while neither spoke the other’s language, it would be a dumb date too. As a means to test the water, Bronte flirted with the subject in a conversation with his brother.

‘I’m thinking of going to Russia to meet Zhana…’ he said out of the blue while his brother was reading a car magazine.

‘Bloody Mary Bronte… can’t you find a woman here to jump on? Surely there’s dozens you could meet around here.’ The brother barely looked up while he’d spoken.

‘Slight exaggeration don’t you think? I’ve hardly met anyone… and obviously not like this one… not here… ‘

‘Jeezus Bronte it’s a long way… too far. Gotta be a million miles… seriously, she’d want to be extra hot and too cool at the same time to go that far. And what if she’s not genuine?’

‘O she’s hot I’m sure… and besides, what place isn’t far from Australia, bloody New Guinea? And the only way of knowing how sincere things are or may be is to meet her.’

‘And when? When are you going?’

Bronte swallowed then lied. ‘I’m not sure when. There are the animals to take care of… I must organize visas and book flights - and that’s if and when I get paid money I’m owed.’

Of course he wasn’t telling the truth. With family it’s sometimes easier not to. His entire family were like networked computers – tell one, tell them all. He would be meeting Zhana in two weeks and he didn’t want everyone to know, just in case it turned out a disaster, another romantic hoax. And the fact that his family - brother included - were not seasoned travellers meant it was too difficult for them to relate to a flash in the pan trek to Russia.

‘If I go, Zhana says she can organize an apartment rather than a hotel. She said it’s more private, which sounds good to me… plenty of time to play rabbits.’

‘I guess you don’t want to fly that far to sit in front of the TV with mum, dad and the kids.’ His brother stated the obvious. ‘Especially if mum’s about your age…’

              ‘Zhana said she’ll be able to cook, which, if you think about it means she’d be there with me in the apartment… and I hope the entire time.’

‘And what if it’s all pear shape and you don’t like it…? And I’m not talking about the cooking. What if you don’t like her or she doesn’t like you? What if, for example, you take one look at each other and want to puke? Or what if you discover she’s a bitch… after like a couple of days? Why would you go all that way to find that out?’ Bronte’s brother was looking straight at him, waiting for a practical response. But he needed time to answer that one.

‘Then c’est la vie,’ Bronte replied rather unconvincingly. ‘I guess I’ll just have to meet someone else while I am there, won’t I?’ Bronte could feel his ears flushing red. He knew he had no idea for a real answer to his brother’s question. The possibility that it could all fall on its face was the reason he hadn’t mentioned the trip to anyone in the first place. He knew that if he asked himself,
what is my plan B
, he didn’t have one.

What would he do if she didn’t like him? Surely he would have to like her, wouldn’t he? She looked gorgeous enough and seemed sufficiently pleasant. But could he really meet someone else in a strange place with a weird language? God, he couldn’t even meet someone appealing in his home town where everyone spoke his language. Who was he kidding?

That night he was glad to see his brother leave. He needed to devise a plan, a backup for the unthinkable;
failure
! This plan could not be drafted in the company of anyone, no matter who it was. No family member, no mates, no ex-girlfriends. If fantasies of love became reality, they would all know soon after his return. But for now, it was a closely guarded secret only he and Zhana knew.

When he first mentioned to mum he was writing to a girl from Russia, he received a bucket of cold water. In her attempt to douse those foreign flames completely, mum, always the devout Christian said he should
trust the Lord to find a good local girl
. Bronte figured if God wouldn’t answer the prayers of a planet to stop the atrocities and horrors of World War, it was highly unlikely He’d help him find a new missus. Besides, mum’s God wouldn’t approve of his divorce.

So when mum also warned him about the bad types who’d say anything a man wanted to hear just to get her out of the poor conditions she was in, Bronte took her bucket of cold water and threw it out. The desire for a better life was the driving fundamental of any immigrant. There wouldn’t be a single migrant who’d emigrated to escape better conditions, or build a worse life than where they’d come from. And he liked to think he wasn’t such a poor judge of character.

Still, positively no one could know and it had to stay that way. If it didn’t work out for he and Zhana then who’d be any wiser? Only the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation – the dog - could know. The animal had been witness to everything from marriage break-up through sex on the floor with Lena, yet always silent, without prejudice, never a comment or complaint and infinitely patient. Bronte understood God had been spelled backwards.

Then the idea came to him in the bath. It would be easy to meet someone else! He simply had to visit the agency Zhana was writing from. Problem solved, that would be his Plan B. He would diarize the agency name and number and take it with him. A smart romantic always had a back-up to ensure his love boat stayed afloat. He knew Cupid was luring him with Zhana, he just didn’t know how fast he was being reeled in. He decided to check email and to his delight, another letter from Russia.

My dear Bronte, I am sorry to write that I have very big problem. I am very distressed. Some months ago I borrowed money from friends to have cosmetic surgery on my nose. You agree before I had too big nose, yes? Now, I must pay. They say they must have this money or they will go to the magistrate. Now I must pay $1500. Can you please help me? I am very sorry to ask for your help, but I have no one, and I know you are a good man… Zhana.

He sat stunned, silent in a world where a comet from far away was about to crash. Was this a joke, a con or a scam? If it was a joke, why wasn’t he laughing? $1500? Okay, maybe her nose was a little large, but it was part of her beauty and by no means a snout. She had too many good features to single that out as needing surgery. He opened files with photos she had sent months before and tried to imagine her with a new nose. Each time with each photo, he found himself looking at her hair, large breasts, small waist and hips, her long legs, mouth, eyes, cleavage – oh, and her nose.

Now committed to visiting, he decided to bite the bullet and pay the $1500, even though a mere fifteen dollars would’ve been a lot easier on his budget. Troubling Bronte more was what the desire to change her appearance implied and what it said about her personality. Changing a nose screamed a lot more than just getting a hair cut!
Is the girl so vain
he wondered?

And after learning of young Russian women scamming older suckers from foreign countries, he was sure he wouldn’t sleep easily. Was it a perfectly legitimate request for help, or was he just wishing it to be so? He hoped mum wasn’t right again and that he wasn’t being played for a stooge after all. That night, he fell asleep with the darkness fading to old black and white TV episodes with him starring alongside
Larry, Moe and Curly
.