Moonlight in Odessa (21 page)

We walked to the opera house, neither of us saying anything.

When I saw the magnificent theater, I broke the silence. ‘I remember going to the opera with Boba and my mother. Mama wore a black beret, and Boba and I thought she looked French. They were on either side of me, holding my hands. The lights of the opera house gleamed like a lighthouse beacon. Snow flakes started to fall and I tried to catch them on my tongue. It made Mama and Boba laugh.’

He looked at me tenderly.

‘That’s one of my favorite memories,’ I said shyly.

He kissed my hand and said, ‘I hope that you and I will create many more together.’

At the box office, he asked where I wanted to sit and bought the tickets. We sat in a private loge in the mezzanine, my favorite section. I could see the musicians down in the pit, the singers on stage, and the men and women across from me. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the edge, afraid to take my eyes off the stage for the entire first act. I felt Vlad’s gaze, which did not move from my face. At intermission, he asked which ballets I wanted to see in the upcoming season. If I were a different kind of girl, he would have leaned over and asked in a low, sexy voice if I wanted to finish the performance at his place. As the lights dimmed, my eyes returned to the stage, and I acknowledged that sometimes I wanted to be that kind of girl.

I went to work early the next morning. Valentina had given me a key to the flat and tasks to accomplish – she was in Kiev. Because it was difficult and expensive for men to get a Ukrainian visa – an invitation was needed to receive one – Valentina had created a lobby group to ask (bribe) the politicians to waive visas for Americans and Western Europeans – she and her brethren wanted it to be easier for the men to come to Ukraine than to Russia for love.

I sat amongst the ferns and orchids, reading the questions we were often asked. Valentina wanted me to post her answers on our website.

1. Why do Russian and Ukrainian women want American husbands?

They long to create a stable family, which many men here can’t provide because of financial reasons. (In the margin Valentina asked, ‘Should we mention the high alcoholic rate of our men? Or their philandering?’) The stress that results from limited housing, alcoholism, and unemployment contributes to the divorce rate, which is estimated to be 70 percent.

2. The photos on your site look too good to be true. Are the women real?

Absolutely. Our women strive to take care of themselves by walking and dancing and other physical activities. Also, a natural diet (Valentina continued, ‘As opposed to the chemicals in the packets that American women cook with.’ I made the executive decision to leave this out) contributes to thick, long hair and healthy, glowing skin.

3. What is the main difference between American and Ukrainian women?

Ukrainians are traditional women who love to sew, cook, and knit. Their priority will always be family. Being an excellent cook and housekeeper is a point of pride.

More and more, our first contact with American men was through the Internet, so it was in our best interests to have an easy-to-navigate site. To accomplish this, I researched other sites to analyze their approach. There were dozens – I had no idea that we had such competition. We charged more than the other sites – $3,000 for a week of socials. Leave it to Valentina to be the most expensive of the bunch.

When one agency praised itself for having the largest staff, I lauded ours for having an intimate, personalized service. When another bragged about parading the most women under the noses of clients, I stated our socials would not overwhelm. Many sites had scrambled translations. Some translated directly from Russian and dropped articles: ‘Women want to go to United States and be good wife to honest man.’ (‘The,’ ‘a,’ and ‘an’ don’t exist in Russian.) Others applied Russian rules to the English language. ‘My name – Tanya. I – twenty.’ (The present tense of the verb ‘to be’ is not conjugated in Russian.) I underlined that our agency spoke English fluently. Countering every single conceivable argument, hitting back every ball, I felt like a lawyer with a tennis racket. On top of her form. On top of her game. In control. That is, until I turned to a page featuring a collage of a dozen young women. I was given a choice of three categories: ‘ladies with a phone,’ ‘ladies with no kids’ and ‘forgotten ladies.’ I chose the latter, which opened to a page of two by two-inch photos. I stared at the women, they stared back at me. I clicked on Marina, a chubby brunette. She’d tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. According to the statistics next to her photo, she was twenty-three years old, a Pisces, and had had a child less than a year ago. Her strangely translated profile read, ‘I like read, knit warm half-hoses and wonderful clothes. I am good cook, like rest at seaside, go to zoo and circus with daughter. I like to do half-finishes product, like family holidays and suppers. I – honest, modest, good mother and housewife. I seek man who loves children and dreams of family with traditional values. You can have family happiness, calmness, and cozy house with me (25–45 years old, without children, no Muslims).’

I stared at the screen, and her defeated eyes seemed to meet mine. I understood that we weren’t helping women find love, find mates, or the thousand other things I had told myself so that I could go to work and do this job. We weren’t selling romance, or opportunity, or love. We were selling women. Period.

When I closed the window, the original page appeared, and dozens of women stared out at me. I knew it was wrong, but continued to look anyway. The youngest was twenty and her name was Vera, which means ‘faith’ in Russian. She had gray eyes and weighed 112.2 pounds and was five foot four inches tall. Under languages, it was written: ‘English (some forgotten knowledge from school).’ To describe herself, she wrote, ‘A calm, quiet and serious girl, who is always able to create a pleasant atmosphere in any given situation. I am a cheering and easy-going girl who enjoying communicating with different people and appreciates human friendship. I dream about the self-actualization in my life, but the most important for me is happiness in my family life. I want people close to me to be happy and for this I try to do everything. My right man is active, creative, caring, strong, kind, and clever. He must be a real man. If I find such a man, age 22 to 49, I know I can make him happy.’

The oldest woman – Galina – was fifty-five. She weighed 138.6 pounds and had blond hair and blue eyes. Under profession, she listed ‘expert beautician.’ She wrote, ‘I am active woman, my heart is full of love. I have numerous friends, they love me but sadly I don’t see That Man among them. I desire man who will love me and share my interest (literature and theatre, long romantic walks). His age unlimited, preferably tall, preferably European.’

I clicked onto another site. In the forty-five and over category, there were over sixty women; in the eighteen to twenty-five category, 127. I clicked on page after page and read the profiles. Each woman had one headshot and two photos revealing their bodies clad in short skirts and see-through lace tops. Fresh faces jumped out at me, as did their bosoms, bellies and bottoms. The women leaned back or forward to show their bosoms, and the site seemed more soft pornography than marriage minded. All the pictures had the same background. Was this matchmaking firm moonlighting as a photography center? How much had the women paid for these glamour shots? I read the profiles of Inna, Inga, Vika, Genia, Ksenia, Nadia, Tamara . . . I was a voyeur looking into the lives of these fiscally challenged women. Economists, teachers, journalists – most divorced with a child – all attractive, university educated, and longing for stability.

One woman wrote: ‘I don’t believe that people are perfect, everyone has its ups and downs. I eager to build stable and long lasting family. Being brought in the Eastern family I can say that I know what men want and how I can give it to them.’ Under these words, I could click on ‘retrieve address,’ ‘send letter,’ ‘send gift or flowers,’ or ‘add lady to favorites.’

Going from page to page with the morbid curiosity of an onlooker at an accident site, I felt sick. But I could not stop. I landed on a forum for men who had married Eastern European women. ‘Hey, men! Are you sick of demanding American bitches who nag, dont do any housework, and expect you to do everything? Russian ladies are the opposite of greedy Americans. They love to cook from scratch, will lovingly wash your clothes by hand
and
iron them (ever tried to get an American woman to iron your shirt?),
and
never ask for more money – they can stretch a nickel from Buffalo to Moscow. Russian ladies look gorgeous without wasting time at the gym or hairdresser. They stay home where they belong and take care of the house and kids. Hell, their just grateful to have a roof over their heads that they don’t have to share with their parents. Do yourself a favor and get a Russian lady to love and pamper you.’

My God, was this what men really thought?

It was deplorable. We showed girls exactly as trainers exhibited thoroughbreds. Exactly as madams displayed prostitutes. Exactly as landowners counted serfs. Why hadn’t I felt this horror as I helped women create their profiles or translated for couples?

Because I did what I had to do.

How many people before me had said these same words?

I paced the small office, remembering a scene, one of many, from a social. I’d stood with a group of women, waiting for the couple I’d been interpreting for to return from the dance floor. He escorted her back to us and said, ‘I hope to see you later, Masha.’

She smiled shyly.

He sauntered over to his friends. What would he say about Masha, one of the sweetest girls at the social? I positioned myself between the circle of men behind me and the women in front of me.

‘Masha, how can you date such a geezer?’ one girl asked. ‘You can barely see his eyes, his lids are so fleshy and droopy!’

‘His throat looks like a turkey’s.’

‘Gobble, gobble!’

‘I think it looks like a dried-up old scrotum!’

‘Stop it!’ Masha said. ‘I want a man who’s experienced and kind.’ She gestured to her date. ‘And family oriented.’

(‘Guys,’ Masha’s date began, ‘I’m telling you. It’s like buying a used car.’)

‘Who isn’t going to play games.’

(‘A very nice
used
car.’)

‘Who really respects women.’

(‘I need to take her out for a test drive. Vroom, vroom.’)

‘Not like our men.’

(‘A test drive before I know which one I want.’)

‘Who are only interested in one thing.’

(‘Right now
I’m
looking at a room full of little hot Corvettes.’)

‘American men are serious, ready to settle down with one woman.’

(‘And I’ll test drive every car here before I take one home and stick her in my garage.’)

I’d justified my actions in a thousand ways: I was just doing my job; the women wanted to move to America and I was helping them; Boba and I needed the money; I was just following orders; I did what I had to do. How easy it was to judge others and see what they were doing was wrong. So much harder to step back and look at what I had done. It wasn’t until I saw someone else doing the same thing that I clearly saw myself. I was despicable. There is nothing that women won’t do to other women.

I sat down at the desk and put my face in my hands.

Day turned to dusk.

The phone rang. I expected it to be Harmon again, or perhaps Valentina calling from Kiev.

‘Valentina Borisovna? Valentina Borisovna?’ a woman shrieked into the phone.

‘Not here,’ I said. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Daria, Daria? Is it you?’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Katya. In California. I want to come home. He hurts me, he hurts me.’ She started to cry.

The hairs on my body stood up. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do.

‘He accused me of flirting with his friends at his firm’s party. When we got home, he punched me in the stomach. He knows where to hit so that no bruises appear, so that no one knows.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ My words sounded lame and ridiculous.

‘He’ll hurt me again when he sees I’ve made a long-distance call. Please help me, Daria. Please.’

‘Can’t your family help?’ I asked.

‘Where would they get a thousand dollars to fly me home? My father makes thirty-five dollars a month. And I bragged that I was going to America. I’m too ashamed to tell them the truth.’

What could I do? ‘I have a friend in America. She can advise us. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.’

Jane gave me two possibilities. Katya could go to a women’s shelter if she wanted to stay in America. Jane had to explain the concept, because we did not have such places in Odessa. Or she could report herself to the INS as a woman who had married for a green card, in which case she would be deported. I relayed these possibilities to Katya. She said she wanted to come home.

Why hadn’t I seen it earlier? Most of our clients seemed normal, but that lawyer had made my flesh crawl. When I read the bitter testimony like the one proclaiming that
Americankas
were all greedy and
Russkayas
submissive, I had to wonder about some of the men who used our services. Of course, I had made a point of telling our women that they had options and to wait until they felt a real connection – but how many had fallen in love with the idea of America, not the man who’d paid for their ticket? After the honeymoon, how many realized they’d made an enormous mistake but had too much pride and not enough money to rectify it?