Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous

by Best, J. Brandon

  ‘What in Lenin’s name were you doing in that place?’ The cab driver was young and to Bronte’s relief, spoke fluent English.

  ‘That is the roughest part of town. Man, you can get stabbed or bashed down there’. Bronte boiled when he thought that it was really all her fault. Bloody Rita! He shouldn’t have even been alone and least of all in that bar.

  ‘Tell me about it… I got lost.’

  ‘So how’d you wind up in that place?’ The cabbie asked, looking at Bronte and not at the road.

  ‘I think the taxi driver that took me there has lived in Krasnodar for ten minutes…’

  ‘Where’re you from man?’ The driver said, again staring at Bronte who wished he’d keep his eyes on the traffic.

  ‘Australia…’

  ‘Wow, cool! You know Rex Hunt?’ The guy was wide eyed and not just from the gold specs he was wearing. What is it with this place and bloody Rex Hunt?

  ‘Never heard of him… Rex who?’

  ‘He’s a really good fisherman… his show’s on every night here… not that I like fishing or anything…’ The guy slammed on the brakes to stop for a red light only noticed in the knick of time. ‘But I enjoy his show… he kisses the fish then throws them back.’

  Highlighting the stupidity of his evening, every passing metre of the journey home was filled with glimpses of women straight from magazines; sometimes alone, often in groups but usually without men.

  ‘So many beautiful girls… so many fish in the sea’ the young driver said laughing, brushing his thick and unkempt hair away from his gold rimmed specs as he wrestled with the wheel of his dangerous vehicle.

  ‘Yes… I’d like to see Rex Hunt try and catch one of those fish… kiss her and throw her back…’ Bronte replied distantly, still annoyed but surprised the cabbie was tuned in to his thoughts.

  ‘So you’re here on holidays or for work?’ The driver said looking at Bronte.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve been out having another wonderful evening on my postcard-like holiday… so that’s why I feel like suicide.’

  ‘Like suicide?’ The driver laughed. ‘Had a bummer or two?’ He was still looking at Bronte more than the traffic. Bronte was glad he hadn’t climbed into the back seat.

  ‘I was dumped by my blind date for a pair of boots then I got drunk with the devil’s drummer who sent me on a mission to cheat death in a sleazy bar full of Mafia types.’

  ‘Damn… life’s a bitch!’

  ‘Now I’m headed home alone without a paddle in an ocean of beautiful women. I need a boat not a cab… and a net so I can cast out and pull in a fine young catch.’

  ‘Ha… yeah, it must have been easier dating in the Stone Age’ The driver said laughing.

  ‘She’s nice, hand me my club’ Bronte added.

  ‘The Love Angel Cupid is cruel I think, a joke on men really’.

  ‘I’d like to kill Cupid…’ Bronte replied. ‘She gives girls bodies and faces to die for then plots evenings like mine tonight, just to prove to fools they are to die for. She knows full well clowns like me will do all sorts of ridiculous things just to be with one of them.’ They pulled into his apartment complex and after paying the driver, Bronte ran upstairs, the young man’s deep, profound parting statement still in his ears.

  ‘They’re all bitches man… all bitches.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alessiya’s bedroom was a study in art inspired by motive, its shades of pinks and white, lace and brass resembling a room from the Playboy Mansion. Observing the dawning sun filtering through the rose and gold leadlight, she knew it would be impossible for lucky admirers to be unmoved by the décor and lighting. As she rolled over to observe the man bathed in rose coloured sunlight, she felt a sense of pride in her achievements. She slid under the silver sheets of silk and began to play with her naked, sleeping bed mate. Short of teasing, she could use her mouth like an incubator.

  As he woke, he reached down and grabbed her hair in both hands. With the slow, calculated rhythm of an oil drill she moved up and down. When he opened his eyes she sat up, pulled his arms behind his head and forced him to grip the brass bed head behind him, tightly. She climbed on top and leaned back, supporting herself with outstretched arms between his straightened legs. Now thrusting back and forth she looked up. She loved sex in the morning and better, watching herself do it from the beautiful handcrafted butterfly mirror strategically positioned on the ceiling above the bed. But the sight of Rita’s cousin Anton humping wildly made it even more exciting. Knowing he was married to Rita’s best friend gave it that extreme element of pleasure - the naughtier the better. She screamed expletives as she climaxed. Her day was off to a great start. It always was when she orgasmed before breakfast.

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  The following morning started out worse than the evening had ended. Somewhere between that dreadful bar and the Bardot boots, he’d lost all interest in Zhana. Rita, as he now tried to think of her, was not his type at all and they were definitely not singing from the same hymn book. She was just too young, more girl than woman. She tried hard at feigning womanhood, but it was never going to cut it for a man his age. No matter how much she wanted or needed to grow up, she’d have to wait until the years would be appointed at the appropriate time.

  Bronte hadn’t been with a young woman since he was young. Nevertheless, she acted and looked younger than 28. She was definitely more the reader of Cosmopolitan magazine than House and Garden. Had his intention been to meet Zhana for a fling, he would have tolerated anything for a week or two. But the idea of travelling to Russia for a one night or a one week stand hardly represented a sensible exercise in frugality and least of all an investment in a meaningful relationship. Anyway the only fling he was sure he’d see or hear from Zhana was the sound the change would make while she emptied his wallet. Now the fact that she was late again only added to the contempt he was feeling. When she arrived looking straight from the catwalk, he reminded himself he was only as old as the woman he’d feel and while he’d been thinking of a fling, he wished he could feel a lot more of her.

  ‘Good morning, how are you… and how was your evening?’ She said with all the charm of the Beatles Rita, minus the bag across her shoulder and the little white book. As she spoke, he recalled the parting words of the young cabbie, ‘they’re all bitches’.

  ‘I am good thanks… but my evening was nothing. I drank a few beers.’ He couldn’t be bothered answering her question, least of all remembering his two beers in hell. As he spoke, Rita recalled Alessiya’s comment, ‘all men are liars.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you may have gone out?’ Disguising the fact she knew he’d been directed to Valya’s bar by Anton’s words to the cabbie who’d taken him. Ignoring her question,

  ‘You are not wearing the boots?’

  ‘O no. I will keep them for a special occasion.’ What event could be so special in Krasnodar to warrant $375 boots? He thought. ‘Of course, I understand. Let’s eat.’

  They descended stairs off the street to enter a restaurant in the basement of an old building. It resembled a medieval tavern, resplendent with monster candles suspended on wheels hung with chains. The carved, rough adzed woodwork, polished tables and chairs and matching bar were from another time and place. The atmosphere was straight out of the thirteenth century and even the music sounded like it was sung by real village people.

  Above the most elaborately carved bar on earth hung an old wooden sign dangling from rusty chains with the English words Whale Oil Beef Hooked engraved with the touch of a burning poker. Figurines of goblins, ogres and wizards crouched strategically in recessed wall cavities, overhearing the conversations of young and old. He expected some buxom wench waitress with excessive cleavage bulging in a lace-up blouse to sit on his lap and begin pouring beer down his throat. Instead, some pimply college type with coke bottle specs, white shirt and black apron took the orders. He looked in need of reanim
ation and somehow his heavy Buddy Holly glasses looked out of context in the middle ages.

  ‘They could serve hot dogs in this place and it’d still be worth a look.’ Bronte said, gazing around the room with wide eyes.

  ‘I do not think you can order hot dog in here Bronte’.

  ‘Yes I know … I was simply saying that this place… never mind…’

  The waiter arrived with the entrees, served in authentic large sea shells. The mixture of seafood, cheeses and spices was bubbling hot and they were so tasty Bronte ordered double. Then he closed his eyes and pointed to something on the menu. The waiter wrote whatever it was in his pad.

  ‘What did you order?’ Zhana asked looking at him curiously.

  ‘I don’t know… I will find out soon though’ Bronte answered, ‘and you?’

  ‘Turkish lamb with mint and garlic jelly.’

  As it turned out he’d pointed to delicious racked ribs in a smoked barbeque sauce.

  ‘You had good time last night… you meet someone?’ Rita asked innocently, dying to learn what happened at the Mafia bar.

  ‘Don’t ask… I don’t want to go there…’

  ‘Oly thought you might have good time last night…. I was worried you can maybe meet another girl…’ Rita tried to feign jealousy. Bronte wasn’t buying it.

  ‘Rita, to put it politely, my night was a piece of shit…’ She looked away. Bronte thought that if he were at home alone he’d burp right now. There had been little conversation between him and Rita and for most of it, she looked away. The table needed livening up somehow and in that place it would be appropriate medieval behaviour. Gentlemanly restraint prevailed and he changed the subject, yet again.

  ‘How is your work Rita’ he asked, remembering she told him of working from nine to six or seven most days.

  ‘Now I have no work.’ She looked worried, ‘I have big problem Bronte. I lose much time and money because of your visit and now… I have no work or money. I am very troubled and my parents stress because they are not well and can not work… You would give me $300 to help me and my family?’

  ‘What? Rita I don’t understand… I’m sorry about your job and your situation, but that is a lot of money to ask now, and… well we are not together.’ She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘What do you mean we are not together?’ Her retaliation bordering aggression caught him by surprise. When the topic was money or goods, she was in no habit of looking away to avoid anything. Rather, she took on a cold, hard demeanour.

  ‘Well you have no desire to be with me… for example last night… yet you think I should support you… but support for what? What have you given me these days? I have spent more time alone than with you.’ Zhana shifted from the defensive to appear quite angry. He wondered if he pressed her button nose, would she appear pleasant again.

  ‘I do not sleep with man until I know him’ she said with clenched fists.

  ‘Bloody Mary Zhana, I am not asking you to sleep with me – although company would be nice… I am speaking about compatibility or chemistry as we say. We have none. I know it and you know it – else you’d make more effort to be with me, especially if you’re not working.’

  ‘I am here with you… I am your woman here… now I am with you!’ She hesitated and softened her manner and tone. ‘So will you help me with three hundred dollars?’

  ‘Maybe you should have taken the money from the boots and helped your parents with that…’ Rita looked away, then faced him again asking,

  ‘Well… is that your answer? Will you help me or not?’

  ‘Not at the moment Zhana… I mean Rita… Not three hundred dollars….’

  ‘Fine then’ she said, almost biting off the words while throwing things in her bag. ‘We are finished. I do not like you anyway’ she added, sliding across the seat. ‘You are greedy horrible man. What for you come to Russia to meet young girl? You are selfish and think only of yourself. You should go to your home in Australia and meet greedy Australian woman.’

  Bronte was stunned. Before he could even respond, she got up and stormed off. He sat watching, believing she’d make a left for the ladies room. Instead, she walked out of the restaurant. Adjacent tables overheard the ruckus and sensing tension, every eye in the place seemed to be on him. Embarrassed, he sat in self broiling silence, wishing he had just slapped the young and spoiled upstart. He dared not look around the room but instead did his best to defuse the hot, sweaty, upside down feeling that perpetuated after her sudden outburst.

  As quickly as the conversation ended, his remaining week had just been shipwrecked. What would he do? How could he stay in his apartment given Zhana had organized it and he was supposed to pay her? He’d paid only four days in advance which terminated tomorrow. The young nerd waiter’s magnified eyes had followed her from the restaurant. Now, the medieval Brains from the Thunderbirds look-a-like stood with a smirk on his face.

  Bronte reminded himself he had the agency number in his suitcase. He could call them. Plan B. Yes, he’d call and explain what happened. He and Rita simply did not get along. He had found Rita not what he’d expected from correspondence with her – or Zhana, or Oly – whoever it was he was writing to. Then he remembered, Damn! She still had his phone.

  He slapped 500 roubles on the table before literally leaping out of the booth and running for the exit. As he passed by the pimply nerd and the manager at the door, Bronte pointed to the money on the table and blurted,

  ‘I’ll be back’, realising he sounded like Schwarzenegger. If ever he needed the skill and speed of the Terminator, it was now. Out front of the restaurant, the constant pedestrian traffic rendered it almost impossible to see which way she had gone. He looked this way, that way, but there was no trace of Rita. Then through a window of opportunity opened by a gap in the crowd, he saw her standing on the opposite corner talking on her phone. He ran across the street dodging honking cars and wound his way towards her through the maze of people. By the time she saw him approaching it was too late, she had nowhere to turn.

  ‘Rita, I forgot. You have my phone.’ She turned and started to walk. He reached out and grabbed her arm, ‘Rita, give me my phone.’ She pulled free ‘though Bronte managed to snatch at her bag. In a tug of war, she replied nastily,

  ‘It’s my phone. You gave it to me.’

  ‘I did no such thing and you know that. For God’s sake Rita I need my phone, please.’

  ‘No! You gave it to me yesterday in the café.’ She kept tugging and turning, attempting to pull away and brush him off. Passers by seemed to be paying them unwelcome attention, so with grit teeth he growled,

  ‘Give me the frigging phone.’ To his relief, she pulled it from her bag and slapped it into his open hand and said,

  ‘You are bastard horrible man. Take your stupid phone with you and go home.’ She then swung on her heels and vanished into the crush of shoppers.

  Walking back to the restaurant, Bronte seethed at the sequence of events since he’d stepped off the plane. His nerves had been on edge since day one. When he grabbed her bag, he worried she might scream for help and in Russian, claim some stranger was attempting to rob her. As he went back inside the tavern to retrieve his change, he was mildly thankful she’d complied and handed over the phone.

  He summoned the nerd and ordered a half litre, hopeful the cold ale would cool his hot-flushed feeling. While he waited in all too familiar solitude, the goblins and ogres in the wall cavities looked at him and mocked, he was sure of it. Whale oil beef hooked. Now he understood.

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  Zhana lay on her bed, soaking in her first day off work for a week. She’d been trying to study English from a book, but her mind was up to its old tricks and kept racing to her new life in her soon to be brave new future. Before long she’d be a married woman again! She put the book down and looking about her, began considering her cherished belongings. A gold framed photo of her mother when she
was young; an old teapot that she used for spare change. It was solid silver and belonged to her great grandmother; her silk and satin hand embroidered bed spread; her television. This collection of sidewalk trash or treasure was her dowry and she cowered at how meagre it was. Sorry Willy.

  She made the choice to meet a foreign man for two principle reasons.

  First, she was convinced there were no decent eligible men remaining in Krasnodar, at least not for her. Nearly all Russian men were womanizers and even the respectable married men she knew had girlfriends on the side. Obviously, those good men that remained faithful were already taken. Also, local stocks of males were further diminished by the prospect of better employment and money in the big cities. Now, locals estimated the ranks had been decimated to the extent that females outnumbered the males by up to seven to one.

  And it was a common experience for many Russian women to learn (and too often after marriage) that their husbands drank too much. Zhana’s first husband liked to drink to excess. If it were water he was so fond of, he’d have been a healthy young man with clear urine. But it was the fire water, the vodka, the rocket fuel that he liked obsessively. Young males often considered vodka made men of boys. Zhana’s experience of the stuff had led her to believe the contrary. She had seen far too much domestic violence and failure to form any other reasonable conclusion.