I arranged my vacation time, updated my passport, got a transit visa, and bought the plane ticket. I was going to do exactly what I never thought I could: take a chance that would take me far from my cubicle and closer to someone who might join with me to become the family of my dreams.
CHAPTER TWO
Moscow, and the KGB
December 1999
Though my seat on the plane finally afforded me the window my cubicle had been lacking, I still found myself surrounded by gray. At 30,000 feet and worlds away from southern California, all I could see were clouds that had begun over Germany, continued through Poland, and remained into Russia. Periodically, the clouds jostled the plane and I could hear the whine of the hydraulics as the plane re-corrected to its true course. Once again, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing, but at least this time, I had something to look forward to.
Much like my excruciating commute to work, the long flight afforded me unwelcome time alone with my thoughts. My mind proved to be as cloudy as my surroundings and I couldn’t escape the questions buffeting my brain: What the hell was I doing? Was I crazy? You cannot, you should not commit to a lifelong partner in one week. I thought about the many couples I had known over the years and how they dated their eventual spouses for years before marrying. Now here I was, expecting to find what they had, in one week.
As the clouds parted and the land below revealed itself, the anxiety that is typically experienced at takeoff really began to set in. I glanced at my watch while the plane landed safely on foreign soil and found that it was exactly noon. High noon. Day one had begun. I had one week. Seven short days. I had one real chance to find the person I came for, or return to my gray cubicle to continue my gray life.
Of the three major airports in Moscow, I arrived at the primary international portal known as Sheremetyevo 2. Despite being a significant gateway for international passengers, the airport itself proved small, dull, and cold. So cold, in fact, that my first impression of the country had nothing to do with culture, or landscape, or even communication. It was just really cold and I had brought the wrong coat. My SoCal winter outfit, tennis shoes and a coat intended for California winter, sixty-five degrees above zero, were doing me little good now. I quickened my steps toward the baggage claim in an attempt to generate some needed body heat.
After I retrieved my bags, I took a moment to survey my surroundings. A sea of people characterized by gruff movements, stoic expressions, and muted colors trudged this way and that while providing a stark contrast to my sunny origins. Determined to use the cold to steel myself, I took another deep breath and sought out some sign that might direct me on my journey. And then I saw it. An actual sign with my name handwritten on it that read, “Paul Goldman,” and holding the sign was a short, middle-aged woman.
“Welcome to Moscow, Paul,” she said warmly. “I’m Natasha, the office manager for Russian Brides.” When I returned her greeting, I suddenly realized that she wasn't alone. Standing just behind her was a tall, beautiful woman wearing a long coat, with a scarf draped over her head and neck. Her image was unmistakable.
“Svetlana,” I managed, trying to overcome both my excitement and surprise, “You’re even more beautiful than your pictures.”
“Hi Paul. Nice to finally meet you in person, although I feel that I already know you from your letters and our calls.” Her eyes fluttered momentarily, then she regained her steady gaze. Good, I thought, that means she likes me. “How’s Basel?” Svetlana asked.
“Probably missing me at the kennel, but I assured him it was for a good cause,” I replied, awkwardly handling my suitcase while I debated what to do or say next.
Natasha, sensing a moment of self-consciousness, directed us to the parking area where her car was waiting. I made a point of holding the car door for Svetlana and also made a mental note to let things unfold naturally as I loaded my bags in the trunk. Moments later, we were heading to the agency’s apartment. Svetlana and I talked about the city, the weather, and all the usual little things people talk about on a first meeting.
Pulling up to the apartment building, Natasha stepped out of the car and handed me directions to her office while Svetlana remained inside. “Svetlana will be at the office around six. There’s a nice Italian restaurant close by. You two can have dinner there.”
I turned into the apartment building and made my way to the arranged apartment, located on the third floor. Walking up the stairwell, so too my spirits rose. Svetlana likes me, I thought. She's friendly, and we just talked incessantly for the last hour and half. Well, maybe I could find my soul mate in one week. Having climbed the steps hurriedly with my heavy bags, at the top of the landing I paused a moment to catch my breath. Then, I opened the front door to what would be my home for the week. I noticed these walls were gray, but this gray now had a different meaning for me. This gray was an empty canvas, ready for me to cover with images of the rest of my life, the life I'd always dreamt of.
Six and a half days left. I found my way to Natasha’s office and found Svetlana waiting for me. More at ease, we gave each other a big hug, said our good-byes to Natasha and headed to the restaurant. While we walked, it was just as cold as before, and it had begun to snow, but now I seemed protected from the cold by an aura of warmth surrounding me. Arriving at the restaurant, I opened the door and was engulfed by wonderful smells of cheese, garlic and oregano. I glanced around and noticed red checkered tablecloths and paintings of Tuscan landscapes. Ah, here I am in romantic Italy, I thought. What a romantic place to be, especially with Svetlana, the most beautiful woman in the world. We picked up our conversation from the long ride back from the airport. We talked about our families, our work, and even our situation.
“Sveta, I have to tell you, being here with you is like a dream come true,” I said daringly, and then I reached across the table to hold her hand. To my surprise, however, she immediately pulled it away and looked down. I was shocked and confused. “What’s the matter?” I questioned.
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel comfortable.”
“Why? I don’t understand,” I said, as I searched her face for some explanation. When I could find none, I tried some levity instead. “Do you think the KGB is watching?”
“No, it’s just me,” she responded, revealing a beautiful smile that signaled her wish to take back what had just happened. However, no matter how much she tried to erase the memory of her recoil with smiles and kind words, I now realized what should have been so apparent. It was dumb and naïve of me to expect that a few months of correspondence might translate into an immediate relationship. I had to consider that Svetlana was just using me for a plane ticket to America, to a better life. But could I blame her?
Later that evening, as I found myself alone again in the apartment, I thought about what life must be like for Svetlana and for the millions of women like her who shared her station in life. Most of the Russian men they were meeting were lazy, or alcoholics, or both. These women had always accepted their lots in life, which meant enduring a dreary existence in Moscow with no hope of finding anything better.
Then, in 1991, the change in government also signaled a change in outlook. Western television, replete with scenes of glamorous women and lavish lifestyles by way of “Dallas” and “Dynasty,” became huge hits in Moscow. Fashion magazines revealed women of comparable beauty being treated like goddesses staring out from Russian newsstands. These women aren't prettier than me, I imagined them thinking, so why are they treated like goddesses, while Dimitri, Petrov and Yuri treat me with no more reverence than a housekeeper, hired to clean up after their alcoholic binges?
Drawn in by the beacon of hope that was Natasha’s office, these women traded their youth to some unknown foreigner in order to escape their dismal existence in mother Russia. They had to know the odds of finding true happiness were slim, but they were desperate. Svetlana was desperate. We were both desperate. What a mess.
While Svetlana was at
work, I spent the days seeing the sights of Moscow and getting lost. Walking around town, riding the buses and subways, I began to observe something interesting. I discovered that there were two distinct groups of Muscovites: the first was the older generation, characterized by women and men over fifty, who looked like extras from the set of “War and Peace,” all dressed by the same costume designer. The women were bundled in their kerchiefs, and the men wore those “ushankas,” the traditional Russian hats with the floppy ear flaps pulled down low. The second was comprised of the younger set who had not been so beaten down by Communism and entertained certain fancies that their parents had never imagined, including optimism. This younger generation maintained a freshness and hopefulness about their future, determined to find their unique place in the fast-changing modern world that Russia had so recently entered.
As the week progressed, I had dinner with Svetlana each evening at the Italian restaurant. On the surface, it looked like everything was moving along fine. Svetlana still flashed her beautiful smile, and, if the KGB really was looking, all they would see was two young people in love. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried to forget it, I couldn't shake the memory of the recoil. When we were together, I never mentioned it, and Svetlana made every attempt to make sure it didn't happen again, but it was lurking there beside me, draining me of some of my present joy and churning up doubts about any future with the woman I had traveled forty years and halfway around the world to find.
Four days left. I returned to my apartment after the latest dinner with Svetlana and when I turned on the living room light, all I saw were the gray featureless walls. Slumping down onto my bed, my feelings of depression could not be denied. Four months of correspondence, during which my initial disbelief turned into acceptance, then rising anticipation and excitement, and now, half the week gone, and I felt I had nothing to show for any of it. I decided I had three choices: I could continue to see Svetlana, make her a trophy wife, and take my chances; I could try to find someone else in the very short time left to me; or, I could just give up.
Three days left. Determined to do something, I headed to Natasha’s office.
“I’m devastated,” I confessed to her. “Svetlana doesn’t want me and I’m not sure I want her. She’s just doing this to escape and I don’t know what to do.” Natasha looked at me with a motherly, compassionate smile, empathizing with my plight. Her eyes softened and she placed a gentle hand on my slumped shoulder. She bit her lower lip as she seemed to consider a solution. Sensing an idea coming into view, Natasha reached for her card file and pulled out a card with an edge folded down.
“Wait a minute,” she whispered, and looked over the card. “I’ve got her! Yes, this is the one for you, Paul.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Her name is Talia and I think you should meet her. She came to the office last week. She’s bright, and has the kind of girlish joy I think you’re looking for. And she’s Jewish.” Natasha handed me the card.
After a moment, I said, “Well, she's not very pretty, but I know it's not going to work with Svetlana. I just know it. But if you say so, Natasha, I'll meet her. At this point, I've got nothing to lose. Whatever. Call her up, but I'm never going back to that Italian restaurant again.”
“Sure Paul, no problem,” Natasha replied. “There are other places to go.” Natasha picked up the phone and a short but lively Russian conversation ensued. She put the phone down and looked at me with her motherly smile. “It's all set up. Talia will see you tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 in the Red Square metro station.”
“How will she know me?” I asked, before leaving her office. Natasha started to laugh.
“Don’t worry, Paul. She’ll find you. With your sneakers, you really stick out in a crowd. Nobody wears sneakers in Moscow in December!” I looked down at my bright, white Reeboks and couldn't help but chuckle along with her.
“Ha! I never thought about that. Being from California, sneakers are all I own!” My mood was already lifting. I left the office smiling and feeling rejuvenated.
That night I couldn't sleep. My doubts returned and I started to question everything. Had I overreacted when Svetlana rejected my initial advances? After all, her letters were warm and our phone conversations were always sincere. Maybe her reaction the other night was simply a result of the newness of it all? Maybe she just wasn't attracted to me? Maybe it was a cultural thing? No, I knew. And I also knew that I had neither the money nor the time to make this trip again. Shit, this was no better than what I had back in California, I thought. I might as well leave now and go back to my cubicle. The confidence that I had felt only a few days prior had slipped away.
What a disaster.
I had hit bottom. But now, there was a glimmer of hope, if Natasha wasn't putting me on. I fell into a fitful sleep, and realized that I'd know in a few hours whether the whole trip was washed up.
CHAPTER THREE
Talia
Two more days to go. Making my way to the Red Square metro station, I was not at all surprised to find myself shivering from the cold. Quickening my pace, I glanced up to find the sky gray and threatening. And, when I finally arrived at the station, I found myself surrounded by dour faces staring at nothing. Trying not to succumb to the bleakness surrounding me, I turned to look for a bench on which to wait and I practically knocked over a young woman who had been swiftly walking by. I muttered my apologies in what little Russian I had managed to pick up, and she turned her face to mine and revealed a warm smile.
I was surprised.
It was Talia, and I became elated. Meeting Talia confirmed my impressions from her photo. She was cuter than her picture, standing about 5’5” and draped in a long coat and heavy scarf. Her dark eyes matched her curly black hair which fell softly to her shoulders. Though our initial pleasantries were fairly typical for a first encounter, there was a uniqueness about her that struck me immediately: she was never without this warm smile. Talia was the exception to the seriousness that surrounded us, and a welcome reminder of the sunnier dispositions I was accustomed to back home. Things already felt different, though I was careful not to get ahead of myself.
“Let’s go walk around the museum,” she suggested, with a slight tilt of her head, “It’s right around the corner.”
“Fine with me,” I replied, and we set out for the Lenin Museum, a small building dedicated to the country’s greatest figure.
While we strolled through the grand foyer, I couldn’t help but notice how often Talia laughed. I was carried away by her joyfulness, which served as a stark contrast to the mostly serious Svetlana. Our conversation was comfortable and natural, and at one point, Talia even grabbed my elbow as we walked, making me feel strong and needed. Instead of recoiling from my touch, she was the one initiating it. By the end of our time together, all I could think was, uh oh, I'm in trouble now! This is the one! What do I do about Svetlana? When we exited the museum, I noticed a phone booth, and explained to Talia that I needed to make a call.
Svetlana's voice was warm. “Hi, Paul. I've been waiting for your call. Where shall we eat tonight?”
I bit my lip. “Uh, Svetlana, I can't get together with you tonight.”
“Why not, Paulie, aren't you feeling okay?”
“No, I have this really bad headache.”
“Oh, that's too bad. I see you tomorrow, then. Good night.”
I hung up the phone, and my stomach churned. How could I do this to her? I asked myself. But then, I realized it was, after all, mostly her fault. I turned to open the rusty door, and out of the corner of my eye I caught Talia's smile, and my Jewish guilt about blowing Svetlana off was gone. Natasha will take care of it, I thought, and I turned my full attention to Talia.
That evening, I took Talia to dinner at the very same Italian restaurant I had been dining with Svetlana. I wasn't concerned that I might look like some kind of gigolo because none of the other diners ever looked at me. It seemed that the years of Communist rule had conditioned people not to inquire about other pe
ople's business.
So, it didn't matter whom I was with.
Our conversation over dinner was even more engaging and natural than our experience at the museum. I learned with some degree of surprise that Talia had recently finished medical school and longed to become a doctor in America like some of her friends had done. She was candid, intelligent, and sincerely interested in me. We talked about our personal histories, our past relationships, and our families. Talia’s face absolutely glowed when she began to tell me about her parents, and the overwhelming love she felt for them made me that much more captivated by her. If she valued her own family so much, surely she would also look to create a similar one.
She went on to tell me that her father was the manager of some kind of auto import firm, and her mother worked as a nurse part-time, while raising her and her sisters Jane and Anne. Talia also had two older brothers who had immigrated to Israel; one was a doctor, the other a film student. By the time we were finished dinner, I felt like I already knew her well, and I had absolutely no idea what we actually ate. I did know, however, that a great weight had been lifted from me, and that I was beginning to smile as often and as easily as Talia. Without thinking, I reached across the table to take her hand, and she put her other hand on top of mine, looked me directly in the eyes, and smiled.
As we exchanged our good-byes, she asked if I wanted to meet her family the very next night. I agreed and then made my way back to my apartment, seemingly walking a few inches above the crusty snow. Could it be? Could this be what I had been looking for? Could I be what she had been looking for?
* * *
Only one day left. I made my way to Talia’s family’s apartment, and I again looked for some kind of sign that might give me an idea about the direction my trip had taken. The sky was still gray, the air was still frigid, and building after building looked exactly the same. I was beginning to believe that all the apartment buildings in Moscow were built by the same construction company, and so I was shocked when, despite one wrong turn, I arrived at Talia's building without getting really lost. Now that had to be a sign.
Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit Page 2