Though Talia had spent a great deal of time expounding on her parents’ countless virtues, my meeting with them proved that she had not done enough. They were amazing. Her father was a small man, but the twinkle in his eyes and his welcome and total acceptance of me was like a force of nature, something that absolutely could not be faked. I couldn't help but return the feeling. Talia’s mother was a replica of her daughter, except for being a few inches shorter and a few pounds heavier. They welcomed me with a warm embrace and even warmer words that finally accounted for Talia’s permanent smile. Within moments of entering the apartment, my coat had been taken, my back had been patted, and my dinner plate had been heaped with blini, shashlyk, slivki, and pelmeni, traditional Russian cuisine.
Though Talia’s younger sisters spoke English flawlessly, her parents knew only a few words, but that didn't matter in the least. We all sat down together, and Talia’s father opened a very large bottle of vodka, filled a shot glass, and handed it to me. I took a moment to take in the apartment, a small space crowded with family portraits, overstuffed furniture, hundreds of books, and happy people. I noticed Talia’s father poured himself a third of a water glass, and began a light-hearted suitor's inquisition.
“What do you do for work?” he asked, relying on Talia for the translation. His round eyes sparkled while he peered over at me with fatherly interest.
“I work for an insurance agency,” I responded, not sure how that might translate, but was relieved to find that the answer was more than agreeable. His wide smile, a carbon copy of Talia’s own, revealed a toothless grin and a thousand wrinkles carving the outline of his mouth. He lifted his glass and cheered, “Nosdorovia! To insurance!”
I followed his lead in throwing back the glass and, even before I adjusted to the slow burn in the back of my throat, I realized my glass had already been refilled.
“You know,” I chuckled with an unexpected giddiness, “this is the first time I’ve drunk authentic Russian vodka.” Talia’s parents turned their eyes to her for the translation and before she’d even finished the sentence, her father was lifting his glass again.
“Nosdorovia! To vodka!” he bellowed. We lifted our glasses once more and I waited for the burn in the back of my throat. This time, however, it seemed much more manageable, and by the time we had finished dinner and many more toasts, I was beginning to feel no pain in any region of my body. Like the previous night’s dinner date with Talia, the conversation had been natural and fun, despite the language barrier.
When I returned to my apartment, I replayed the last few hours in my mind. It all ran together, but in the end, the evening was a kaleidoscope of a wonderful family who included me with the first warm hug, good food, much laughter, and vodka. I’d had more fun with Talia and her family than I’d had in a very long time. Entering my own apartment building, I ascended the stairs with a quickness that contrasted my usual labor and signaled my renewed hope. I opened my door, turned on the light, looked in the mirror, and realized I had been smiling the entire time.
Last day. Time to pack. I awoke with a pretty formidable headache and an overall sense of confusion as I tried to distinguish the night’s events. I remembered a lot of laughter, a lot of conversation, and a lot of vodka. After that, I wasn’t entirely sure. I decided a call to Natasha was in order.
“Paul! I was hoping to hear from you. How are things going with Talia? I was right about her, wasn’t I?” Though I could practically see her smile through the phone, I didn’t understand why she felt the need to talk so loudly.
“You were right. She's wonderful. Actually, I think we might be engaged.”
“Engaged! How perfect! Congratulations, Paul!” she boomed while I winced, rubbing my temples.
“Yes, thank you. I mean, I seem to remember giving her the paperwork last night and, well, there was a lot of vodka. But, yes, I’m pretty sure we’re engaged.” Explosions were going off in my head when I peeked through my window, looking out over the street. I needed to find Tylenol. “What should I do about Svetlana?” The moment I asked was the same moment it occurred to me that I had forgotten all about her. A twinge of guilt did nothing to help my cause.
“Paul, I am so happy that you have found happiness. Don’t worry about Svetlana. I will talk to her. In the meantime, pack your bags. I’ll be by around 3 o’clock with Talia to take you to the airport.” We hung up the phone and I slowly began the task of packing my things and mending my headache.
A few hours later, I was waiting outside my building for Natasha and Talia, feeling thankful for the sunless skies for the very first time since I’d arrived in Russia. When my thoughts turned to Talia, my spirits continued to lift. Even though we hadn't spent much time together, I felt Talia was the one I’d been looking for forever. There were so many couples I knew who had dated for years and eventually married, much to my envy, but only half were still husband and wife. It occurred to me that the length of time a couple spent dating seemed to have little impact on the success of the relationship. In many respects, it all seemed like one big gamble and I was ready to roll the dice. When the car eventually pulled up with Talia inside, clutching the paperwork for the fiancé visa, my headache was a distant memory and my heart was overwhelmed. During the hour and a half drive to the airport, Talia and I talked of our future life in California. I tried to be as pragmatic as possible, explaining that lots of hard work lay ahead for both of us.
“As long as I'm with you,” Talia replied, and kissed me tenderly. I was really happy, perhaps for the first time in my life.
Arriving at the airport, Natasha parked the car and we made our way into the terminal. I thanked Natasha for all her help, and hugged my new fiancé for the last time, then reluctantly left her standing at the gate when the attendant called for my row to board.
The thirteen hour flight home meant more time alone with my thoughts, only this time I welcomed the occasion to reflect. The route back to California literally flew over the top of the world, providing a ready metaphor for my own emotions. I had come to Russia in search of a beautiful wife with whom to start a family, even a trophy wife, if I was honest with myself. The women in the catalogue had been beautiful, each one more than the last. If I couldn’t find the love I was seeking, then at least I’d have a gorgeous woman to wake up next to every morning, a beautiful companion to show off to my friends and family. However, what I was coming home with was far greater than this. I had met a woman with whom I felt a developing love, a love that was also being returned. Most of all, I felt I had found the one thing that had eluded me for so long: happiness. I was happy being someone’s knight in shining armor. I was happy to have someone with whom I could communicate more than just superficial ideas. And I was also happy knowing that I was about to become part of something bigger than myself, a family of my own.
January – June 2000
The U.S. Immigration office was a pain in the ass. From the moment the plane touched down in California, I spent every waking moment preparing for Talia’s arrival and anticipating the new life I was on the brink of beginning. Unfortunately, the government didn't share my sense of urgency. After I sent in the fiancé visa paperwork, I spent weeks trying to track it down and its progress. Delays, and more delays. The painfully slow march of time weighed on me more than loneliness ever had, and each day found me dreading more and more my increasingly stifled existence in my gray cubicle, waiting for my life to start.
I spoke with Talia two and three times a week, and our phone conversations were as they had always been: natural, engaging, and tender. The only difference came at the end when we said our good-byes and my longing for her returned. The months dragged on and on.
Finally, I received word that the fiancé visa had been granted. Talia picked it up at the American Embassy in Moscow. For me, it seemed like there were a thousand things to do, but I relished each one, from the travel arrangements, the repainting and freshening up of my home, to the new family-friendly furniture I bought which replaced my
early-bachelor décor. Now that it was real, I began to discuss what was happening to me with my friends, family and co-workers. I couldn't wait to see Talia again. I counted the days, the hours, and even the minutes until her plane landed in Los Angeles.
June, 2000
While I stood at the international causeway, it occurred to me that I was now the one awaiting a distant traveler. I was the one preparing to welcome love from a foreign land. I was the one who’d be introducing Talia into my family. When she stepped through the gate, I immediately caught sight of her. Her long, dark, curly hair still fell to her shoulders the way she’d worn it in Moscow. Her long coat, though open and without a scarf, remained, distinguishing her from the many American passengers. And her smile. Her smile was once again waiting for me. I stole up beside her, grasped her hand, and she turned to me with a start. We both erupted into laughter, and then an embrace. This felt like home.
Our first week together was everything I imagined it to be. I took time off from work to show her my life. We dined out every night and we filled our days visiting the museums, the shops, and even the beach. With each new experience, Talia seemed overwhelmed and excited. She had seen pictures of this great American existence, but never believed that it could be part of her own life. To make matters even better, her growing love for her new home included a growing love for me. It all seemed too good to be true.
And it was.
As time progressed, Talia’s initial enthusiasm began to wane when she became more accustomed to her new life. The initial signs of change in her were subtle, and so it was a while before I allowed myself to acknowledge them. At first, they were only little things. She started to complain if we hadn’t dined out in more than a few days, and she began to nag me about our home and how she wished it were more modern, more a reflection of the luxuries she’d imagined.
Since her mother had done all the cooking for her family, Talia never learned to cook. She whined about my cooking, my income, and the clothes she wore. She seemed to want more of things, and less of me. Nothing seemed to please her.
I drove Talia to the medical library every day where she would study for the tests she needed to become an American doctor. She would spend upward of twelve hours a day there, and then return home and study some more. I couldn't help but admire her dedication, but her studies took priority over everything else, including me. When it came time for bed, my yearning for intimacy was met with dismissal. The woman I believed was my life mate not only spent a lot of time studying, but also it seemed her studies gave her recurring nightly headaches. When Talia's rejections of my advances became the rule and no longer the exception, I became more confused and bewildered.
What was going on here?
After a few weeks, Talia admitted that she was having trouble sleeping with me since she was so used to sleeping alone, and so she moved into another bedroom. I found myself alone again.
With the passage of time, there arose more serious troubles. I returned home one rare rainy day to an empty home and a trail of blood on the kitchen floor. Talia was nowhere to be found. I panicked. Calling everyone we knew and finding no answer, my mind raced with horrifying scenarios. After an hour of worry, I picked up the phone to contact the police. My hand was sweating as I clutched the receiver, and clumsily dialed the number. The haunting sound of the dial tone was then interrupted by another sound, the sound of the front door slowly opening with an eerie creak.
When I swung around to confront what was entering, in walked Talia, wet and worn, showing no visible signs of explanation except a bandage wrapped tightly around her wrist. I rushed to her, relieved that she appeared safe, and asked what happened to her.
“I had an accident in the kitchen,” was all she said, never looking me in the eye. The problems compounded. Despite my dedicated preparation of dinner almost every night, Talia would only eat the salad. She always claimed she’d eaten at the library. She refused to eat anything fatty or fried. She quoted chapter and verse from her medical books, which provided a ready list of diseases related to such a diet. I didn't buy any of her excuses. It looked like anorexia to me.
I put up with it for two months. According to the fiancé visa, I had one more month to either marry Talia or send her back to Russia. And Talia knew that as much as I. Only one month to go. I had to say something. As we shared another silent breakfast following yet another lonely night, my anger, frustration, and fear rose to the surface.
“I can’t do this anymore. Pack your bags. I’m taking you to LAX this morning and you’re getting on the next plane to Moscow.” For a woman who had mastered the art of whining, nagging, and complaining, Talia took my demand very calmly. She rose from her seat, settled herself on the couch, and beckoned me to join her.
“Come sit with me, Paul. Talk to me. What's wrong? What have I done?” she asked sheepishly. I sat next to her. Now it was I who was having trouble meeting her eyes. I decided to unleash.
“You want to know what’s wrong?” I boomed. “I’ll tell you. It’s your constant nagging, and your whining. You’re driving me crazy.” I clenched my hands as my eyes remained fixed on the floor. I wasn’t sure how she’d respond, or how I wanted her to. I continued, “And this sleeping in another room. It’s just, it’s just crazy! We have no relationship. This isn’t what I wanted. You’re using me. You're using me for a green card.” And there it was, my deepest fear finally voiced itself. I waited, fearful of what she might confess. She began to cry.
“No, Paul! That’s not true! I came here because I love you. I do!” Her words were interrupted by sobs. She was struggling to get the words out and her reaction brought me an odd reassurance. “I’ll change. I will. I know I haven’t been myself, and I’m always so tired from studying. Just tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”
“I want it to be like it was before. We spent time together and talked. Now, you’re just too busy for me, for us. You study all day; I want your nights.” Talia began to calm down, and she leaned into me, her chest pressing against my side. I could feel her labored breathing while she rested her head on my shoulder. I was trying to remember when we’d been this close. The longing had returned.
“You’re right. After the library, it will be our time,” she whispered. “I’ll finish my studying so we can have dinner and spend time together. I’ll come to bed with you too. I mean it, Paul. I love you.”
Later that morning, we were once again on our way to the library, only this time I felt reassured. I knew lots of other couples who experienced a rough start, even after they’d been dating for a long time. I felt that Talia had understood my feelings and that maybe things would be better. When I pulled up to the library’s front entrance, Talia leaned in and kissed me tenderly. All was forgiven.
One week later, we went back to the old way of living. Long days apart, separate bedrooms, separate lives. My anger and frustration also returned. I found myself once again pondering the possibility of sending her home. Each time I did, however, my thoughts went to her family. They were so supportive, so hopeful, and so kind. I grappled with my own guilt, wondering what her parents would think of me. Instead of her new life, their daughter gets returned to them, as damaged goods.
I searched for understanding. I knew my life wasn't going to improve, but I couldn't take the obvious step of calling off the wedding and sending Talia home. Why? What the hell was the matter with me? I knew what I should have done, sent her home, but I didn't.
My failure to act sealed the status quo: the days in my cubicle, the evenings home with Basel while Talia was still at the library, and the nights alone in my bed, day after day, night after night, week after week.
What happened to the sweet, affectionate girl I fell in love with in Moscow? Where was that smile? Was hers all an act, just like Svetlana's? Had I been duped by a more capable charlatan? I tried hard not to accept the fact that Talia might have used me as her ticket to freedom. There had to be something else.
A week later I got a sur
prising phone call. While at the breakfast table working on a bowl of cereal, pouring over the newspaper, and pretending that Basel was company enough, the phone rang. Hoping that it was Talia telling me she’d changed her mind about studying on a Saturday, I was disappointed to hear the unfamiliar greeting of a man’s voice.
“Is this Paul Goldman?” the man inquired, revealing his southern roots.
“Yes it is.”
“Hey there, Paul. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but my name is Roy Higgins and I got your number from Greg Martoff over at Russian Brides. I was hoping we could talk.” Assuming he was calling to learn about their program and my own personal experience, I prepared to launch into a tirade about my loveless relationship and my renewed cynicism toward life in general. He’d caught me at a bad time.
“No, this is fine. What can I help you with?” I said.
“Well, I was hoping we might help each other. You see, I live over in Costa Mesa, not fifteen minutes from ya, and I was thinking maybe ya’ll would like to join us for a barbecue this weekend.” Now I was really confused.
“I’m sorry, us?”
“Oh, right! Did I mention that? You’d think I’d lost my head. I’m Svetlana’s husband. We were thinking it might be nice for us all to get together.” The sound of Svetlana’s name almost knocked me over. She was here? She was married? She wanted to see me? To see us?
“Oh, well, that sounds great. I mean, I’ll have to check with Talia. That’s my wife, but I guess you knew that. Yes, I think we’ll be able to make it. Thanks.” I stared down at my cereal, the flakes now limp and unappealing, as I listened to him rattle on about where they lived and how to get there. I probably should have written it all down, but I was too distracted by the thought that I would once again see Svetlana and the inevitable awkwardness that would create.
Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit Page 3