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?
I compared our photos with those of other sites. Many were group shots taken at the socials or afternoon teas, though some were glamour shots showing thighs, bellies, and breasts. The women’s smiles were strained. The men – ten to thirty years older than the girls – looked nearly orgasmic, surrounded by our women. It was wrong. What I was doing was wrong, wrong, wrong. I thought of Mr. Harmon and hoped that he would take me back.
I turned off the computer and stood to leave. Just then, Vlad walked into the office. ‘When are you going to find a rich Americanka to take care of me?’ he joked.
When I didn’t respond, he took my hands in his and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t like myself.’ I stared at the floor.
‘Well, I like you.’ He tipped my chin up so that I looked him in the eye.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Done,’ he said. I handed him the keys and he locked all five dead bolts.
‘Want to go for a drive?’
He opened the passenger door and I sank down into the leather seat and closed my eyes.
‘Where’s your driver?’ I asked.
‘I wanted a moment of privacy,’ he replied. ‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never seen your place.’
We drove through the city center; the ride was so smooth that I didn’t feel a single cobblestone. I looked at his hands on the wheel and wanted them on my body. I wanted what the girls at the socials joked about. I wanted to feel loved, if only for an evening. I wanted to feel what bound Mr. Harmon to Olga. We slowly made our way to the gated community where the New Russians had their mansions. Vlad waved at the security guard, who raised the barrier. He slowed down because the road was covered with craters. It was worse than those in town, which was saying a lot. One would think that the richest men of Odessa would band together to repave the street leading to the mansions bought with their ill-gotten gains.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.
‘The bumpy road.’
‘Life has a way of surprising us,’ he said slowly.
So true.
He opened my door and held my hand as I alighted from the car. It was a little windy and a tendril escaped my chignon. I moved to tuck it back into place, but Vlad said, ‘Don’t.’ He took the lock between his fingers and kissed it. We stared at each other.
The spell was broken when the butler opened the door. Vlad placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me up the steps. His living room wasn’t so different from Harmon’s pre-Olga. Black leather couches, state-of-the art television and stereo. The butler placed a silver tray with chilled champagne and two flutes on the coffee table. Vlad opened the bottle with the ease of a Ukrainian man and poured two glasses. ‘To you, Dasha. Thank you for gracing my home with your beautiful presence.’
We clinked glasses and sipped the Dom Perignon. He leaned in, until his cheek touched mine, then he ran his lips along my temple, cheek and neck. I breathed in deeply. He smelled of sandalwood. When he kissed me, I kissed him back, wishing I were someone else, someone passionate and smoldering. Someone who wasn’t me. His arms brought my body closer to his, and I closed my eyes and ignored the voices of reason in my head, letting tingles and shivers of lust overcome me. He carried me up the stairs just like Igor carried Katya up the Potemkin Staircase and laid me gently on his bed. When he took off my shoes and skirt, I whispered, ‘I’m not very good at this.’ He took my hand and brought it to his lips. ‘People are born to make love. If you think you’re not good at it, someone must have been rough with you. We’ll take our time. I have a feeling that in this, like everything, you’ll come out on top.’
His words encouraged me. I felt a powerful attraction to him – his elegant hands, his strong shoulders and slim hips. I wanted him, wanted to forget, just for a moment. He caressed my back and kissed my breasts. He gazed at me; it seemed as though he worshipped my body. He held me reverently, like a Fabergé egg. I wanted him to move faster and tried to stir his hands into the frenzy that I felt. He refused. ‘You’ve made me wait so long. So long that I even gave up thinking about this moment. Now that it’s here, let me savor it. Let me savor you.’
His words thrilled me. No one had ever spoken to me like that. He grazed my neck with his breath. He sprinkled my belly with kisses as gentle as the warm spring sun. When I tried to sit up, he eased me back and continued down my body to my thighs, knees, ankles. He placed the sole of my foot along the length of his cheekbone, then turned and kissed the soft arch. I sighed.
No one had ever made love to me like this before. I’d dated two other men, but each had ripped off my panties, pulled his penis out and shoved it in. There was a moment of pain, then it was over. Each had blamed me, saying that I got him too hot, too fast.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’ve just figured something out.’
‘Until this moment, I thought that I hated sex,’ I said. ‘But with you, it’s different.’
‘Dasha. Dushenka,’ he said, my little soul. He stroked my legs and belly until I found myself craving more. He caressed and coaxed me until I couldn’t differentiate between his fingers or his lips, his tongue or teeth, his whiskers or whispers, until I couldn’t differentiate between his body and mine.
When I woke up, I saw shades of gray: pale walls, mother of pearl satin sheets, a cloudy comforter. I looked for my watch and found it was 10 p.m. I dressed and flew down the stairs to the living room, so I could call Boba and tell her not to worry, that I was having a wonderful time.
‘Wonderful?’ I heard a voice behind me say.
I turned around and found Vlad with a small towel wrapped around his waist. Lust pounded through my body.
‘Hungry?’ Vlad asked.
I nodded and hung up the phone.
He took my hand and led me to the kitchen.
I watched him break seven eggs (odd numbers are lucky) and whisk them into a froth. He struck a match and lit a burner. He poured the eggs into a frying pan and put it on the flames. I stood and stared: an Odessan man who cooks is as rare as a man who gives birth. I didn’t think either was scientifically possible.
We ate out of the pan, feeding and kissing each other.
Him: How long have we known one another?
Me: You’ve been extorting money from me for about a year and a half now.
Him: Not you personally! You think I make all the rounds myself? I went to the shipping firm because I liked you.
Me: How flattering!
Him: I watched you for months and couldn’t believe you didn’t have a boyfriend. Then when we spoke, and you talked back with that acerbic tongue of yours, I was hooked.
Me: Earlier, what did you mean about me coming out on top?
He laughed and grabbed my hand, pulling me back up the stairs.
Chapter 11
The next morning, I allowed myself a moment to luxuriate in the heat of Vlad’s body, of our night together, then got up and dressed. I shook his shoulder and asked him to drive me home. ‘Get the chauffeur to,’ he mumbled.
I ran my fingernails along his ribcage and he jumped. ‘I’m up, I’m up.’
He drove me home in silence. I felt a sort of doom in this stillness and hoped I was wrong. ‘I’m not a morning person,’ he finally said as he turned onto my street. ‘I’ll call you.’
His words gave me a small grain of hope. I got out of the car before he came to a complete stop, ran into the courtyard and up the stairs. I put my key in the lock, Boba turned the dead bolts.
‘Dasha where were you? It’s not like you to stay out all night.’
I hugged her. ‘Boba, I had a marvelous time,’ I said, thinking of the complicity between Vlad and me.
&
nbsp; She pulled me into the kitchen and started to warm our breakfast. ‘You must be starving. Who were you with? Why didn’t you tell me you’d be gone? Were you out with a girlfriend or a date?’
I shoveled oatmeal into my mouth to give myself time to formulate an answer. ‘I met a man. He’s different from the others.’
‘An American?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I’ll tell you about him later, but now I have to get ready for work.’
I locked myself in the bathroom. Under the flowing water, I could still feel Vlad’s stubble along my belly. Cupping my breasts, I imagined my hands were his. Tears flowed with the water – I was happy, but a little sad, too. Why was I so emotional?
Dressed and out the door before Boba could question me, I sped along the city sidewalk, as light as a stone skipping water.
When I arrived at Soviet Unions, the feelings of disgust and shame came flooding back. Men choosing women based on whether they were twenty or twenty-nine, five foot seven or five foot three, blonde or brunette. We used women to make money. We sent them off with strangers. It was frightening. Shto delat? What to do? There was nothing else to do. When Valentina returned from Kiev, I would resign. I would beg Mr. Harmon to take me back.
I hated the fact that I was a part of this ignoble traffic.
I hated that I looked at my watch every thirty seconds, wondering when Vlad would walk through the door.
Valentina had given me several tasks, but I didn’t want to think up more tips for lonely men, didn’t want to update our catalogs. She asked me to describe the city and to take photos for the website. For three days, I wrote an Ode to Odessa – highlighting the writers who’d visited, from Pushkin to Balzac to Mark Twain, and describing our cultural centers, from the ‘mus-comed,’ the musical comedy theater, to the marine museum – all the time trying not to think about Vlad. For three long days, I stayed in the office, bent over my notebook, glancing at the door, looking out the window, waiting for him to come. I hoped the phone would ring. But it was as silent as a Sunday.
Moonlight in Odessa Page 16