Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous

by Best, J. Brandon

  She reminded herself the manager title gave her small privileges, like setting work schedules, hiring and firing, and wholesale discounts on merchandise. It also gave her the chance to exercise her talents at organising others and boss people around. Thinking of the advantages made her feel better about her decision than thinking about the pay. ‘Why am I thinking of this rubbish now’, she thought? Her mind was all over the shop. ‘O my god, did I boss Willy around’?

  The sudden announcement they were ready for take off dropped her back in the plane and she reached for the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front. The cover showed a tropical beach with blue skies, ocean and palm trees. Looks like my Australian postcard she thought for a moment, so colourful. Wait! She shouldn’t even be thinking about the Australian. When Willy asked her if she wrote to any other men she replied with a confident ‘no’, knowing she hadn’t written or heard from Bronte for two months or more. But now that her week of bliss was over and she was on her way home, she longed to be somewhere full of colour, her life to be a dazzling array of warm, elegant and sunny events. As the plane lifted off she closed her eyes, held her breath and made a wish. Looking out the window again and down on a shrinking Moscow, she noticed for possibly the first time in her life how so much of her Russia was monotonously grey and colourless. A thin white blanket covered the wintry landscape, black runways contrasting like dark ties on large white shirts. Did her life have colour now, she wondered? It had become tediously mundane, boring and grey. Work, child, home, eat, sleep, a repetitive cycle of grey events.

  She’d had no relationship, no fun, and no sex. God she had missed sex! She smiled when she thought of herself and Willy going to town on each other for the first time, the first night. We probably looked like a pair of nymphos, she laughed. It had been so long she could barely remember the last time, and judging from Willy’s reaction during and after orgasm, she guessed he’d missed sex for at least as long too. But her life was moving in a positive direction, or at least changing from grey to black and white. They had made plans to reunite in June and it would be hard for her to back down. Just that morning she had agreed to marry him in the summer. And just now she’d made a wish that it was the right decision.

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  The damn flight from Australia had been altogether too long. Bronte was tired and fed up. Confining someone in an airline seat for more than eight hours smacked of a blatant breach of human rights and dignity. Sure, in one hour the plane could travel eight hundred kilometres, but it still had to travel twenty thousand of them! By his reckoning, it needed to travel at ten thousand k/ph. It seemed incredulous that some airline couldn’t find a use for derelict space shuttles capable of low earth orbit.

  From the moment Bronte stepped off the plane, there was that smell – that unique, Russian smell. Not unpleasant but certainly distinct, he could only imagine a cross between musty soil and Martian fruit, or something almost alien-like. True that the unique aroma of a place draws the most powerful associations, he thought if he was blind folded and dropped in that place he’d already recognise Russia by the smell. After herding through Sheremetyevo immigration, Bronte found himself in a circus when he exited arrivals. Had there been more cameras with flashlights, his mauling by the throng of taxi drivers could have been mistaken for a movie star or rock idol’s arrival. The cabbies were piranha in jeans and jackets, woollen beanies and taxi uniforms.

  Attitude and turmoil presided over everyone and everything. After a verbal wrestling match with some aging driver over the intended cab charge he was on his way to domestic terminal 1, the last leg before the 1000 kilometres trip to Krasnodar. Struggling with his damned luggage, Bronte passed through the glass doors and found a departure board, located his flight and waited to check in. The place resembled Times Square during peak hour. He bumped into a couple of tall mafia-types, both dressed in fur coats. For a moment they all tangled suitcases and while trying to solve the shambles, Bronte couldn’t help thinking the man looked like a black bear with a shaved scalp wearing a human mask. Evidently these Russian bears were wealthy enough to fund their own wild life protection campaign. Between them they wore a ton of bling that’d rival any Lebanese gang back home in Sydney. He guessed their Louis Vouitton cases were probably stuffed full of roubles, almost disappointed he hadn’t walked off with their bags in the pile up.

  At a security gate, young officers stood talking to two attractive young women, providing ample opportunity for wannabe smugglers, hijackers and suspicious characters to wander past unnoticed with cases of contraband. Some middle aged executive who’d forgotten to take the tissue paper from his face after a shaving accident argued with customs officials at the adjacent gate. He couldn’t see the need for inconveniencing himself with a security check of his briefcase. Apparently he was running late for his flight and judging by his face, must’ve tried to shave with a razor in the taxi or bus on the way.

  When an office door opened and a Kim Bassinger look-a-like in a tight airline skirt appeared, every head in the place followed her as she crossed the floor. Either all were surprised to the see the Hollywood actress working for a Russian airline or attractive, striking women have the same effect worldwide. Sheremetyevo domestic is old and looking at the place, he couldn’t imagine how they could possibly renovate it without seriously disrupting the constant tide of passengers. There were people everywhere. And this was the low tide of the post soviet era, when tickets for flights around Russia were no longer ten or twenty dollars each for every party member but now two or three hundred dollars. How busy it must have been only ten years before was difficult to comprehend. But now they may as well demolish the place for a new one. The lack of any gangways to and from departures meant passengers still had to take crammed buses across the runways to their flights - a long way from five star comfort and convenience when it was minus twenty out.

  At the top of the stairs above the departure gate sat the bar, the holy Russian shrine. The bartender displayed typical friendly Russian service with a grunt and a frown that said, Tell me why I don’t like Mondays through to Sundays. Ask me why and I’ll kill you. The tables scattered throughout the room had stools too small. Feeling like a tall dwarf, he sat back to savour his beer, thankful it at least was chilled. Completely uncertain how things would transpire in Krasnodar, he couldn’t help feeling he was about to become the feature act at a circus. He would be blown straight out of a blind date cannon and deep into the tunnel of romantic uncertainty, without a helmet. He was even unsure of whom he was meeting, not confident he really knew what Zhana looked like or that he could recognize her. The request for new photos he made as a precondition for sending the $1500 for the nose job had been met with two head-shots taken while working as a model for hair and makeup. God did she look different! Same colour eyes, hair and petite features, but with new, cute button nose which changed her entire appearance. ‘But who wouldn’t look different with a new nose? Michael Jackson?’ he asked himself. She looked beautiful, but unmistakably different.

  Consoling himself with her appearance, he took another drink and threw his mind into fast forward, thinking about the possibilities for the evening and the sleeping arrangements. Would she have her hands all over him? Would they take one look at each other and try to tear each other’s clothes off? Would they hit it off so well that they’d have sex the first night? Do Russian girls even have sex on the first night? Do good girls in any country have sex on the first night? He hoped he could return with tales hot enough to justify the ridiculous distance to his brother. ‘Dear God, can she please be a sex maniac?’ he thought, conscious of the paradox to ask God for a pernicious favour. Around him, people started to leave for the gate. Time had flown and now his plane was about to do the same. Suddenly, he missed Lena.

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  ‘Guten morgen, I have an appointment with Her
r Weiss, name’s Willy.’

  The young woman wearing long hair coiled like a python on top of her head smiled courteously from behind the glass display counter before replying,

  ‘Guten morgen Willy… Ya, of course, one moment please. He is just out in the workshop.’ She slipped out the back, concealed behind a heavy white curtain while Willy took time to peruse the stock on display in a nearby cabinet, locked sturdily. When he caught a glimpse of some of the tiny attached price tags, he hoped this would be the right place for him. He was in a small jeweller’s shop in Frankfurt’s retail district on the recommendation of a friend. Leaving nothing to chance, he’d decided to make an appointment the day before. Time would be of the essence as he would be off the radar from work.

  ‘Ah, guten morgen William, Herr Weiss at your service.’

  ‘Guten morgen, wie gehen Sie Herr Weiss, …we spoke on the phone yesterday.’ The men shook hands.

  ‘Ja, ja… alles gut… bitte schon Willy, you have the fiancée who can not choose the ring herself, ya? It is a surprise?’

  ‘I can answer yes and no to that. She is in Russia so she has no idea what I will select, and I plan to surprise her with it… but of course she knows about the engagement… and has agreed to my proposal.’

  ‘Sehr gut, sehr gut!! Congratulations Willy!’ The grey haired old jeweller rubbed his hands together as he looked to spread the good news. ‘Eva, Willy has made his proposal and his fiancée has accepted.’ Eva gave a delighted look as the old man added, ‘And the ring will be a surprise for his lovely bride in Russia.’

  ‘I am sure she is a very lucky woman,’ Eva replied cordially, unsure whether or not Willy could’ve been a serial killer. She might have had a python in her hair but she was far from being a German Medusa.

  ‘Lucky indeed,’ agreed Herr Weiss, as he took Willy by the arm. ‘Now, let’s see what we can put together for your little lady… and your budget of course.’

  ‘Bitte schon,’ Willy looked nervous, lucky indeed he hoped.

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  Viewing the lights of Krasnodar growing brighter and more distinct through his window, Bronte felt like a big kid about to embark on the wildest ride of his life. The things men will do to meet a woman! Cross oceans and rivers, mountains and frozen deserts. His mum had told him that all women wished to meet their knight in shining armour. Now the only thing missing was the white horse in the cargo hold. Suddenly the plane bumped and bounced onto the runway. He held his breath as the antique aircraft shuddered and swayed, struggling not to leave a trail of broken bits and fuselage rivets behind. As it settled down and overcame its pitching from side to side, the passengers all performed the standard arrival practice from the third world and clapped. Bloody idiots! He thought, wondering whether it was a symptom of first time fliers, or whether they were just genuinely grateful they weren’t killed. After all, there was no way any sensible person would applaud the pilot. He was simply doing his job when he put the thing on the tarmac and besides, would they have had time to “boo” him if it crashed? Anyway, the knight’s horse would’ve died long before it made it this far and the brave knight would have tarnished his armour shacked up with some other wench.

  Inside, the terminal was not what he was accustomed to back home, or any other developed country for that matter. Run down wouldn’t describe it in sufficient detail. It may have been nice and modern in the 1950’s, but now it too was in dire need of renovation or renewal. A diesel Caterpillar would have been of greater benefit than a bucket of paint. Some man flicked a switch on the wall and an old wooden conveyor belt groaned into life. Two disinterested looking airline men began throwing the passengers luggage from a trolley onto the labouring giant, moving snake. Some men struggled by with a box big enough to ship the mother in law along with the kitchen sink. The freight cost alone would’ve been more than the air tickets. And always that distinct, Russian smell. Maybe it was the old grey buildings, old heaters, old routines, and old ways? Was it the lingering odour from the communist party the night before; the left over of soviet living; a musty, thawing residue of the former cold war? Maybe it’s what grey smells like?

  Bronte had no problem finding Zhana. Instead, she found him. He hadn’t yet considered that it really wasn’t difficult. His suntan alone said he was obviously a foreigner from a warm climate. He’d also forgotten he had his sunglasses on top of his head, and dark glasses weren’t popular attire for mainstream Russia, especially at night; unless you owned a tanning salon.

  ‘Hello…’

  ‘Hi Zhana! …How did you know me?’ They kissed on the cheeks.

  ‘You look just like photos…’

  ‘Obviously not the one on the beach where I’m holding the fish…’ he replied.

  ‘Sorry… what?’

  ‘You look different to your photos… but beautiful … how is your nose?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you… my nose is fine now… ‘

  ‘That’s good, I’m glad… forgive me but you look very different to your photos… and not just your nose’. Bronte sounded awkward.

  ‘Excuse me… sorry?’ And with that her friend jumped in to rescue the conversation.

  ‘My name is Oly,’ shaking his hand. ‘Welcome to Krasnodar. I hope you had a good flight…’ She was slim and fit and brandished a professional smile. She spoke confidently, with beautiful azure blue eyes which glimmered in a hint of mischief. She’d run a henna rinse through her hair so that her entire outfit and makeup seemed to be colour coded to match perfectly. At least five to ten years older than Zhana, she spoke English well.

  ‘Nice to meet you Oly, I’m Bronte… and the flight was torture, thanks.’

  ‘Yes it is very far to Australia… how far is it from Krasnodar?’

  ‘The entire journey took about… 36 hours.’ The impact of meeting the two women standing in front of him and his utter lack of preparedness for initial greetings made him sweat. He felt tongue-tied. How could he have better prepared for meeting a girl he’d committed to via a computer screen?

  ‘The flight took thirty six hours?’ Oly replied. ‘That’s much too far… too long for me. I could not stay on a plane so long.’

  ‘That makes two of us…’ Bronte answered, wishing he could think of something to say which might engage Zhana. But she was surprisingly quiet and preferred to smile rather than attempt conversation. She was also taller than her photos suggested, slim with long black hair and big black eyes. Her skin was flawless, white porcelain just as he recalled.

  ‘You are taller than I imagined,’ Bronte said to Zhana but thinking he may as well talk about the weather. ‘And you look younger than I imagined.’ He caught himself running fingers through his hair, recalling the father and daughter image of meeting a younger woman. And in that moment of self consciousness, he knocked his glasses flying from his head.

  ‘You must be hungry… we have not eaten…’ Oly jumped in again, organising the two lost strangers flung together by a modem.

  ‘Well I was thinking…’

  ‘Good… let’s go eat and drink something’ she said before Bronte could request taking a shower. Her English was proving good enough to be a tour guide.

  CHAPTER 7

  Crammed with luggage and three passengers, he wondered whether his life would end that night in the back seat of the taxi. They were headed for a restaurant of what type and location he had no idea. That had all been discussed and decided in rapid fire Russian. The driver had a dark complexion and Bronte guessed he was about his age. He was tall and looked Turkish and the large black and grey moustache he sported was untrimmed and untidy and it hung in his mouth. While he drove he sucked and chewed on it and seeing that, Bronte couldn’t imagine how any woman ever kissed him. The photo of the wife and kids on the dash must have been a picture of his latest accident victims. He drove like a maniac and might have hit a pedestrian given the way the guy yelled abuse at the disappearing cab.
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br />   All the while the driver chain smoked and said nothing. He had a definite death wish and was bent on taking them all to hell with him in his terrible Russian cab. It would be very easy to die in one of these old Russian cars, Bronte thought. Just getting in the thing gave new meaning to “one foot in the grave”. The seat belts were for kids and pussies according to this lunatic. An air bag would have been an old woman flatulating, or a kid with balloons on his way to a party. And to add misery to danger, the roads looked like they’d last seen maintenance when President Khrushchev shook his fist at JFK. It was impossible for Bronte to simply relax and chat with Zhana. Together in the back seat, they were being flung from side to side as the cab dodged and swerved to miss pedestrians, dogs and other cars by what could’ve only been millimetres at most.

  They swung through another turn and Bronte collided heads with Zhana. We used to drive like this in our teens, trying to throw interested boys and girls together in the car, he thought. But if the driver was attempting to do that, his efforts were ridiculous. When Bronte thought about it he shivered for a moment. No one, not even my brother knows I am here. What if something does happen? The sound of another honking motorist distracted him. They were pulling into a drive way at last. At least this time he had made it.

  Oly said her goodbyes, mostly in Russian and left Bronte and Zhana on the curb to themselves. She had mentioned something about her mother and son and then left in the cab of death. Bronte expected it would be routine to learn of her tragic passing in a motor accident the next day. He had no doubt that world’s worst cabbie would be dead soon and if not, he’d probably be struck by lightning. Surely he had an expiry date on his birth certificate so he knew the precise time of his death. Anyway, he drove like it. On the other hand, the girls had not appeared frightened by the real life big dipper ride straight out of Disneyland. In fact at different times, each had taken calls on their phones without a hiccup. Bronte considered that maybe at his age he was getting too old for these wild excursions. Maybe it was a typical taxi ride in east Europe? He escorted Zhana up the stairs and into the restaurant.