Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous

by Best, J. Brandon

  Eleven o’clock came and went. Bronte drank coffee after coffee and smoked too many cigarettes. Every minute or so he’d move onto the balcony hoping to catch a glimpse of her strolling through the large arched entrance to the apartment complex. When he ran out of ways to pass time, he went downstairs to the courtyard and watched the children on their rusty equipment. Somehow they all managed to safely negotiate the dangers of their toys without the need of an ambulance.

  Zhana eventually appeared at a quarter to one. She had turned to a different page from the fashion catalogue, wearing a fluffy pink sweater with tight pink jeans, black ankle length boots and her black hair tied loosely. Against the dull apartment backdrop, she was a neon sign in the middle of a highway. When she saw Bronte in the courtyard she smiled through pink tinted sunglasses. She kissed the side of his face so not to spoil her perfect pink lip gloss.

  ‘I am sorry I am late. My mother is not well’. The sweet charm again.

  What’s that? You murdered your mother and you were late, disposing of the body? ‘That’s okay’ Bronte replied, kicking himself he was such a sucker for a pretty girl. All the premeditated remarks intended to demonstrate control went to water at the sight of the beautiful young lady in front of him. He had wondered a thousand times how he would react when he saw Zhana, if and when he saw her at all. But now he just wanted to kiss her, smudge the perfect lip gloss and taste her wet mouth. ‘What’s the plan for today?’ was all that came out after the million possibilities he’d preconceived earlier.

  ‘Let’s go eat something, I am hungry. You are hungry? You have eaten?’ she asked. He hadn’t eaten a thing all morning and now into the afternoon, his stomach was beginning to rumble like a subterranean cavern. He wanted to reply that he’d like to eat her.

  They took a cab then walked to a café in the town centre. Magnificent old sandstone buildings stood crowded over by modern glass shop fronts and on every street the signs of western free enterprise were on display. Gucci, Dior, Benetton, they could have been anywhere in Europe and here could have been a plaza in Milan. Sure the buildings and sidewalks were old, but modern Russia was now a far different place to what it had been not so many years before. Bronte spied an empty booth and before even climbing in, grabbed a nearby waitress and ordered a beer. He figured if any country on earth should understand alcohol with the first meal of the day it would be the one with the heaviest drinkers.

  ‘Sok pozjaluista’, Zhana asked for juice.

  ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’ Bronte lit a cigarette, enjoying the fact that he could actually light up freely in a café.

  ‘Nyet… its okay…’ Zhana declined one from him.

  ‘Its good I can smoke here. Back home they’ve outlawed it…’

  ‘Sorry… what?’

  ‘Someone figured smoking is contagious and can damage the other person’s health - or something like that.’

  ‘I am sorry, I not smoke…’ Zhana’s words came as a surprise. He was certain she’d mentioned in a previous email she smoked.

  ‘So when did you quit smoking?’ Bronte asked. Zhana looked at him as though offended, then answered,

  ‘I have never smoked. I don’t want to ruin my health… but you can smoke if you wish.’

  ‘I seem to remember a letter from you asking if it bothered me that you smoke.’

  ‘No, I do not smoke…’

  ‘Oh really? Maybe you quit?’ Doubting she really understood what he’d said.

  ‘No… you are wrong. I have never wished to smoke and have not even tried it… but I do not mind that you smoke.’ Zhana did her look away thing again. He’d have sworn on a stack of Bibles she’d mentioned smoking.

  ‘That’s good… It would be a pity to see leprosy attack your nose now and eat my fifteen hundred’ he mumbled.

  ‘Sorry Bronte… I not understand…’ Zhana picked up his mobile phone, then added,

  ‘Very nice, I like your mobile’. She carefully observed all the functions, ignoring the long curling strands from her fringe falling in her face.

  ‘It’s the latest model, top of the range’ Bronte replied. ‘It’s almost new. I have a habit of baptising my phones in the surf… I only live eighty metres from the beach and I like to run my dog and wade or swim. I forget too often… and swim with my mobile in my pocket… they don’t work after that. Salt water is Chernobyl for a mobile.’ Zhana looked at him quizzically then said,

  ‘You would like to present it to me?’ Zhana was now mustering all her charm – coy smile, innocently batting her eyelids and leaning closer across the table.

  ‘Sorry… what?’ Too astounded with her request, it was his turn to answer with feigned ignorance.

  ‘I can have your mobile?’ Zhana was about as direct now as she was going to be and was no longer ignoring questions or her hair, which was back in place. She couldn’t make her question any plainer even if he had understood Russian.

  Get real! Do I look like Santa? ‘You can use it now, yes of course’.

  ‘You will present it to me, da?’

  He sat dumfounded. No way could she have his phone! Besides, he was paying it off on a phone company plan. But just when he thought she was about to pressure him again, another girl arrived at the table and captured the conversation. Nice looking red-herring he thought.

  She glanced at Bronte and began a rapid exchange with Zhana who made no attempt to introduce him. After their brief chat in Martian, she looked again at Bronte and said goodbye. Then leaning over and kissing Zhana giggled in English, ‘Bye bye Rita’.

  ‘That was my friend from work. She is from another city,’ Zhana said aloofly, waving casually as the girl walked from the restaurant.

  ‘Did I hear her call you Rita?’ Zhana stared at him blankly.

  ‘I thought just now I heard her call you Rita?’ She looked down at the table then picked up his phone again before answering confidently,

  ‘Zhana is my middle name. Most people know me as Rita and usually, only family call me Zhana. You can call me Rita or Zhana.’

  I’d like to call you crazy, strange, maybe Twisted, but not Rita. ‘I like Zhana thanks.’ Her black eyes were intense and her cheeks flushed as she desperately tried to throw him off the subject.

  ‘Let’s get out of here’ she stated. Bronte was too confused and bewildered to answer. Wishing the tide in his beer would come back in, he simply shrugged his consent.

  As they sidestepped people passing crowded shop fronts, he felt more and more troubled and less and less enthusiastic about his internet blind date. The first night started out with a whimper and from that moment things appeared to be progressively going downhill. First, he discovered the letters he’d been receiving were actually written by someone else. Now he learned that Zhana was not always Zhana. He had travelled thousands of miles to meet three girls in one quasi Russian schizophrenic. He was romancing Zhana, corresponding with Oly yet meeting Rita!

  Confronting the realization this venture was not over yet and that another week lay ahead, he tried to relax and make the most of it. There was at least some comfort with Zhana or Rita or whoever she was nestled on his arm. When they passed an up market shoe shop, she did an immediate left turn, dragging him into the store with her.

  ‘Please, I want to look in here’. He thought that was obvious as he stumbled through the doorway with his arm tangled in hers, attracting the attention of the sales staff and other customers. Everyone in the shop stared like they’d just seen the abominable snowman with a suntan. He took refuge from view behind a large pot plant against the back wall.

  Bronte began to think Zhana knew the Ukraine traditions for lovers after all, although she’d learned them in reverse - First the shopping, next the cards, then the alcohol? While he wondered if she knew about the wild sex, she returned from another part of the shop holding an exquisite pair of boots. Seemed the plant hadn’t hidden him well enough.

  ‘You like?’ They reminded Bronte of something the original sex kitten, Bridget Bar
dot would have worn at her age. Of course when Bridget was a star and made leopard skin look hot, Zhana - or Rita hadn’t even been thought of. She held them higher, ‘They are nice Bronte, yes?’

  Very bloody Italian nice, thank you very much. ‘Yes, they are exquisite’. Bronte wanted to simply ask how much they were.

  ‘You will present for me these?’ She asked, looking like the Queen of Sheba when she was a very naughty girl. The shop keeper stared, Zhana stared and Bronte stared. In a Mexican standoff where the weapon was the unwanted bill, he wished for the nuclear alarm warning to sound, or anything of sufficient disaster or distraction to happen and happen quickly. He knew he was a long way from a beach and sounding the shark alarm.

  ‘Well, maybe…’

  ‘O thank you my darling Bronte, you are such a good man’.

  Bet she’d say that to Stalin offering fifty bucks.

  CHAPTER 9

  Across town at the Intourist Hotel, three ladies sat perched around a small marble table in the foyer, drinking coffee. The place was built in the fifties, and was decadent in its lavish use of gold overlay, marble and granite. A chandelier the size of a small Pacific atoll hung suspended overhead like a UFO from Independence Day. The young women could have been waiting for the porter to deliver their luggage, or for a taxi to arrive, but instead, they were talking business. All well dressed, they looked the perfect subjects for a modern snapshot of young and affluent Russia against a backdrop of old world splendour and parquetry. But there was nothing at all modern about their line of work. It too was old world.

  ‘I had a really quiet night last night, and I only worked three days last week, what with my mum and sister here.’ The young lady discreetly passed Alessiya an envelope, and continued, ‘There’s 13,000 - it’s all been counted.’

  ‘Thanks Ksusha. How’re things with your mum and, does she know where you work?’ Sometimes the diplomat, Alessiya meant does she know about your career?

  ‘Yea, she’s ok. She thinks I come here and work the night shift in reception.’ As she crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt she giggled, ‘She’d die if she saw that I work in the bar!’ Alessiya simply gave a smile and turning to the younger girl with the heavy handed dose of mascara to her right said,

  ‘And how was your second week on the job Vika? Did you enjoy yourself – and make money?’ Vika fiddled with her long hair and looking sheepishly at Alessiya began explaining,

  ‘Well last Saturday night I worked at Valya’s and that was good. I met a real hunk from America who was here for three days with Gazprom and, he paid my cab home later. The guy was Superman… a true stud, I’m telling you.’ Alessiya and Ksusha looked at each other and smiled, acknowledging that Vika was new to this line of employment. Flicking long straight hair from her face she continued,

  ‘But I couldn’t get to work on Monday night and last night I bought some smokes and a few drinks… I’m 500 short... Sorry.’ She passed over an envelope. Alessiya accepted it, though obviously not impressed. She said nothing and started putting things in her bag, ready to leave, then,

  ‘Listen my dear, consider this your first and last warning. If you can’t get the guy to pay you for a head-job, at least get him to pay for your vices. Okay? And if that’s too difficult…’ she tailed off after giving in to answer her mobile.

  ‘Hello? Oh hi… yes… I’m in the Intourist… How long? Okay, I’m leaving now… ten minutes… I’ll be home in ten minutes… see you then.’ Closing her phone, she stood, straightened her shoulders and with a million dollar smile of charm and pure innocence, said ‘…remember girls, life sucks - then he pays’. She turned and walked off, quickly passing through the large glass doors and onto the street.

  ---------- * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

  In a taxi headed for his place, Bronte was still stewing from the railroaded purchase of the Bardot boots. He wanted to ask Zhana of their plans for the night but she wouldn’t get off her beloved phone. While she muttered away, the cabbie struck up a stupid conversation.

  ‘Where you from?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Australia… Av-stral-ia…’ Bronte answered.

  ‘Ah, Rex Hunt. You know Rex Hunt?’

  Yes of course I know bloody Rex Hunt. Australia is a tiny place you idiot. He’s my neighbour. We drink beers together, go fishing, get drunk and fall overboard. Every weekend we kiss each others fish.‘Yes… program about fishing’ Bronte said in slow, broken English. God, his blind date was on the rocks, his wallet in the gutter and this guy wanted to talk about fishing?

  ‘Yes, yes!’ The driver laughed and made a face as if he was about to kiss a fish, ‘Rex Hunt, good fishing man.’

  ‘That was my mother and she is ill again with bad headache. I must go to home. I’m sorry.’ Zhana might get away with murder, but she wasn’t going to get out of leaving him alone again another night.

  ‘You can’t be serious. What do I do tonight?’ He asked, spinning.

  ‘I am sorry. I come to you tomorrow more early at, say 11 o’clock, okay?’

  ‘11 o’clock? That’s early? God, what do you have to do? You can’t be serious?’

  As the cab pulled up in front of his apartment she said firmly, ‘11 okay?’ She gave him a peck as he got out of the cab. She was serious.

  Upstairs in his apartment, Bronte wanted to scream and blow a fuse. He had been beating himself up over the boot purchase. And he had no reasonable alternative up his sleeve that might salvage his evening. He felt so alone he wished he could be home in Australia. At least at his place he had ‘home alone’ down to a familiar, comfortable formula. Pay TV, animals, guitars and piano, internet and email… bloody email! That’s what put him that hole. He made himself a coffee and smoked and all the while the buyer’s remorse kept beating away. How could he be so susceptible to a haughty young con-girl? He had just spent $375 on a pair of Italian boots and he despised himself for doing it. He had never spent that on shoes for his step daughter or wife and certainly not for himself. Rita had simply ridden off into the sunset with those boots under her arm and not so much as a parting thank you. Some men were fools and right now, Bronte was one of them.

  Remembering that self pity is best sodden in alcohol he looked for a beer, but felt more depressed when he found there was only one in the fridge. And turning on the TV was no formula for a great evening indoors either. There were a mere five channels, and all blabbered away in Russian. Even the news was from another planet. He laughed contemplating the reader could have just announced World War Three - and he wouldn’t have a clue. He spent the next hour putting his own comical interpretation to the words from the television before deciding to freshen up and go out. The first and only beer merely whet his palate for a second and third.

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  Not far away, Rita rang the bell to the agency. After some seconds, the locks turned and Alessiya swung the door open. Before Rita could even get through it, her mentor was pointing and clutching at the shopping bag with the shoe box in it.

  ‘Oooh, you got the boots!’ Oly exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in, I want to hear about your day!’ Rita closed the door and stopped to slip out of her stiletto shoes, all the while grinning like a Cheshire cat. Before she could do anything, Alessiya had the boots out of the box and was admiring them while swaying, rocking and then hopping about the room as she struggled to pull one on. The boots were a pastel coloured leopard print on soft Italian suede. With a pointed toe, the entire platform curved elegantly to a finely tapered four inch stiletto heel of the same print. The boot itself rose just above the ankles and onto the shins.

  ‘Oly please!’ Rita objected as Alessiya fell against her, using her shoulder to stop herself falling.

  ‘Elegant with jeans or dress,’ Alessiya was sparkling.

  ‘You like them? They fit?’

  ‘Beautiful, absolutely beautiful, divine…’

  ‘Y
es… they’re gorgeous….’ Rita replied faithfully though not without a hint of jealousy.

  Alessiya had pre-planned the purchase with Rita who only had to deliver them. Seeing the boots a week or two before, she had asked Rita to lure Bronte into buying them for her. The two were partners in a sense - partners in crime with Alessiya the ring leader and Rita her helper. All Bronte’s mail had been written by Alessiya, so it was payback time for Rita. After all, she had become $1500 richer since carrying out the alleged nose job scam devised by Alessiya.

  Secretly, Alessiya had always considered Zhana beautiful. Publicly however, she would never admit to such a thing, preferring only to comment that Zhana had a big nose. That had been the basis of ingenuity behind the $1500 rhinoplasty story.

  ‘Anyway where’s Bronte now, and what are your plans for tonight? You going out someplace?’ Rita looked hesitant then said,

  ‘I don’t want to go out tonight… not with him… I’ve been with him all afternoon…’ Never confront today what you can still avoid tomorrow, this was Rita’s philosophy, put to good use that evening. She was terrified at the prospect of physical or sexual encounters, or more correctly, of her obvious lack of experience appearing plainly evident to the man.

  ‘I thought you’d be more interested in making money… or at least having a good time without paying for it?’ Alessiya had gold-digging down to a fine art - with no need of a sieve or metal detector.

  ‘God Oly, I thought scoring the boots was pretty decent for only the first day?’

  ‘Yea, well… I’ll call Anton and have him keep an eye on Bronte’s apartment.’

  ‘Why would you do that? What can that do?’

  ‘I don’t imagine he will sit in twiddling his thumbs… might see if I can get Anton to steer him to The Intourist or Valya’s place…’ she seemed to be thinking out loud. ‘Maybe I can get him laid and cash in, that’s why!’ Alessiya laughed loudly as she began to dial a number. Rita wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but she was equally unsure she wanted to ask.