DUPLICITY
A TRUE STORY OF CRIME AND DECEIT
By
PAUL T. GOLDMAN
Published by Paul T. Goldman at Smashwords
www.duplicityonline.com
Copyright 2008 Paul T. Goldman
DEDICATION
To my son Johnny, without whom I may not have had the strength to take a stand, to finally say “enough,” and to fight for his future.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events recounted in Duplicity reflect the last four years of my life and reveal, with shocking detail, the criminal activities carried out by a nefarious group of people who, consequently, stand to lose everything, including their freedom. In the interest of protecting the innocent, the names of people and certain places have been changed.
Aside from that, however, this story is as accurate as it is unbelievable.
PROLOGUE
May 27, 2010
“Dinner's ready, Johnny,” I yelled to my son over the sound of his favorite show, Sponge Bob. I skewered the hot dog off the grill, and walked into the kitchen. It was a perfect Florida evening for a barbeque, the temperature in the low 80's, with a gentle breeze.
Before I could return to the grill to tackle the burgers, my cell phone rang. I glanced down to see that the call was from Bob Thompson.
“Hello, Bob,” I answered, curious to hear what news Audrey’s second husband and second victim had for me. I was her third.
“Paul! Sorry to bother you,” he shouted into the phone.
“No bother, I just… ”
“Did you hear the news?” he interrupted. Apparently, he did have news and I took a deep breath in anticipation. Given everything we’d both been through with Audrey, I always had to prepare myself for the unimaginable.
“No. What’s going on?”
“Audrey was arrested this afternoon, about an hour ago.”
“You’re kidding! By whom? The cops? The feds? The state?” It could have been any of them since they were all investigating her. My mind began to race.
“By the state, for her assaulting you at the Shop N’ Go.”
“Well, it’s about time. That was over two months ago. Thanks for letting me know. I'll talk to you later, Bob.”
I hung up the phone and let the news sink in. Was this only the first of many arrests to come? Would Audrey finally be brought to justice for the many lives she had destroyed? Would her true self finally be revealed in all its depravity?
I thought back to my first encounter with Audrey at the West Palm Beach café and how beautiful she looked. From the beginning, I was so taken by her.
When we married, I thought I had it all. A beautiful wife for me, and siblings for Johnny. Now, it was all gone. Where's my family? I wondered. I'm alone again, because of Audrey. I tried so hard to build a family, but it was snatched away from me by the evil machinations of a woman without any sense of morals or remorse, a woman who, if she had her way, would see Johnny and me lying in the gutter right now, homeless and penniless. And laugh about it.
I silently scolded myself for allowing her to have such an effect on me still. Later that evening, I pulled up the police website and found myself staring back at the woman who had planned from the day we met to destroy me. The image of her mug shot revealed a haggard expression that was beginning to show signs of the life she had chosen.
I still couldn't believe what I had gone through. How had I let it all happen? How had I managed to get so far from the life I imagined for myself? And how on earth did I survive Audrey Munson?
Or had I?
CHAPTER ONE
Forty
August 6, 1999
Spending hours surrounded by cold, gray walls in a four by six cell gives a man a lot of time to think, think about what opportunities he may have let get away and how life may be passing him by. As I stared at the grayness encompassing me, I felt trapped and alone despite being surrounded by others whose outlook seemed as dim and hopeless as my own. How did I get here? What did I have to look forward to? If only I had a window, I might have found some comfort in the day’s light. But, alas, I was left to stare at my mind numbing computer monitor and the blank walls of my cubicle. Was this my life’s sentence?
To make matters worse: August 6, 1999 was my fortieth birthday, and I was still single.
I was an East Coast transplant who found himself in eternally sun-lit Orange County, California, where most of the residents were tan and, thanks to the latest in fake tanning technology, the rest were orange. I filled my days processing insurance policies while watching other people find love, start families, and realize their life’s ambitions. I seemed to be watching life go by instead of taking part in it.
“Hey, happy birthday, Paul! The big 4-0!” The exclamation was provided by my co-worker, Rob, who had sent his wishes through a gaggle of black balloons that managed to herald my entry into “seasoned” adulthood, while at the same time mocking it. The pile of cards on my desk sent by other co-workers determined to commemorate my birthday (or commiserate over my age) was also a testament to the sarcastic celebration of life’s halfway mark. Images of balding, hunched over old men, weighed down by life and life sized bifocals seemed to be the favored motif among Hallmark patrons. Thankfully, I still had most of my hair.
“Right, thanks Rob. And thanks for the card.” I motioned to one of the countless black ones on my desk, all of which did nothing to improve upon my gray surroundings.
Excepting the rumors of a possible cake come break time, this was certainly a miserable milestone.
“Got any plans tonight to celebrate this great occasion?” Rob asked as he genuinely seemed interested in what I intended to do.
“No. Just a quiet evening.”
“Why don’t you come over to the house later? You know how Cheryl and the kids always love to see you,” he asked hopefully. Was that pity I detected?
“Thanks, Rob. Really. But I’ve got some reading to catch up on at home.” At least I was sure I could find something to read other than the junk mail and take out menus. Was it really only ten a.m.?
The day passed with little fanfare to distinguish it from any other day and, as I made my daily drive home, I considered how the “big day” had really proven to be pretty pedestrian. The wishes were thoughtful, the cake was a nice touch, and even the adult diaper left anonymously on my chair made for some good laughs. Aside from that, I was confronted rather uncomfortably by the truth of the matter: today was just another day. Compounding this fact, the inevitable traffic that made my 7.3 mile trek home take forty minutes provided more unwelcome time to reflect.
Though I had lived in Orange County for sixteen years, I had yet to find a decent job that provided enjoyment, or financial success, or both. Most people in my position who had gotten their M.B.A. degree were pulling in a steady income of two or three times what I was making. Adding insult to injury, I had witnessed each of my brothers marry, divorce, and then find true happiness in a second marriage, all while making an enviable living in Rhode Island, working at our father’s insurance agency. Consequently, as each new birthday was ushered in, I celebrated another year of misgivings and self-doubt.
I was forty years old, driving a ten year old car, living three thousand miles away from my family, and all I had to show for it was winter weather bragging rights.
Something needed to change. It had to.
As I turned the key and opened my front door, the familiar greeting of my most trusted companion was always a warm welcome home. Basel, my ten pound, white poodle, jumped and wagged his tail and did everything he could to show how much I’d been missed, and I responded in kind. Despite my gloom, seeing Basel so excited provided a necessary lift. If I had a tail I would have wagged it too.
“Hi Baz, did you have a good day?” If his enthusiastic welcome was any indication, his was certainly better than mine. I slumped down in my chair to see what the mail had brought: a card from one of my brothers, two bills, a coupon for a discounted oil change, and a slew of catalogs peddling a wide array of unnecessary commerce. And then there was something more than a little interesting.
It seemed as though the beautiful woman was staring right at me. Her eyes were soft, the curve of her face softer, and her smile radiated warmth and even familiarity.
Her name was “Tatiana” and she provided the cover to a small booklet bearing the title, “Russian Brides.” Realizing the nature of the mailing, I let out a loud laugh accompanied by some exaggerated eye rolling as I tried to imagine how lonely a guy really needed to be to resort to buying a wife. Though my reaction was solely to show Basel how absurd I found the whole idea, the unnecessarily forced laughter also prevented me from facing a more disturbing reality: how had my name made its way onto the mailing list for “Russian Brides?”
I decided to extend my entertainment and began perusing the pages of the booklet. Though I didn't want to admit any real interest in the service, I couldn't help but acknowledge the pages and pages of beautiful women comprising the catalog. There were hundreds of “Tatianas,” all beautiful and all intriguing. Did people actually do this? I mean, it’s not like you’re actually buying someone as much as you’re taking advantage of an international matchmaker. Maybe I should find out more, I thought. What harm could that do, I thought. It was just a call.
The voice on the other end revealed a strong Russian accent that made me imagine I was discussing the potential for future romance with Chekov from “Star Trek.” Resisting every urge to answer in my best William Shatner impression, I managed to inquire, “Hello. Yes, uh, could you tell me a little bit about what you do?” My curiosity was suddenly overshadowed by my own sense of embarrassment.
Did people really do this? Was I really doing this?
“Of course. My name is Greg Martoff and I am the owner of Russian Brides. My wife and I immigrated to America five years ago and we made our home in Virginia. Now we help Americans, such as yourself, find beautiful Russian women to marry. May I ask your name, and how old you are?” My first instinct was to hang up, my second instinct was to make up a fake name, and my final and resulting action was to answer the man’s question.
“Oh, I apologize. My name is Paul Goldman and I’m thirty-ni-- , er, I mean forty years old.” Saying that would certainly take some getting used to.
“I see. It's nice to meet you, Paul. Let me begin by telling you that one of the advantages of seeking out a Russian woman is that they have no stigma attached to age like many American women. Most Russian women actually prefer older men, or, shall we say, more mature men. And since Russian women haven’t been as exposed to all the incredible comforts enjoyed by American women, you’ll find them less materialistic and obsessive about having things. Plus, almost all the women are highly educated.” He spoke as if he had memorized his well crafted delivery, yet I could not deny my interest. Greg was very convincing, so much so that I almost forgot how ridiculous the whole idea originally seemed. He continued, “Our agency is also different from any other. With most agencies, you go to Moscow, stay in a hotel, and they put ads out in the street saying, ‘rich American men looking for Russian wives-- be at the bar of such and such hotel tonight.’ We don’t do that. We have an office in Moscow, and our manager, Natasha, screens all the women at our office. She videotapes them about their lives, and what they’re looking for.”
I told Greg that I was happy to hear of their professional approach, though I had no point of reference by which to compare. He just made it all seem so simple, so natural, and so completely normal.
“We run a professional operation, Paul. We screen out those who are only looking for a green card, and Natasha works closely with all the women. We send you a videotape, you choose with whom you wish to correspond, and when you’re ready, you come to Moscow. You stay in our apartment for a week or so, and meet the women at the office. If you find one you wish to bring to America on a fiancé visa, we help you with all the paperwork.”
The idea that I would only have a week to make such a significant decision did not at all occur to me. I was taken in by Greg’s delivery and before I knew it, I was providing him with my home address so that I could receive the videotape. Greg went on to explain that, if I liked any of the women on the tape, I would fax him a letter of introduction about myself, explaining my background, my interests, and what I was generally looking for in a woman. From there, he would fax the letters to Natasha and she would give them to the women who, if interested, would then contact me.
The phone conversation ended with an exchange of information and the surprising hope that this man and his service would provide the very change I had been contemplating only hours before. I began to flip through the catalog once again, allowing myself to digest the idea of such a pursuit. Each image showed a woman more beautiful than the last and my newly sprung hope was only slightly shaded by some reasonable doubt. Could these women really be beautiful, smart, and looking for someone like me?
The following Thursday, I repeated my regular routine of suffering through traffic, greeting Basel, and sorting through the day’s mail when I came upon a package from Virginia. Surprised by my own giddy excitement, I didn’t even bother to sit down. I dashed in the door and jammed the videotape into the VCR.
I stood before my television disbelieving the beauties before me. Beauties that were soft spoken, seemingly educated, and by all accounts real. Each woman’s introduction began with a number on a blue screen, that faded to reveal a sterile, white walled room with nothing but a sad little daisy sitting in the corner of the room, making the women look that much more vibrant by comparison. As each interview began, a middle aged woman’s voice, presumably Natasha’s, could be heard from off camera.
“Please tell us a little bit about yourself?” the voice asked.
“My name is Olga and I thirty-five years old. I work as secretary in office. I have college degree. I sensitive, sociable, honest, intelligent, understanding, romantic, without bad habits. I like home comfort.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and seeing. I stared intently at the TV.
“What kinds of things do you like to do for fun?” the woman’s voice asked a second question.
“I love theaters, museums and visiting different exhibitions. I go in for sports, especially swimming.”
“What kind of man are you looking for?”
“I would like to meet man with great personality and generous heart.”
“Thank you for coming in today, Olga.”
I was amazed at what I had seen and continued to stare at the screen, which had faded to blue again and was replaced by the number “2.” The video again opened to the same barren room with the same pathetic flower pot, but this time it was Svetlana who would be making her introduction. Impossibly, Svetlana was even more beautiful than Olga.
The same woman's voice asked again, “Please tell us a little bit about yourself?”
“My name is Svetlana, and I twenty-nine years old. I very sincere, tender and understanding. I have good sense of humor, good taste, appeasable and balanced character. I have the work that I like, have many interests. More time passes more I realize I miss main thing in life-- family I might have, if I meet special person who I will love with all my heart and who will love me.”
“Very nice. What do you like to do for fun?”
“I not sportsman but I like spend time with bike and swim. I like needle-work and reading, planting of flowers. And of course I like any trip.”
“What kind of man are you looking for?”
“I look for well-educated man forty to fifty years who values family and love children.”
“Thank you, Svetlana, for coming in today,” the disembodied voice on the other end of the lens remarked.
Though her beauty was undeniable, Svetlana’s words really struck a chord with me. I felt an immediate connection to someone with whom I had never shared a single word. The picture faded, but Svetlana's image remained in my mind. My God, I thought, she's saying exactly what I'd been feeling. Does she really mean that? Could she mean that for me? After watching countless other interviews, I realized that I was just dreamily following along, and so I grabbed a pen and paper and started making copious notes as to which women I was interested in. And then more notes. And more notes. My pile of notes grew with my continued excitement as each woman was worth writing about. Interview after interview revealed breathtaking, eastern beauties whose outlook seemed simple and honest. There was also a freshness about them that absolutely bowled me over.
After an hour, I had seen enough and I was done trying to make excuses for why I shouldn't take advantage of this opportunity. I deserved to find someone as much as anyone else and I would not apologize for it, no matter how unconventional it might seem to others. I began to write my introductory letter.
Over the course of the next five months, I corresponded with three women: Svetlana, Irina, and Katya. Our communications began through letter writing, and then progressed to extended phone conversations despite the cost and my meager salary. I enjoyed getting to know all of the women, but I felt a special connection with Svetlana, the same Svetlana who first caught my attention on the video tape and the same Svetlana who now gave me something to look forward to at the end of each day. The more I talked with her, the more Irina and Katya faded into the background. Finally, the idea of actually meeting her overpowered me. I decided that, no matter what, I was going to Moscow that December.
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 people'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.
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 surprising 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?”