Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit

from any other day and, as I made my daily drivehome, I considered how the “big day” had really proven to be prettypedestrian. The wishes were thoughtful, the cake was a nice touch,and even the adult diaper left anonymously on my chair made forsome good laughs. Aside from that, I was confronted ratheruncomfortably by the truth of the matter: today was just anotherday. Compounding this fact, the inevitable traffic that made my 7.3mile trek home take forty minutes provided more unwelcome time toreflect.
Though I had lived in Orange County forsixteen years, I had yet to find a decent job that providedenjoyment, or financial success, or both. Most people in myposition who had gotten their M.B.A. degree were pulling in asteady income of two or three times what I was making. Addinginsult to injury, I had witnessed each of my brothers marry,divorce, and then find true happiness in a second marriage, allwhile making an enviable living in Rhode Island, working at ourfather’s insurance agency. Consequently, as each new birthday wasushered in, I celebrated another year of misgivings andself-doubt.
I was forty years old, driving a ten year oldcar, living three thousand miles away from my family, and all I hadto 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 awarm welcome home. Basel, my ten pound, white poodle, jumped andwagged his tail and did everything he could to show how much I’dbeen missed, and I responded in kind. Despite my gloom, seeingBasel so excited provided a necessary lift. If I had a tail I wouldhave wagged it too.
“Hi Baz, did you have agood day?” If his enthusiastic welcome was any indication, his wascertainly better than mine. I slumped down in my chair to see whatthe mail had brought: a card from one of my brothers, two bills, acoupon for a discounted oil change, and a slew of catalogs peddlinga wide array of unnecessary commerce. And then there was somethingmore than a little interesting.
It seemed as though the beautiful woman wasstaring right at me. Her eyes were soft, the curve of her facesofter, and her smile radiated warmth and even familiarity.
Her name was “Tatiana” andshe provided the cover to a small booklet bearing the title,“Russian Brides.”Realizing the nature of the mailing, I let out a loud laughaccompanied by some exaggerated eye rolling as I tried to imaginehow 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 thewhole idea, the unnecessarily forced laughter also prevented mefrom facing a more disturbing reality: how had my name made its wayonto the mailing list for “RussianBrides?”
I decided to extend myentertainment and began perusing the pages of the booklet. Though Ididn't want to admit any real interest in the service, I couldn'thelp but acknowledge the pages and pages of beautiful womencomprising the catalog. There were hundreds of “Tatianas,” allbeautiful and all intriguing. Did peopleactually do this? I mean, it’s not like you’re actually buyingsomeone as much as you’re taking advantage of an internationalmatchmaker. Maybe I should find out more, I thought. What harmcould that do, I thought. It was just a call.
The voice on the other endrevealed a strong Russian accent that made me imagine I wasdiscussing the potential for future romance with Chekov from“Star Trek.” Resisting every urge to answer in my best William Shatnerimpression, I managed to inquire, “Hello. Yes, uh, could you tellme a little bit about what you do?” My curiosity was suddenlyovershadowed by my own sense of embarrassment.
Did people really do this?Was I reallydoing this?
“Ofcourse. My name is Greg Martoff and I am the owner ofRussian Brides. My wifeand I immigrated to America five years ago and we made our home inVirginia. Now we help Americans, such as yourself, find beautifulRussian 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 upa fake name, and my final and resulting action was to answer theman’s question.
“Oh, I apologize. My nameis 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 oneof the advantages of seeking out a Russian woman is that they haveno stigma attached to age like many American women. Most Russianwomen actually prefer older men, or, shall we say, more mature men.And since Russian women haven’t been as exposed to all theincredible comforts enjoyed by American women, you’ll find themless materialistic and obsessive about havingthings. Plus, almost allthe women are highly educated.” He spoke as if he had memorized hiswell crafted delivery, yet I could not deny my interest. Greg wasvery convincing, so much so that I almost forgot how ridiculous thewhole idea originally seemed. He continued, “Our agency is alsodifferent from any other. With most agencies, you go to Moscow,stay in a hotel, and they put ads out in the street saying, ‘richAmerican men looking for Russian wives-- be at the bar of such andsuch hotel tonight.’ We don’t do that. We have an office in Moscow,and our manager, Natasha, screens all the women at our office. Shevideotapes them about their lives, and what they’re lookingfor.”
I told Greg that I was happy to hear of theirprofessional approach, though I had no point of reference by whichto compare. He just made it all seem so simple, so natural, and socompletely normal.
“We run a professionaloperation, Paul. We screen out those who are only looking for agreen card, and Natasha works closely with all the women. We sendyou a videotape, you choose with whom you wish to correspond, andwhen you’re ready, you come to Moscow. You stay in our apartmentfor a week or so, and meet the women at the office. If you find oneyou wish to bring to America on a fiancé visa, we help you with