Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit

thekitchen,” was all she said, never looking me in the eye. Theproblems compounded. Despite my dedicated preparation of dinneralmost every night, Talia would only eat the salad. She alwaysclaimed she’d eaten at the library. She refused to eat anythingfatty or fried. She quoted chapter and verse from her medicalbooks, which provided a ready list of diseases related to such adiet. I didn't buy any of her excuses. It looked like anorexia tome.
I put up with it for two months. According tothe fiancé visa, I had one more month to either marry Talia or sendher back to Russia. And Talia knew that as much as I. Only onemonth to go. I had to say something. As we shared another silentbreakfast 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’regetting on the next plane to Moscow.” For a woman who had masteredthe art of whining, nagging, and complaining, Talia took my demandvery 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 hereyes. I decided to unleash.
“You want to know what’swrong?” I boomed. “I’ll tell you. It’s your constant nagging, andyour whining. You’re driving me crazy.” I clenched my hands as myeyes 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 anotherroom. It’s just, it’s just crazy! We have no relationship. Thisisn’t what I wanted. You’re using me. You're using me for a greencard.” And there it was, my deepest fear finally voiced itself. Iwaited, fearful of what she might confess. She began tocry.
“No, Paul! That’s nottrue! I came here because I love you. I do!” Her words wereinterrupted by sobs. She was struggling to get the words out andher reaction brought me an odd reassurance. “I’ll change. I will. Iknow 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 itwas before. We spent time together and talked. Now, you’re just toobusy for me, for us. You study all day; I want your nights.” Taliabegan to calm down, and she leaned into me, her chest pressingagainst my side. I could feel her labored breathing while sherested her head on my shoulder. I was trying to remember when we’dbeen this close. The longing had returned.
“You’re right. After thelibrary, it will be our time,” she whispered. “I’ll finish mystudying so we can have dinner and spend time together. I’ll cometo bed with you too. I mean it, Paul. I love you.”
Later that morning, we were once again on ourway to the library, only this time I felt reassured. I knew lots ofother couples who experienced a rough start, even after they’d beendating for a long time. I felt that Talia had understood myfeelings and that maybe things would be better. When I pulled up tothe library’s front entrance, Talia leaned in and kissed metenderly. All was forgiven.
One week later, we went back to the old wayof living. Long days apart, separate bedrooms, separate lives. Myanger and frustration also returned. I found myself once againpondering 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, wonderingwhat her parents would think of me. Instead of her new life, theirdaughter gets returned to them, as damaged goods.
I searched for understanding. I knew my lifewasn't going to improve, but I couldn't take the obvious step ofcalling off the wedding and sending Talia home. Why? What the hellwas the matter with me? I knew what I should have done, sent herhome, but I didn't.
My failure to act sealed the status quo: thedays in my cubicle, the evenings home with Basel while Talia wasstill at the library, and the nights alone in my bed, day afterday, night after night, week after week.
What happened to thesweet, affectionate girl I fell in love with in Moscow? Where wasthat smile? Was hers all an act, just like Svetlana's? Had I beenduped by a more capable charlatan? I tried hard not to accept thefact that Talia might have used me as her ticket to freedom. Therehad to be something else.
A week later I got asurprising phone call. While at the breakfast table working on abowl of cereal, pouring over the newspaper, and pretending thatBasel was company enough, the phone rang. Hoping that it was Taliatelling me she’d changed her mind about studying on a Saturday, Iwas disappointed to hear the unfamiliar greeting of a man’svoice.
“Is this Paul Goldman?”the man inquired, revealing his southern roots.
“Yes it is.”
“Heythere, Paul. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but my nameis Roy Higgins and I got your number from Greg Martoff overat RussianBrides. I was hoping we could talk.”Assuming he was calling to learn about their program and my ownpersonal experience, I prepared to launch into a tirade about myloveless relationship and my renewed cynicism toward life ingeneral. He’d caught me at a bad time.
“No, this is fine. Whatcan I help you with?” I said.
“Well, I was hoping wemight help each other. You see, I live over in Costa Mesa, notfifteen minutes from ya, and I was thinking maybe ya’ll would liketo join us for a barbecue this weekend.” Now I was reallyconfused.
“I’m sorry,us?”
“Oh, right! Did I mentionthat? You’d think I’d lost my head. I’m Svetlana’s husband. We werethinking it might be nice for us all to get together.” The sound ofSvetlana’s name almost knocked me over. She was here? She wasmarried? She wanted to see me? To see us?
“Oh, well, that soundsgreat. I mean, I’ll have to check with Talia. That’s my wife, but Iguess you knew that. Yes, I