My romance with Irina was conducted over the Internet. It began when I clicked on her picture at one of those matchmaking web sites for the love-lorn. For some reason, most of the women featured on this site lived in the former Soviet Union, which, for some other reason, only made them that much more attractive.

Irina was from Tashkent, in Uzbekistan, not exactly an easy lunch date but nevertheless part of the global village. Judging by her picture, Irina was a very attractive brunette of perhaps thirty-five, give or take a decade, most likely give. She reminded me of Garbo. She had that look. But what really drew me in was the headline next to the picture. It said, “Mebbe you seek for me.”

Mebbe I do, I thought to myself, as I double-clicked for more information. Suddenly the whole screen was filled with Irina: a blowup of the same picture, together with some odds and ends from her curriculum vitae: Heritage, Caucasian; I am not smoking anymore; I am having children; occupation, instructor.

Also, there was a personal essay in which Irina revealed her recipe for domestic bliss. It was the essay that sold me on Irina. It said, in part:

“I am joyful person, energetic and accurate. I don’t like lie. I don’t like when peeble are unfair. I like to meet man whose as me, liking parties, liking having peeble to house to eat food, man whose knowing that understanding is basement of happy family life.”

This was irresistible. I fired off an e-mail without hesitation, in which I did my best to suggest that I was a man of joy, energy and accuracy. Apparently I succeeded. Irina responded the next day:

“I am overwhelming to be learning about you. Your words touch quicksand in my heart. Tell me more. Send picture. I wait with beaten breath. Yours truthfully, Irina”

With some difficulty, I arranged to have my picture taken sharing a joyful meal with my most energetic friends. The hardest part was getting the dinner table into the basement. I put a caption below the picture: “Here I am enjoying a joyful evening with my friends, sitting around the table telling the truth. That’s me in the middle in the funny hat, laughing and lifting weights.”

Irina responded within the hour. “You wear hat and exercise at meelstime? Why is eating in cellar, next to boiler? You don’t name other peeples. Who is good-looking man at left of picture? Is not accurate. Puzzledly, Irina.”

This was a setback. Hard to plumb the Uzbekistanian sensibility.

I made some mental notes: Possible misstep here. Possible misreading of signals owing to eccentric syntax. Has my overeagerness created confusion? Stow funny hat, move table from basement back to dining room. Return dumb-bells to attic. Send Irina different picture, preferably the flattering one taken some years back.

I dug into an old box and found the picture, which I sent off with a note of subtle composition making light of first impressions, misimpressions, etc., etc. The picture caught me in a favorable light, showing my best side, a man of serious, but possibly joyful, mien. It showed me in coat and tie, and to my eye it was both truthful and accurate, if not exactly up-to-date.

Does Irina never leave her computer? Within ten minutes I had a reply:

“When was that snapshoot snapshooted, bubula—1975? Whats about big fat lapels, big fat tie, hairy sideburnings? Not seeing here styles like that since Leonid Brezhnev. Is not accurate. Is mebbe unfair. What is age, please? Irina”

Oh, oh. This sounding not good. Is big mistake to send old picture to sultry Uzbekistanian. Whose not only sultry, savvy too. Was so taken with Irina now I am talking, thinking like her. Whats to do? I am caught in lie of camera. To make right, I am sending picture taken last week in suit for swimming, letting all hang out. With it, note. Note says: “My darling, I am not liking lie either. Other photo showing hairy sideburnings not accurate. This photo accurate. Never mind photos. Come to States for marrying. I loff you.”

Irina didn’t reply for several days.

And when she did, I wished she hadn’t.

“Are you remembering Adenauer of Germany? He was so old to be called “Der Alte.” Like you. Ha, ha, a joke. I am joyful person, full of accuracy, but not wanting man older than my own Papa for basement of new life. I am instructor, did I mention? Instructor for shaping. Mebbe you should look into. You know Jane Fonda? With respect, as to marrying, I am saying thanks but no thanks. Yours truthfully, Irina”

Posted by Paul Duffy at January 25, 2009 06:42 PM

Email this entry to:


Your email address:


Message (optional):