'Who'd be stupid enough to believe Oksana was real, instead of a Russian Mafioso?'

Published on Sunday 7 October 2007 01:54

'HELLO, I am Oksana. Am good girl seeking man of dream. In summer I love to float, to remove all superfluous clothes and feel impacts of wind on my leather."

Whose heart wouldn't melt at a young, pretty Russian girl, whose English is so poor it must represent the poverty she's begging to be saved from, sending out her spam e-mail: "I wish to feel I am loved by man. I wish to care of my beloved man."

But who'd be stupid enough to believe Oksana was real and so engage in a four-month on-line relationship with a male Russian Mafioso feeding on other men's oppressive loneliness, leading them headlong into scams that will clean out their bank accounts?

Who? Well, a guy I know, 47, divorced with three kids, who this week explained why he'd just transferred 400 into Oksana's account.

"She's coming to see me, she needs a visa," he said. "She's not your usual bimbo; she has a degree."

"Shit! Didn't you check out the Russian Bride scam on the net?" No, he was convinced; Oksana was genuine. She'd sent a picture. Indeed, her Slavic eyes were captivating, but still, the thing that amazes me is this guy's got a PhD. He really should know better. But he was too busy ranting.

"Western women are neurotic! They want equality but assert their right to be different from men. They want to be bread-winners and mothers at the same time, to be sexy but not sex-objects. Then they blame us men when it comes crashing down! I've had enough. A Russian girl is the only answer!"

Though I was worried he'd find himself very alone, flowers in hand, at the arrivals gate, after having paid for Oksana's passport, flight, new clothes, and a hip replacement for her mother hit by a truck on the day of Oksana's departure, I couldn't help but wonder how it'd be if I was wrong; if it all came true for him. I admired his reckless romanticism. On my way home, I tried to see myself as him.

I saw Oksana jumping into my arms at the airport. Then our giggling car ride to the city, fumbling with our translation dictionaries. Then Sainsbury's. She's hugging me, so damned excited over the infinite consumer choices I've long grown tired of. I'm teaching her names for produce: ah-voh-cah-doh. "Ees an egg from dinosaurus?" she asks. "How I cook this for you?" My dirty little kitchen is a palace to her, as hand in hand we mash the avocado and I teach her another new word: "Gwah-cah-moley.

But I'm learning too. She calls my manhood "penushka", and her sex "pusshka". It will take us 20 years to understand each other. When one shouts "towel!", the other will bring the cheese. Our jokes will be incomprehensible, even to us.

Women shoot hateful glances at her high-heels and accent, because she dresses for my eyes and calls me "my man". She cooks me pickled vegetables and spam, which I find a tasty and refreshing change from organic produce.

Oh, Oksana. If only you were real and hundreds of men weren't losing their hearts and wallets to a dream of love long lost. We might not understand a word each other says, but at least we'd be laughing.