Ian is late. He drove his rental car into a crash barrier on the way from his north Wales home to Heathrow airport. “I look OK in photos,” he says, once he is at the arrivals gate. “But I look an absolute basket case in real life.” This does not bode well for Olga, a 30-year industrial chemist from the Soviet Union who knows Ian only his pictures and the 20 letters he has sent her in the past months. She is also late. Her plane from Moscow landed an hour ago but she hasn’t appeared. “I know sounds corny,” says Ian, 37, clutching a bouquet to his Bruce Springsteen T shirt. “But I love her and I hope she falls in love with me.” Matchmaker Leonard Jacque fidgets nearby. “I hope she looks all right,” he says. “If she doesn’t, it will be the end of Moscow Connection.”
Jacque, at least, has little to worry about. He has tapped a rich vein of heartache in the Soviet Union. The photos of more than 400 potential brides fill the catalog of a matchmaking service he set up nine months ago. Dozens more apply every week. They are teachers, architects, doctors, dressmakers and engineers. “Bad economy triggered it, I suppose,” says Jacque. Adds Olga Trunova, his partner in Moscow: “Even the most educated cannot earn enough to live.”
Would-be brides must be between the of 23 and 40, speak some English and “reasonably attractive.” Women with ore than one child are automatically rejected. Those who qualify pay a fee of up to 50 rubles (the average weekly wage in the Soviet Union) and submit two photos for the Moscow Connection catalog, entitled “The Glamnost Girls.” Jacque then ranks the women according to their “desirability.” Some earn one asterisk, which means their addresses are available to “Membership Plus” members; others get two stars, meaning that only “Special Selection” members can write to them. Women Jacque calls “basic” go to the back of the book. All are given numbers.
The catalog is free, but men who want the women’s addresses must pay fees ranging from $247 to $757, depending on the level of membership. Jacque says he uses a telephone interview to weed out those just looking for “some fun.” Most members are British, although men from the United States, Canada, Hong Kong, Kenya, Belgium and Switzerland are also on the agency’s rolls. Jacque lets them write to 10 women at a time.
Once a client finds a few women he might like to meet, Jacque suggests a trip to the Soviet Union. At least three couples have married. But Ian is the first to meet his betrothed on British soil.
When Olga emerges from the arrivals gate at Heathrow, her 7-year-old son clinging to her side, she is on the verge of tears. Ian embraces her over a baggage cart. She says, “Thank you.” He says, “Don’t worry.” Olga says nothing more. After silently drinking some tea, they head for north Wales. ln three months, before her visitors visa expires, they might be married. “It’s not like buying something at the five-and-dime,” says Ian. “You can’t turn around and take them back the following day and ask for your money back.” Olga smiles and says weakly: “Thank you.”
