STALKER

Chapter 47 - 6th July - Still

Just as we got to the door and I raised my hand to lift the knocker Weirdo stopped me.

"I haven't exaggerated how strange my family can be." I couldn't see his eyes but I noticed he had been tight-lipped all morning.

"You can change your mind if you want to." I looked around the lovely verandah, freshly painted white and hung with brightly decorated dream catchers and I thought it looked rather sweet. Compared to my place this was positively bucolic. He had his car keys in his hand and offered them to me. "You can take my car back home." Weirdo looked unsure what else to say. He wasn't his usual arrogant, stoic self.

"How strange can they be? You are talking to me after all. A guy who's living with his dead grandfather. Who's house is empty except for one room that could pass for a WW2 bunker and has poetry taped to the walls?

"Well, I warned you." He shrugged and slammed down the knocker. "I apologise in advance."

"We can fix the roof and have a chat and be out of here in no time." I could hear someone coming to the door. And then there she was, in all her glory, and not in the least bit scary.

"Hi, mum." Mother Weirdo was a picture, stunning. She had thick wavy pepper and salt coloured hair, some of it was pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head. She had olive skin and full lips like her son. But it was her eyes that made her beautiful they were deep blue, long and slightly tilting upwards like a cat. She was wearing a white cheese cloth dress that would have been perfect in the 1970s.

" Băiețelul meu." She threw her arms around Weirdo. He stood there, the most effort he put into returning the hug was to lean his head on her shoulder. Not much affection there. Then she turned to me and I could swear I saw her eyes sparkle. "Petru's friend welcome!"

"This is Timothy. Timothy, this is Alina Troy, my mum." Weirdo was all business. I felt it was up to me to be a gentleman. I took her hand in both of mine and said it was a pleasure to meet her. I felt her tremble, but she smiled sweetly at me as if I was a long-lost friend and pulled me into the house. "Petru come along, Nana is in the sunroom having tea." I heard Weirdo sigh loudly.

I was led down a long hallway, rooms off each side. Everything was blindingly white. I peeked into the rooms as we passed, there was a lot of wabi-sabi going on. Wood benches with cushions, terracotta pots with lush plants and tall wild grass. Blocks of sandstone and thick tree trunks served as coffee tables; pallets covered in hemp mats served as  loungers. Everything was organic and simple, not a single electronic device in sight, no lamps, no TV, no nothing. The walls were white and the floors were stained black. Here and there symbolise were painted on the walls. Every room had bowls of rose quartz, amethyst, feathers and shells or bundles of smouldering sage. I was vaguely familiar with the stuff because my mother had gone through a New Age phase at one point and got all cosmic on us until dad got fed up and told her all the smudging was driving his sinus crazy.

At that point, I thought Weirdo had exaggerating. Yes, it all looked very bohemian; and yes, the décor was earthy and spartan but I'd seen much stranger rooms on TV shows about the rich and famous. And then.....I walked into the sunroom and I totally got what he was talking about. Holy Fuck, my mouth fell open, and before I could control my feet they turned around and went back the way I came. Weirdo grabbed me by the sleeve and pushed me back into the room. The look on his face said I TOLD YOU SO. Now suck it up.

It was a lovely room, bright and sunny. Weirdo's Nana Ovia stretched out her arms for us to come closer. She was as striking as her daughter. Even at her advanced age, there were remnants of her youthful beauty. She too had dark blue eyes and olive skin, cheekbones that could cut paper and a small chin. She wore her long white hair loose over her shoulders and was dressed in a simple but vivid purple dress. Nana Ovia looked like she could model for one of John White Alexander's diaphanous subjects.