Red

Chapter 3

I stared at the man standing in front of me. Good lord, I thought, this man is tall. Literally, tall was the first thing that would come to one’s mind if they see him. Being flat on the ground somehow takes out the unusual height of the man but standing up…

“It seems so,” he replied in a quiet husky voice. For a moment I thought he was agreeing with the fact that being horizontal takes the effect of his height out. Then I realized he was replying to my matter of fact statement of him being awake. I stared at him for a moment, trying to calm myself. Why is this guy making me so nervous? Passing him the clothes I found for him I gave him instructions to go to the only bathroom downstairs. He came back after several minutes and sat on the breakfast bar of my kitchen. I served him some soup and chicken salad. I put a plate of pastries on the table in case he wanted some. He ate ravenously. Understandable with what I think he might’ve went through tonight. I gave him a thermometer as he finished his salad, the soup already in his stomach. It read 38 C. He waved me away, “The blankets made me really warm. Besides, my temperature always tends to be a tad more than usual human body temperature.”  I simply nodded. Skipping a beat, he asked, “Do you always take up on strays from the street or am I the first one?” I looked at him, “I picked you up from my porch.” “Okay, then, porch it is.” I shook my head slightly. “So I’m the first.” I didn’t bother replying. “Do you live by yourself?” I inclined my head. He frowned slightly, “It wasn’t safe for you to take me in. I could turn out to be a murderer or r****t. I still can turn out to be one.” I looked up from the vegetables I was cutting. He waited for me to respond. I didn’t open my mouth. I was anxious but why I couldn’t really fathom. After a moment, I replied,” You needed help.” He stared at me for a moment and then sighed, “I can’t tell what to think of you- an i***t or a humanitarian.” I stayed silent and then said in my bluntest of voices,” An idiotic humanitarian?” He blinked. It was obvious he didn’t think I’d actually try joking about it. I used my thick curtain of hair to hide my blush and work on my composure. i watched with the corner of my eyes as my uninvited house guest went over to look at the pictures hanging on my family room wall. That room was probably meant to be a dining room, but I didn’t bother with one. After all I never entertain formal guests. And my family has enough formal dinner in our base homes, or at least as much formal as possible, so I surely needn’t bother with any. Besides, I could never actually make room for all of us in the dining table in such a small room. So I simply turned it into a family room.

I watched as this guy popped a pastry in his mouth whole, studying the family photos. The picture hanging there were intimate but formal. I tried not to feel vulnerable; after all I didn’t even know his name. This whole situation was incredible. He has been in my house for- I glanced at the clock on the microwave, it was two in the morning- almost nine hours, and I still didn’t know his name, much less his identity. A thought suddenly popped in my mind and I surreptitiously sent a message to my brother Simon. Putting the batter in the oven for baking, I washed my hands and dried them on a towel. My guest turned around to face me. “These are your family photos.” It was a statement. I didn’t bother with a response. “You seem to have an abundance of twins in family… and quadruplets?” I nodded. “How many siblings do you have?” “Eight.” After a beat I asked, “You?” “None,” he drawled. ”Who are you?”I asked him. He gave me a half smile. “To the point, aren’t you?” When I didn’t make any response he sighed, “Nico. My name is Nico el Diego.” I kept silent, waiting for him to go on. He didn’t.  I stared him, tilting my head slightly. He shook his head. “I didn’t get your name or at least I don’t know your last name.”

”Oh?”

 “The French guy, Andre, he called you Rose.” The French guy…what is he- wait, he didn’t listen to our earlier conversation, did he? I contemplated him for a moment.

 “How do you know it’s not my nick name?”

 He seemed amused.“No. I suppose I don’t.”

 “It’s not. Or at least it’s not if you speak French. Rosa is the actual name.”

 “So you are Italian. You still didn’t say your surname though you know.”

“Ulyanovsk.”

“ Ulya-you’re Russian?” He sounded incredulous.

“One-fourth.” He tilted his head, still bemused.

“I am one-fourth Russian, three-quarters Italian.”

“Ah. That explains your perfect accent.” We were both speaking in Italian this whole time. “You seem to have a lot of foreign blood in your family.” He gestured towards the pictures his half smile back on his lips. I took a deep breath. Why in the name of god was this man making me so nervous? I can’t remember the last time I volunteered so much information to literally anybody. The fact that I actually revealed my origin was excellent, pardon the sarcasm. I shrugged slightly going back to what I was doing. He looked back to the pictures, taking them in. He still seemed to be quite pale though I wasn’t sure why. I watched him from the corner of my eyes; did he just sway on his feet? Before I knew it, my strange uninvited guest dropped like a sack of potato on the floor, banging his head on my coffee table in the process.