Chapter Three The Wrong Road #2
‘Charlie,’ she says in a melodious voice. ‘So nice to see you again.’ Zitana walks forward with a grace that you just can’t teach, and takes my hand in hers.
Annie lets out a small squeak from beside me.
This is somewhat understandable. Zitana is a presence, of that there is no doubt.
And my girlfriend may be as quick with her tongue as she is perceptive, but she’s also quick to compare herself unfavourably with other people, I’ve noticed.
She has absolutely no need to, she’s beautiful and amazing – but I can understand the little dismayed exclamation that escapes her mouth when faced with something like Zitana.
‘Hi Zitana,’ I say. ‘This is Annie, my girlfriend.’
Zitana turns her megawatt smile on Annie. ‘So lovely to meet you. Charlie is a very lucky man.’
‘Thank you,’ Annie says. ‘Nice wigw— I mean . . . nice building you have here.’
Zitana nods. ‘It is rather lovely, isn’t it? A place of sanctuary and harmony in a world full of the opposite.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Would you both like to come in? I have camomile tea.’
We do as we are bid, and once inside we see that the interior of the wigwam is very much congruent with the outside.
The walls are covered with pictures of dream catchers again.
And there are several large real ones hanging around the edges of the circular room.
The zodiac signs are drawn across the walls in here as well. But no sign of the goat.
At some point I’d really like to ask about the goat.
The room is bathed in a warm, soft glow by the single small chandelier that hangs from the centre of the cone-shaped ceiling.
The chandelier itself is cut glass – and features a load of frolicking fairies.
They are all naked. And they are all doing things fairies really shouldn’t.
Especially if they are the type of fairies that you’d find at the bottom of your average child’s garden.
It’s enough to send anyone into therapy for many years.
Beneath the sexy fairy chandelier (oh God) is a round table, with two relatively ordinary chairs on one side, and an enormous, high-backed, throne-like chair on the other. This is covered in plush purple velvet.
Stamped in silver on the back of the chair’s headrest is an eight-pointed star with an eyeball at its centre. This looks tremendously disconcerting. The eyeball is staring at me. Possibly judging me for the way I looked at the shagging fairies.
‘Pray, sit,’ Zitana intones, before languidly heading over a small table at the rear of the room, upon which sits a white bone-china tea set and a metal water urn.
As Annie and I take our places, Zitana pours us both a camomile tea and brings them over. She does not pour herself a drink.
Kind of the same way Dracula acts in the novel, when Jonathan Harker pops round for a nice chat.
Zitana sits down in her throne, and a portal to hell immediately opens above her head.
No. Of course this does not actually happen, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that it could.
‘Now what brings you to me today, Charlie?’ she asks. ‘Your email sounded quite distraught.’
‘Did it?’ I thought it sounded about as bland as your average email always does. Not sure how she could interpret being distraught from ‘kind regards’.
Zitana nods. ‘Yes. What troubles you, my friend?’
I wave a hand. ‘Oh, it’s not really that much, honestly,’ I say in a light voice. I am instantly embarrassed by the question.
Annie turns and looks at me.
‘Oh, alright. It’s fairly bad,’ I admit. ‘I’m not sleeping, Zitana. Not sleeping at all.’
Her hands rest lightly on the arms of the chair. ‘Explain, please.’
And I do so, over the course of the next ten minutes, with helpful interjections from Annie on a frequent basis.
By the time I am done, Zitana knows all about my funny turn at the bowling alley, my disgraceful performance at Conrad and Eloise’s house, my disdain for ‘My Humps’ by the Black Eyed Peas, and the fact that some dinosaurs look like plucked chickens.
‘I see. Very troubling,’ Zitana says, regarding me carefully. ‘Something is obviously hurting you deep within your many soul.’
I blink. ‘My what?’
‘Your many soul,’ Zitana repeats. ‘We are all made up of multiple creatures, Charlie. All housed within a single earthly vessel. Each one vying for supremacy in an eternal struggle. Our inner space reflects the complexities of outer space. Many heavenly bodies both attracting and repelling each other. We are in a dance with ourselves, at all times. And that dance continues on, even after our mortal frames have fallen to entropy. They cry out for acknowledgement and connection. And they can see the many soul in others. That is why I can help you, Charlie.’
I stare at her for a moment.
I stare at her for a moment longer.
. . . I kind of wish she’d just started singing ‘Raspberry Beret’, to be honest.
‘Ah. I see,’ I tell her.
I most assuredly don’t.
I also make a very special point of not looking at Annie. There will only be one of two expressions on her face, and neither will help matters.
Zitana smiles in a knowing fashion. ‘Do not worry, both of you. You do not need to understand the intricacies of the many soul to receive my help and assistance. Just know that it is the truth, and be at peace.’
‘Er . . . fair enough,’ I reply.
I’m very glad I don’t need to understand the intricacies. That might lead me into knowing too much about the shagging fairies and the goat, and I’m not sure I’m in the right head space for that kind of illumination.
‘All I would ask is that you both relax, and allow me to do my work,’ Zitana says.
‘That’s it?’ Annie asks. ‘No . . . you know . . . boards? Or . . . cards? Or . . .’
Oh no . . .
‘. . . crystal balls?’
Again, Zitana supplies a languid smile, which indicates she’s very probably heard all this before. ‘No. Others who commune require physical vessels through which they make communication. I do not.’
She says this with a finality that almost makes me jump. No wonder this woman has made so much bloody cash with this malarky. She’s extremely convincing, and equally as sure of her own abilities.
‘All I require from you, Charlie, is to sit calmly, and allow your many soul to the surface.’
‘O . . . kay. And how do I do that exactly?’
Zitana changes her posture slightly so that she is sat taller in the chair. She briefly closes her eyes and rolls her head slowly on her neck. There’s something quite sensual about this act, and I feel my face flushing.
Oh boy.
Annie lets out another squeak.
‘You just have to allow me in,’ Zitana says.
‘Allow you in,’ I repeat.
‘Indeed. Allow me inside so that I may know your many soul, and create a link to those I speak to. That way, we might glean what afflicts you.’
‘Okay. Gotcha. Let you inside. Right.’
My levels of awkwardness are peaking. Not least because I’m sat next to my girlfriend, while a statuesque, sensual woman dressed as famed sex connoisseur Prince is asking to get inside me.
Is it hot in here?
It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Definitely quite hot.
‘Pray be silent, so that I may begin,’ Zitana asks, and I immediately do as I’m told.
She closes her eyes again, and raises her head so her face is bathed in the light of the shagging-fairy chandelier.
In seeming response to this, the light itself slowly starts to dim. Simultaneously, around the edges of the wigwam, a purple glow begins to emanate from some effectively hidden lighting. It’s all very ethereal.
And probably cost a good couple of thousand for the electrician to install.
I know full well what’s going on here, but Zitana sells the whole thing so well, it’s hard not to get caught up in it.
‘My humps,’ Zitana says. Her voice has taken on a somewhat raspy quality. ‘My humps,’ she repeats, in an even more breathy tone. ‘My lovely humpy lumps.’
It should be completely impossible to make those lyrics sound anything other than extremely silly in this context . . . but Zitana manages to make them sound intolerably spooky and horrific. Maybe because I’ve had them running around in my head for so long – usually at 3 a.m., when I can’t sleep.
Annie lets out another squeak, this one sounding like a laugh cut off before it can get going. Which is understandable.
Zitana ignores this and starts to breathe heavily. This requires that her chest move up and down in a way that the staff of Charlie’s trouser department finds more than a little interesting – even though that is completely inappropriate and should require a meeting with HR.
‘I feel you, Charlie,’ she moans.
Good lord.
‘I feel your pain. I feel your uncertainty. I feel your confusion.’
Please stop saying you feel me. I’m having uncomfortables.
‘The song. The words. The story. I can feel your many soul reacting. Reaching out for comfort. Reaching out for something to grip on to . . .’
Please don’t say ‘grip on to’ again, either.
The purple lights start to pulse gently. I now notice that the shagging-fairy light has turned red.
The lighting now speaks to a combination of the fifth circle of hell and a knocking shop. I’m not sure which is worse.
If this was a gender-reveal party, the baby’s pronouns would be de/mon.
From somewhere equally as hidden as the purple lighting comes the sound of monastic chanting. It is low, melodic and immensely disconcerting, in combination with the heaving Zitana bosom and the ambient lighting.
There’s a part of me that’s actually extremely impressed by the performance.
Zitana has moved on from the time I worked with her, when she just used some soft spotlights during her stage show.
I mostly made sure her promo materials were of a high enough standard, and that she got plenty of exposure in the national press.
The actual stage show was easy to manage.
This is on a whole other level now, and I’m starting to understand why her house is so big.