Chinatown

My heart is trembling. My hands are almost shaking as I type this.

Sitting in a small cyber café in London’s Soho, surrounded by freaky Chinese people. I must get a grip on myself, or I won’t be able to do this. This is the third rewrite so far. The first two were incredibly difficult. I know this is going to be drivel. I’ve been immersed in Pessoa and didn’t realise.

Innocence? I lost mine, in the heat of that moment that shattered my teenage life. I refer to the death of my parents, of course. No, I’ve never tried to recapture it, that simply isn’t possible for me. Maybe for others, but not Sandrine.

To search for the arriere pays, is not seeking innocence in my life. No, I’m searching for something else, something that doesn’t belong to anyone else. Not for me the best sellers, the hit records, the sell out concerts.

This might sound crazy – a recurring theme in my posts, I guess. Sometimes, I think it might be possible to return to a state of innocence, a childlike state. Occultists believe that there are supreme moments in one’s life when perhaps a fragment of memory or emotion can cause the soul to recall the shadow of a previous incarnation. Since the soul returns to a time that is closer to the origin of things, it feels like a child again.

In my case, I often have flashbacks to the accident – and curiously they trigger fragments from a previous life. Not mine, but that of my mother, Sandrine. It’s like I’ve got some of her memories. I’ve tried to explain this to Gerhard, but of course he’s so rational. He doesn’t believe in the supernatural.

The strangeness of my life can only really be explained in terms of my mother’s death and her soul somehow joining with mine. It feels scary but also quite exhilarating at times.

I guess you think I’m completely insane – I don’t blame you. But consider this. I can recall events in Paris during the sixties and seventies with amazing clarity. My physical self was born in 1980, but my soul seems to have existed before that time. Unreal, isn’t it.


Written down like that, it doe sound crazy. Yeah. Maybe Gerhard was right, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I’m in London on business for Etienne Wines – with a bit of pleasure thrown in. One of my contacts is Alistair, a wine merchant who also deals in Art. He has promised me his daughter, which is nice of him, in exchange for an extra marital one-night stand. This girl, Miranda, is luscious and delectable,

It was Etienne who introduced me to the occult many years ago. He’s quite a fascinating figure. A svengali-like figure, in fact. But you’ve probably already guessed that Etienne Wines is merely a convenient cover, for a more clandestine operation. The merchandise we’re dealing in is worth an awful lot more than a few cases of fine wines, believe me. It’s a convenient front, shall we say.

So what am I doing here in Chinatown, so close to Yuletide? I don’t know, maybe it’s comforting being amongst unbelievers. This Yiddish girl has had enough of the christmas consumerist god for one year. I intend to hole up here in Soho until the dust has settled.

Lolita

By my early teens I’d already inherited Sandrine’s curves. I used to drive all the old men crazy in our street. I’d wear short skirts with no underwear, and t-shirts stretched tight across my nipples. I was a regular Lolita in those days. Even Krantz noticed it, and scolded me for being too provocative.

The other thing I did at that time was to hang around the house when Sandrine was out, and try on her old clothes - fashion gear from the seventies, when she modelled for all the top brands. Chanel, Dior, St Laurent. I’d spend hours in front of her mirror, playing with her make up and posing in her silk underwear.

One time I was modelling this bright scarlet dress, hemline way above the knee. I’d sprayed myself with perfume and applied some heavy lipstick and dark eyes. Then I was startled by a voice from close behind me.
It’s uncanny, you look more like her every day.
It was only Krantz. He’d crept up on me and was stood behind, watching our reflection in the mirror.
You made me jump, I said.
I don’t think Sandrine would approve. You’d better take the dress off now, before she gets back.
I frowned. She knows about it. She’s cool with it, papa.
I said take it off, he snapped, you look like a cheap whore.

Slowly I unzipped the dress and dropped it onto the bed. Underneath it I was wearing black silk underwear.
You want me to take this off too? I giggled.
Krantz wasn’t laughing.
Stop the teasing god damn it. You’re making me hard.
I turned to face him, starting to unhook my bra. Then I put my arms round his neck, allowing the bra to fall.
Admit it, you want me. You want to screw your own daughter.
He slapped me hard across the face, threw me onto the bed.
You little tart, I ought to teach you a lesson.
Why not. I’ve got a lot to learn, I said, goading him.
Krantz pulled my hair back, making me gasp for breath.
You're not too old for a good spanking, he said.
Then he pulled the silk knickers down, exposing my derriere. I felt a sharp pain as his hand struck my naked flesh. I cried out, but he continued, another ten times, as I screamed.

Now put the clothes back where you found them and lets forget this happened, he said.
Tears were running down my face, but I felt strangely excited. And aroused. Krantz was glaring at me, but I didn’t feel scared. I had power over men, I realised. Nothing could stop me now.