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.