I didn’t immediately tilt. I told him, my husband, that I would follow him to the ends of the earth and that my mission on Earth was to love him and serve him. I told him all these things, but on one condition: that our place of life should not be haunted. When I say haunted, I don’t necessarily mean creatures covered in white sheets with two holes for eyes. I studied the subject, that of ghosts. I spoke with a variety of enchanters, geobiologists, and hunters of the dead. They all express more or less the same idea, but with their own cultural and spiritual references.
Eugène, an exorcist very popular in Geneva real estate development circles, always tells me to tell my friends not to commit suicide. “Because afterwards, he asserts, we don’t know where they’re going.” Another, this one a dowser, asserts the opposite. Suicided souls would, according to him, be the easiest to evacuate because they are precisely at peace with their decision to leave. our plan. The truth, obviously, is that we know nothing. We can procrastinate for hours, even for entire lifetimes, on these immaterial energies and imperceptible by science, our conclusions will probably never exceed the threshold of fiction.
This reality in no way prevented me from developing, from the first years of my life, tenacious demands in terms of ghosts, vibrations and other hermeneutic feelings. For example, I refused to set foot in Aunt Rubie’s house because, I claimed, her house was crumbling under bad vibes. Some are allergic to cats, others to things that remain, for better or worse, in the head.
Salzburg under influence
Another clarification: my drugs. Among the side effects that they are likely to cause (headaches, fatigue, libido disorders, aggressiveness, hallucinations, skin rash, hair loss, involuntary movements, taste disturbance, orthostatic hypotension, convulsions, visual disturbances, grinding teeth, difficulty urinating, menstrual disorders, leaking of milk from the nipple, allergic reaction, hepatitis, low sodium level in the blood, heart rhythm disturbances, nosebleeds, genital or digestive bleeding, suicide, death and so on), their grip on what we call, for lack of a better term, ghosts, is close to degree zero. Whether I’m on 5 or 50 mg of Citalopram, Aunt Rubie’s house invariably remains haunted.
If I tell you all this, it is because, in fact, when I visited Salzburg for the first time and saw nothing but fire there, I was under the influence of 10 mg of Citalopram (an antidepressant) and maybe, but I’m not even sure anymore, 5 mg of Focaline (a sustained release stimulant). This dosage agrees with the cruising speed of my years in Berlin. I hardly ever took sleeping pills and benzos anymore. It certainly happened that I would go out late at night and substitute MDMA for alcohol, but these occurrences remained quite exceptional. Drugged, I was certainly a little, but infinitely less than I had been and would become later. No, it wasn’t the drugs that stopped me from sniffing what I should have sniffed when I first visited Salzburg. This is another thing.
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But let’s get back to the facts. Before moving to Salzburg, I went there to sniff. I took an early train from Berlin. My husband, who was preparing “the wife’s visit” for weeks, welcomed me on the station platform. He was wearing his best hat and was so nervous that it brought tears to my eyes. He took me by the hand and we went to lunch on the terrace of the Café Bazaar, where he had reserved a shaded table overlooking the Salzach. He then took me through the streets of the old town. I knew full well that he had orchestrated, planned and rehearsed every step I was going to take until I left the next day at dawn. Once again, his desire for my desires to be modeled on his touched me.
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