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All of a sudden, a few minutes later, my friend, Carolyne Schuster, a famous French- American organist, and also Alexandre’s godmother, asked to talk with me on the phone. We studied musicology together at the university and prepared our PhD at the “Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes de Paris”. Then we created the “Pro Angelis Duo” (organ and viola). Carolyne didn’t know about my heart disease: as I was home, I asked Florence not to tell anyone about it. She told she thought of me about a big project. Her friend, Professor Felician Rosca, would like to plan concerts for his all-new “Timergelfest International Music Festival” in Timisoara in Romania. Through her, he asked me to play with him Michael Haydn’s “Double Concerto for Organ and Viola”. It was a challenge! Felician and Carolyne are both passionate by their projects. They found a music sheet of this unknown, never played work. They asked me to write the two “Cadences” which didn’t exist. The musicless moment for the orchestra when the solists play to show their gift and skills of interpretation. Te gig will take place in September 2012. I didn’t think more. I assured them I was OK and they could count on me! Two days later, I received a letter with the commitment contract and the central theme of the in-progress work. Florence brought it to me and told:

Reading the music sheet made me feel great. This unexpected work was going to help me to fight against my disabilities. This sign was like a gift of the Providence for me. I’ll become a musician again, an attentive musician who learns his music sheets in every detail. I was diving into music and realized how hard the viola part was. I thought of the most efficient finger moves. I played in my head, my fingers touched the keys and the bow went back and forth on the wires.

But I was quickly tired. After a half-an-hour, the stave danced in front of my eyes, as it happened in Charentes just before I had had my first stroke when I was with the French Polish wire-Quintet. Notes moved, everything was blurred. I closed my eyes to rest and I thought of this amazing meeting I’d made in Angoulême during the last tour. My musician friends and I were invited to dinner by the choristers. I met an employee from the tax office who liked to become a new member of the Amadeus Choir because she will be retired at the end of the year.

When I said goodbye to her and shook her hand, I felt an electric shock in my arm. I was shaken as if I had touched a high voltage wire. She looked at me and whispered in order the others looking for a place around the table not to listen.

We went away from the others and she told me she was a medium. She had a gift from her grandmother: she was a mesmerist. She took me in a room nearby where the voices seemed softened. She put her hand on mine and took the other. A heat wave overwhelmed me. Her look blurred as if she could see beyond reality. She had to sit because the flashes coming to her were too difficult to bear. Eventually, she rushed out and left me alone, lost. I didn’t know if I had to wait for her or go to be with the musicians. She came back a few minutes later, sat down and spoke to me:

“I’ve just seen terrible things about you. Around you and your cradle, your birth. Visions of hanging, blood, suffering screams, betrayal, night escape and flames. I went throwing.”

I didn’t know what to answer. Veronique’s visions perfectly joined my nightmares and we had just met: the recurring scraps of memories buried inside me which haunted me. She kept on talking:

Why did she call me Eric? I asked her why.

“It’s your first name. The one your mother gave you!”

She got on her feet and added:

“We’re going to go back with our guests. They would be surprised if we are away too long. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to a friend who’s also a medium and a mesmerist. And if you like, we’ll keep on helping you. Be careful, you’re really tired and your heart is sick.”

I was completely stunned by what I’d just heard from Veronique. I never believed in mediums and everyone who pretended to have power to cheat on gullible people. But Veronique made it clear:

“This gift appears after a trip to Lourdes. I can only use it to heal pains and always for free!” The night went well. The musicians were relaxed and joked. We mostly talked avout our tour.

The day after, as she kindly offered me, Veronique came to look for meat my dear friend, Brigitte and Antoine’s house. My hosts, who I spoke about my surprising experience from yesterday to, assured me Veronique had amazing gifts and she had already healed Antoine.

She drove me in the suburbs of Angoulême where the friend she talked to me about yesterday, lived. Danya, a very devoted psychic, only used her gifts coming from her dead grandmother to relieve the sorrows and heal the physical or psychological pains – freely.

Danya asked me to enter her office she set up for therapeutic sessions. She requested me to lie down on a couch. I did it but kept my distance.

The room was filled with religious pictures and I didn’t really know what to think about it. As a practicing Catholic, I wondered if was not going to fall into an inconvenient devilish rite. I was a little comforted when I saw a big statue of Virgin Mary and the Christ.

Finally, Veronique came back. She and Danya put their four hands on my body as if they played the piano. Danya immediately talked about terrible visions: once again, both saw stranglers, torture screams, high-speed pursuit, shootings. And blood, blood everywhere… like thousands of taken lives. Where was I? Which way drove me in this war place in the barracks yard of Chaumont en Champagne? Did I know one day? Was it amazing nowadays not to know either your real date of birth or your name?

After all kinds of rites, prayers and cares, they put their hands on me once again, told I had been registered to Socials Services as “Eric Riviere”, and explained she foresaw a conspiracy, a betrayel around my cradle and a stolen treasure. Cries, a hanging person? Veronique went to the bottom of the room. Danya sat down next to a small table, took a pen and drew big circles on a lot of paper sheets. Suddenly, I could read “My dear, it’s me I love you” written jerkily, unevenly and quickly. What all of that could mean?

Dray kept on writing. Veronique helped her, kept her eyes closed and asked me the questions. I couldn’t believe my eyes! The pen wrote all alone on the paper sheets and drew big letters which composed words. I could read: Eric, little prince who is truly gifted ans has to keep on pratising his art…

“Who is her mother?” Danya asked before she looked up at the ceiling.

The pen wrote “Maria”…

“What is her nationality?”

His mother was Russian. His father was Polish and Jewish. The pen wrote. Maria is a princess… She’s coming from East. Her family was exterminated.

“What about his father?” Danya Asked.

I was completely stunned. And the pen kept on telling stories. I read the letters when they took shape on the sheets: Little prince Eric from a very influential family. He has to keep on what God waits from him. He escaped from death. His father is disappointed. He was forced to hide him. In Scandinavia. Her mother is hiding in the North… Eric has to keep on practicing his art… I love you.

Then Danya’s hand stopped. Finally, this message from the other side only thickened the mystery of my birth and bone out everything I flet and thought. Who were the prince and the princess I was born from? Why had they to hide? And why did they give me up? Why did I end up in a barracks? Last question: why did the French state identify me as a “young ward of the state”?

I came back to the present time. I was here, standing still in the bed… The only place where I could be. All the episodes came back in my memory with an extreme intensity. As if Heaven – thanks to Darya’s grandmother – took advantage of my condition of current deterioration to talk to me directly, to persuade me to live. And I clearly heard in the loud silence of the room with the closed door. “No, you won’t die, you have to fight!”