Back to Salem

By Alfred Mielacher

Two worlds-apart young adults, Diane-Lynn, a highly gifted graphic designer working in Paris, and Julien, a self-proclaimed adventurer and talented caricaturist living in Cape Town, meet under unusual circumstances and embark on a philosophical journey through rainy nights and gale force winds along the Cape Peninsula, with unexpected consequences culminating in a possible threat to religious faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504939621

Alfred Mielacher

Alfred Mielacher was born in 1956, the only son of an Austrian farmer. As a child, he was told that Gypsy blood ran through his veins. A century earlier, Gypsies on their annual return to help with farmwork during the summer months, had not only mended pots and pans but the daughter as well. After finishing his studies, he embarked on extensive voyaging to satisfy his inborn abenteuerlust, exploring what the big wide world had to offer in comparison to the small farming community he was born into. During his travels, he kept a journal of his experiences, which sparked a passion for writing. He currently lives near the Kruger National Park in South Africa.

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© 2015 Alfred Mielacher. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/16/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3967-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3962-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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M y

name is Diane-Lynn, and I am thirty-one years of age. I look much younger, though: everyone estimates me to be just over twenty. However, there are a few grey strands visible in my long, slightly curly, dark brown hair, after a disposition of my father, who was wholly grey by the age of twenty.

According to my family tree, I am clearly international. Through my veins flow Russian-German blood from mother’s side and English-Irish blood from my father’s. I was born in the Republic of South Africa during the apartheid years and went to school and spent my youth in Johannesburg.

Because of my father I am in possession of a British passport, which allowed me to study in London. Then I lived in Paris, working there as a graphic designer, thanks to my talent in drawing. That gift I inherited from mother, who in her own right is a well-known painter of the Old Russian style. I was very good at what I was doing at the agency; I climbed steadily up the ladder and made it to head art director in my department–earning incredible money.

From my seventh-floor apartment in Montmartre I enjoyed an exquisite view over Paris, a city I really enjoyed living in. My flat, with its elegant and stylish furniture, was cosy and welcoming; everyone, friends and colleagues alike, enjoyed great times at the endless parties there. And I most likely would still be living there, if not… well, if not for how all the work pressure got to me and got the better of me!

Fear and inexplicable apprehension had taken hold of me–emotions that had been unknown to me up to that point in my young life. I had never before felt such uneasiness around other people. I don’t know what caused it. But I had become scared of everything and everyone–whether cars, trees, and pot plants or friends, colleagues, and strangers. And that terror manifested itself as panic deep down in my bone marrow. Out of fear of using words the wrong way I stopped communicating altogether, which is bad news when you work in advertising. It finally got so bad that I locked myself into my apartment in order to figure out what was going on in my head.

‘Am I going crazy here? Am I losing my head? What is possessing my entire being? How come I am so freaking petrified of everything and everyone?’ I wrote these questions to a dear friend in London at the beginning of that awful period; I was counting on him for an honest answer that would help me understand my own state of mind. The two of us had had a few great years together while studying graphic design, and we’d kept in contact over the years. I had placed all my hope for help squarely on his shoulders. When I finally received a letter from him, happy tears were already rolling down my cheeks while I ripped open the envelope–but they turned into torrential cascades as I read what he had to say. He could not come over to visit me because he was too busy. What a weak and uncaring excuse!

My boyfriend, too, got icy feet and left me overnight. Instead of offering help or sympathy for my mental predicament, the bastard simply packed up and disappeared. I handled his loss pretty well, considering the headspace I was in. Men are all the same!

At the time when those anxiety attacks were underway, my advertising agency was awarded a lucrative campaign to boost the French sales of an overseas car model. I was instructed to head that campaign, come up with a new name, design a logo, and create a catalogue. And all that in a ludicrous time frame–but such were the pressures of the industry.

As usual, I was expected to work mainly with men who had nothing in mind but my body. That hadn’t bothered me at the beginning of my career, but it had begun to get to me over the years. I threw myself head first into that massive car project and succeeded, but the price I had to pay was madness creeping in. Colleagues noticed the change in me and recommended a visit to a shrink. No way! I was afraid he would diagnose me as schizoid or something.

To keep my dignity (whatever I had left), I handed in my resignation once the project was finished. I locked myself into my apartment, drew the curtains, took the phone off the hook, and for days thought of nothing else but how to commit suicide. Having a rather weak pain threshold, everything I came up with was too painful to consider. And then one rainy day I decided to give up on the idea of ending my life and instead decided to start anew, far away from familiar people and familiar Paris.

Within a day I managed to get rid of all my belongings, giving all my clothing and jewellery to passers-by outside my apartment block. The following morning I sat in the Eurorail heading for London. I spent some rather weird days there, only to realize that this for me once great city had nothing left to offer. So I flew to Brussels. I had spent time there on a business trip and carried some fond memories of that city. I was hopeful, but no–it wasn’t the same place any longer. Confused and distressed, I headed back to the airport and booked the first flight out. Damned are all airlines; a few hours later I ended up in Paris once more!

For some inexplicable reason it briefly felt good to be back in the city I had enjoyed so much until recently. I climbed into a taxi and headed for Montmartre. Standing in the drizzle on the opposite side of my old apartment block, I heard party music emanating from somewhere within. It reminded me of the good old days in my cosy flat. The longing for some company overcame me momentarily. I thought of searching out the party but got hit instantly by a monster wave of anxiety. The fear of meeting people and having to talk to them overwhelmed me and made me scuttle off along the wet roads towards nowhere in particular. I have no idea how long I scampered through Paris that evening. But I eventually realized that I was getting hungry and tired; I hadn’t eaten or slept for days.

With rallied courage I approached the next hotel, booked a room for the night, ordered two hot dogs and a bottle of red, and locked the door behind me. Accompanied by cascades of tears and shaking like a maple leaf I finally drifted off into my unconscious.

I am standing on the bank of the river Seine just outside the city boundaries, surrounded by trees and bushes. The crack-of-dawn covers the riverbank like a faint haze of peace. From the distance, the breathing of awakening Paris penetrates my soul, the morning dew encircles my hair in the finest of webs, the air smells fresh and sparkling, birds welcome a new day with beautiful hymns, and the musical babbling of the river wraps itself around me like a shawl. For a brief moment I have a revelation of some kind; I appreciate my surroundings, envying the patience of the majestic willow trees along the river and receiving the birds’ melodies as a chorus of sanctity and heavenly purity. The warmth that ascends from the deepest corners of my soul fills me with delight and satisfaction like steam fills up a sauna. It is such gratifying knowledge that my eyes fill with tears of contentedness and love for life. But as those pearls of happiness roll down my cheeks they turn into lead-heavy balls of fear and uncertainty. Instantly, the light feeling in my heart turns into undiluted pain and begin to wrap itself around my heart like a python around its prey. A sudden shudder explodes through my body, and misery engulfs my heart like a spider web once more. The silvery morning dew’s heavenly shroud becomes a heavy coat of dread; the peaceful flow of the river turns into a tumultuous surge of blood out of whose depths evil grinning phizogs try to pull me into the torrent . . .

I felt a heavy thud and awoke soaking wet, lying on the floor next to my bed!

Utterly exhausted and sucked empty by anxiety, I wondered what to do with myself. That dream had mirrored the face of my soul and showed me clearly how lost I was. Before leaving the room I grabbed a lipstick and wrote ‘I HATE YOU’ on the bathroom mirror and then shattered the mirror to pieces in rage.

At reception I paid wordlessly for the room, added another EURO 100 for the mirror, dashed out of the hotel, and waved down the next taxi. I had to get out of Paris, had to get away as far as possible. Financially I had no worries, having had earned a lot of money over the years. At Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport I scanned one of the huge electronic billboards showing arrival and departure times, and I saw that the next plane was leaving for Lisbon with a connecting flight to Johannesburg, South Africa.

My folks were divorced; dad lived in Johannesburg and mom in Cape Town. The thought of visiting them brought some hope of normality to my tormented soul. Father and I got on well enough for me to call him ‘Father’ instead of his Christian name. Mother had distanced herself from me years ago because of my behaviour towards her, as she had told me once. I enquired about that flight and booked a seat. While waiting, I took forty winks on a hard plastic chair in the departure hall.

To my surprise, the flight was a pleasant experience and I even spoke a few words with the woman next to me–although she did most of the talking. For the first time in a very long while I briefly felt normal, and that alone gave me great hope. I was looking forward to surprising my father with this unexpected visit. The flight from Lisbon took fifteen hours. For a few hours I slept well, and in my dream I saw my own face surrounded by clouds. As we landed at Johannesburg International I felt quite good; though that grave lead coat still rested on my soul, at least it was unbuttoned!

Father was beside himself with joy to see me. He even wanted to take a few days off work, which I did not agree to. For a couple days I merely enjoyed the town I’d grown up in. As the days went, some of my old confidence had begun to return–though I didn’t trust that sensation too much.

One evening after dinner we sat in the lounge with our glasses of wine when Father once again started asking me questions about myself, my love-life, my job. He had tried before on a number of occasions, but I never had allowed myself to elaborate about the mental state I found myself in. Now, all that dark memory awoke like a beast trying to gobble me up in front of my father. That weighty coat was instantly buttoned up again, and I was consumed by terror like a small mountain hut about to be devoured by an advancing avalanche. Father must have noticed the change in my body language, because he stared at me with questioning eyes. I began to squirm like a small child in a dentist’s chair and commenced suffering from severe nausea. Not giving any explanation, I went to my room. I was freaked out to such a degree that I packed my few belongings and stole myself away without so much as a good-bye.

The visit that had started out so encouraging came to an appalling end. There I was, standing in the road at midnight, depressed and disheartened, sobbing, with a grave heart and a disintegrating psyche. Once again I waved down a taxi, and once again I was on my way to the airport.

I was not looking forward to visiting my mother in Cape Town. There was no obligation to visit her, but I somehow felt compelled to take the next flight there. It may have been the memory of Mary-Jane, my old friend and schoolmate; we had even shared our first boyfriend. Remembering her sparked a faint glow deep inside my being. Perhaps in Cape Town I could offload all my misery and gloom. Perhaps there I would find inner peace and will, and be able to forget my past and all its despair and anguish. Maybe Cape Town could offer me what I had left behind in Paris: a life worth living!

The early morning flight was free of any mishaps; I even calmed down a little. From the airport I called Mary-Jane to let her know I was in town and wished to visit her. She sounded enthusiastic and gave me her address. Then I took a cab into the city centre. Unfortunately the driver appeared to be in a hellish rush, driving like a maniacal lunatic. I suffer from motion sickness at high speed, so I was once again plagued with all sorts of bizarre feelings. By the time I got out of that damn cab, I was back at square one.

There was no way to visit Mary-Jane in that state, so I wandered directionless around town, trying desperately to unruffle myself. But as beautiful and calm as Cape Town was on a sunny spring morning, it seemed awful to me. Why did that asshole have to race like that? For the next few hours I hastened along busy streets, waiting for the terrible dread to subside. Once I entered the Botanical Garden in search for a bench to rest upon. However, as soon as I was seated, a guy came along and sat down next to me uninvited and started chatting me up. He wasn’t bad looking, but I instantly lost my cool. I began to scream obscenities at him and dashed off in a blur.

Around midday I finally got myself under enough control to look up Mary-Jane. Standing outside that small cottage painted pink (certainly not my favourite hue), with colourful flowers everywhere, I again underwent the change back towards square one. Why does a multicoloured bloom result in such inner turmoil? I was just turning to walk away as Mary-Jane opened the front door and came running towards me, with open arms and a happy smile.

We hugged intensely. I lied to her that all was fine, while inwardly I was melting like a snowball on a hot-plate. I felt I was drifting away from her–but she didn’t notice anything strange. Walking towards her cottage, it took all my strength not to break free from her friendly grip on my arm and run off.

We settled in her lounge and after the initial welcome chatter–‘How have you been in the last few years?’ and ‘How is Paris?’ and ‘Have you seen your folks yet?’–I glanced at the table next to her and saw snakes. I jumped up and screamed.

‘Hey, honey!’ she said calmly. ‘What’s the matter? They aren’t real. They’re made of wood. Peter crafts them when he’s bored!’

‘I am so sorry, Mary-Jane. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m going crazy.’ I started to cry again and threw my arms around her neck.

‘Hey, hold it, nobody is going crazy! I’ll make us some coffee and we’ll talk, okay?’ She left for the kitchen.

Contemplating whether to stay or not, I looked around the room. It was furnished with antiques and countless pictures on the walls. Mary-Jane had a very talented hand. It should have made me feel better, but achieved the opposite: I must get out of here but immediately. At that very moment she entered the room and placed the coffee tray on the table with the snakes.

‘Have you come home to visit your folks? Or are you on a business trip?’

‘Me? Why should I visit my folks! I mean, yes, I did visit Dad. But why I came home, I seriously don’t know. I am surely not on a business trip!’ I began to cry again.

Mary-Jane poured coffee into Chinese porcelain cups and handed me one. She was obviously happy about my surprise visit, but in her eyes I clearly could read worry about my earlier outburst.

‘What did you mean before, that you are going crazy?’ she asked. ‘True, you don’t seem to be too happy. You look rather distraught and exhausted. I remember a different Diane-Lynn. You were always the good mood personified! Your beautiful eyes always sparkled. What happened to that glimmer, Diane?’

‘Oh, Mary-Jane, I don’t know! I really don’t know anymore. I’m constantly afraid of anything and everyone. And in regards to me going crazy, I’m certain I’m heading there!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Diane, what are you saying? Come drink your coffee. It will do you good.’

For a few short minutes I was able to let go of my recent past and look forward to whatever I was heading toward. As I sat with my old friend, I began to feel good and liberated as I hadn’t for months. I knew, though, that my anxiety was rooted so deep down in my personality that it could resurface at any moment. And it did, as soon as Peter came home. He and I had never got on. When he entered the room, he didn’t even have to say anything–just the expression on his face spoke volumes. Instantaneously I was back at square one.

I got up and mumbled to Mary-Jane that I required some fresh air. Sneaking uneasily past Peter, I nodded a silent hello and left.

On the veranda I took a few deep breaths. My heart was racing like a steam train down a mountain pass, and I was certain that any moment my heart would explode out of my chest cavity or implode down into my bowel. There was no hope that here in Cape Town I would be able to accomplish anything for my peculiar state of mind and soul. I took a