And today my children study Calvin at school as if he were a great Illuminist, a man with new ideas who “freed” us from the yoke of Catholicism. A revolutionary who deserves to be revered by future generations.

After the darkness, light.

What went on in that man’s head? I wonder. Did he lie awake at night knowing that families were being wiped out, that children were being separated from their parents, or that blood flooded the pavement? Or was he so convinced of his mission that there was no room for doubt?

Did he think everything he did could be justified in the name of love? Because that is what I doubt, and the crux of my current problems.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. People who knew him said that, in private, Calvin was a good man, capable of following the words of Jesus and making amazing gestures of humility. He was feared, but also loved—and could ignite crowds with that love.

As history is written by the victors, no one today remembers his atrocities. Now he is seen as the physician of souls, the great reformer, the one who saved us from Catholic heresy, with its angels, saints, virgins, gold, silver, indulgences, and corruption.

The man I’m waiting for arrives, interrupting my thoughts. He is a Cuban shaman. I explain that I convinced my editor to do a story on alternative ways of combating stress. The business world is full of people who behave with extreme generosity one moment and then take out their anger on those weaker. People are increasingly unpredictable.

Psychiatrists and psychoanalysts are booked solid and can no longer see every patient. And no one can wait months or years to treat depression.

The Cuban man listens to me without saying a word. I ask if we can continue our conversation in a café, since we’re standing outside and the temperature has dropped significantly.

“It’s the cloud,” he says, accepting my invitation.

The famous cloud hangs in the city skies until February or March and is driven away only occasionally by the mistral, which clears the sky but makes the temperature drop even more.

“How did you find me?”

A security guard from the newspaper told me about you. The editor-in-chief wanted me to interview psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists, but that’s been done a hundred times.

I need something original, and he might be just the right person.

“You can’t publish my name. What I do isn’t covered by national insurance.”

I suppose that what he is really trying to say is: “What I do is illegal.”

I talk for nearly twenty minutes, trying to put him at ease, but the Cuban man spends the whole time studying me. He has tanned skin and gray hair, and he’s short and wears a suit and tie. I never imagined a shaman dressed like that.

I explain that everything he tells me will be kept secret. We’re just interested in knowing if many people seek his services. From what I hear, he has healing powers.

“That’s not true. I can’t heal people. Only God can do that.”

Okay, we agree. But every day we meet someone whose behavior suddenly changes from one moment to the next. And we wonder: What happened to this person I thought I knew? Why is he acting so aggressively? Is it stress at work?

And then the next day the person is normal again. You’re relieved, but soon after the rug is pulled out from under you when you least expect it. And this time, instead of asking what’s wrong with this person, you wonder what you did wrong.

The shaman says nothing. He still doesn’t trust me.

Is it curable?

“There’s a cure, but it belongs to God.”

Yes, I know, but how does God cure it?

“It varies. Look into my eyes.”

I obey and fall into some sort of trance, unable to control where I’m going.

“In the name of the forces that guide my work, by the power given to me, I ask the spirits who protect me to destroy your life and that of your family if you decide to turn me over to the police or report me to the immigration authorities.”

He waves his hand a few times around my head. It feels like the most surreal thing in the world, and I want to get up and leave. But when I come to, he’s already back to normal—neither friendly nor aloof.

“You may ask. I trust you now.”

I’m a little frightened. But it really isn’t my intention to harm this man. I order another cup of tea and explain exactly what I want. The doctors I “interviewed” say that healing takes a long time. The security guard suggested that—I weigh my words carefully—God was able to use the shaman as a channel to end a serious depression problem.

“We are the ones who create the messes in our heads. It does not come from outside. All you have to do is ask the aid of the guardian spirit who enters your soul and helps tidy the house. But no one believes in guardian spirits anymore. They are there watching us, dying to help, but no one calls on them. My job is to bring them closer to those in need and wait for them to do their work. That’s all.”

Let’s say, hypothetically, that during one of these moments of aggression, a person devises a Machiavellian plan to destroy another person. Like slandering someone at work, for example.

“It happens every day.”

I know, but when this aggression passes, when the person returns to normal, won’t they be consumed by guilt?

“Sure. And over the years, this merely worsens their condition.”

So Calvin’s motto—after the darkness, light—is wrong.

“What?”

Nothing. I was rambling on about the monument in the park.

“Yes, there is light at the end of the tunnel, if that’s what you mean. But sometimes, when the person crosses through the darkness and reaches the other side, he leaves an enormous path of destruction behind him.”

Perfect, back to the subject of your method.

“It’s not my method. It has been used for many years against stress, depression, irritability, suicide attempts, and the numerous other ways mankind has found to harm himself.” My God, I’ve found the right person. I need to keep my cool.

We could call it a …

“… self-induced trance. Self-hypnosis. Meditation. Every culture has a name for it. But remember that the Medical Society of Switzerland doesn’t look kindly upon these things.”

I explain that I do yoga and that I still can’t manage to reach the state where problems are sorted out and solved.

“Are we talking about you or a story for the newspaper?”

Both. I let down my guard because I know I have no secrets with this man. I was sure of it the moment he asked me to look into his eyes. I explain that his concern with anonymity is absolutely ridiculous—a lot of people know that he sees people at his house in Veyrier. And many people, including prison security guards, use his services. That’s what the guy at the paper explained to me.

“Your problem is with the night,” he says.

Yes, that’s my problem. Why?

“At night, simply because it is night, we are able to revive our childhood terrors: the fear of being alone, the fear of the unknown. But if we can defeat these ghosts, we will easily defeat the ones that appear during the day. We will not fear the darkness because we are partners of the light.”

I feel like I’m sitting with a schoolteacher who is explaining the obvious. Could I go to your house to do a …

“… an exorcism?”

That hadn’t occurred to me, but it is exactly what I need.

“There is no need. I see a lot of darkness in you, but also a lot of light. And in this case, I’m sure that in the end the light will overcome.”

I’m on the verge of tears. The man is actually delving into my soul, and I can’t explain exactly how.

“Let yourself get carried away by the night from time to time. Look up at the stars and try to get drunk on the sense of infinity. The night, with all its charms, is also a path to enlightenment. Just as a dark well has thirst-quenching water at its bottom, the night, whose mystery brings us closer to the mystery of God, has a flame capable of enkindling our soul hidden in its shadows.”