The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  But Vidor Kiraly wasn’t just any patient. Gessen would never be so crass as to shout it from the rooftops, but the presence of such an illustrious figure was a coup for the clinic, not to mention a boost to Gessen’s reputation as a skilled healer of intractable disorders. Now that Kiraly was here, however, with no hint of anything amiss, Gessen wondered if he hadn’t misinterpreted the case.

  Amok syndrome. What was he thinking? It was exceedingly rare, with the majority of reported cases confined to the peoples of the Malay Peninsula. As a medical student he’d been advised to think ‘horses not zebras’, upon hearing the gallop of hooves. A caution conveniently forgotten in his zeal to take on Kiraly’s case. Had he presumed that one-in-a million zebra as a salve to his ego? The chance to cure a rare delusional disorder might just be wishful thinking.

  More likely, Kiraly’s outburst was simply a matter of an overworked academic flying into a temper at the sight of someone he’d thought had come to taunt him. An old foe, perhaps, or a schoolboy nemesis. Academia was littered with such rivalries. But after reviewing again the photos of Vidor at the ceremony, the police report, and his chart notes with the tantalising words, amnesia and possible fugue state – catnip to Gessen – he changed his mind. Some variety of psychotic delusion was surely at play.

  Then there was the other thing that had niggled at him ever since he’d first viewed Kiraly through the binoculars. Something in the man’s face or posture stirred to life a glimmer from the past. Though he was sure he’d never met Kiraly before, a certain look about his eyes and the slope of his forehead was familiar. The ghost, perhaps, of a memory from a long-ago sighting in a Paris cafe. Or a brief encounter while passing through the train station in Geneva. Though he seldom thought about his youth, now decades in the past, he never forgot a face.

  As he lowered the binoculars, he felt a prickle of shame for spying on a man who believed he was alone. Seated cross-legged on the polished teak floor, he closed his eyes and tried to still his mind with a few moments of meditation. Except for a small round cushion and a bronze statue of the Buddha by the window, the room was bare. Years ago, he’d carried that statue, a gift from a Tibetan monastery and wrapped in layers of sackcloth, all the way back to Switzerland. The trip to Tibet was a desperate attempt to find solace during a dark period in his life, after he’d stumbled upon the truth about his parents in a cache of documents concealed in the attic.

  As a young boy, he’d been abandoned by his mother, who failed to return from a trip to the village market, leaving him to be raised by the people they were staying with in Switzerland, who later adopted him as their own. It was his mother’s gold wedding ring he’d been after, set with a row of tiny diamonds, to present to the woman he wished to marry. But having unwittingly discovered some unsavoury details about his past that were meant to stay hidden, he’d plunged into a black hole of despair, nearly impossible to escape.

  In Tibet, he’d hoped to find comfort in the stark beauty of that sacred land. But not even the old monk, who radiated a beatific peace and acceptance of all that is, could help him. Having failed to find the consolation he’d sought in the Himalayas, the experience resulted in one good thing: it started him on the path of his life’s work.

  He closed his eyes and tried to still his mind, but the face of Vidor Kiraly infiltrated his thoughts. Tomorrow, his therapy would begin in earnest, and as Gessen slowly picked apart the threads of Kiraly’s life, perhaps the troubling feeling that they had crossed paths before would be put to rest.

  6

  In the silence of the meditation hall, Vidor joined the circle of three women and two men seated on floor cushions, backs straight, their hands folded like obedient children. He had already endured two of these idiotic sessions and resented spending another hour of his life at a third. At least he could console himself with the pleasures of allowing his mind to wander when it was meant to be still. Perhaps have a bit of fun with the clinic’s cardinal rule: patients were known by their first names only.

  He smiled at the thought. If no one knew who he was, he could be anyone he chose. Today, the spurned lover of a Montenegrin beauty. Tomorrow, the deposed monarch of an obscure mountain kingdom. Perhaps, even, a celebrated brain scientist and OBE. He chuckled. Why not? Who would know the difference? The staff were on to him, he supposed, though they hadn’t let on. The counsellor’s primary job, apparently, was to smile and nod. Perhaps intervene should any tensions arise.

  Vidor couldn’t imagine what type of tension that might be. Not when the patients seemed as docile as lambs. No doubt due to the cocktail of pharmaceuticals they were fed each morning after breakfast. Well versed in neuropharmacology, Vidor could rattle off the drug names like a child chanting a nursery rhyme. Even so, he could sense the traces of madness beneath the drug-induced calm.

  The leader of today’s session was a soft-voiced, fussy gentleman about Vidor’s age, though his phlegmatic manner and mournful brown eyes made him seem older, like an elderly basset hound. The patients perched awkwardly on their round cushions, a posture that led to a dull ache in Vidor’s spine. As his lumbar sounded the alarm, he cursed himself for agreeing to come here. Though he’d been given little choice in the matter, to even suggest he needed the services of a psychiatrist was a grave misunderstanding. He’d give this Dr Gessen another week. Two at the most. In the meantime, he’d continue to make use of the admittedly excellent facilities before cutting the bonds of captivity and boarding a plane to London.

  After leading them through a series of stretches and breathing exercises, Jean-Claude suggested they try a mindfulness exercise. ‘If any thoughts or emotions arise,’ he intoned, ‘imagine they are clouds drifting on the wind, or leaves floating down a river. Refrain from becoming attached. Let them drift.’

  Vidor suppressed a groan. Clouds, leaves? How poetic. But the hippocampus had a mind of its own and was not easily fooled. He wondered how much Jean-Claude was being paid to come up with this nonsense. During the long minutes of fidgeting and sighs, Vidor was less conscious of drifting clouds than a rumbling of gastric juices. When the heavyset woman to his left peeked at him through a fringe of dark hair, he looked away. He wasn’t here to socialise, and the very thought of some unhappy soul laying claim to his attention made him want to flee.

  The warm air was putting him to sleep. Vidor stood and opened a window, but as soon as he sat down again, the heavyset woman leapt up and shut it with a bang. ‘I have a horror of draughts,’ she said to no one in particular. The look on her sour face presented less an impression of illness than abandonment. Perhaps her husband had run off with his Scandinavian mistress and she’d come here to lick her wounds.

  They moved on to the sharing part of the session. When Jean-Claude asked who would like to start, the woman shot her hand in the air.

  ‘Wonderful. Please go ahead, Babette, we’re all ears.’

  In accented English, she related the story of a summer holiday in Bavaria when she was eleven years old, and how she had become separated from her parents during an outing at some ancient castle.

  Vidor tuned out at that point, as she had told a similar tale at the previous session. Separation and abandonment. Childhood fears and confusion. Didn’t they all have some version of the same story? At least she hadn’t yanked up her blouse, like the last time, to show everyone the surgical scars that criss-crossed her abdomen.

  Jean-Claude turned next to Vidor, his doleful eyes telegraphing encouragement. Vidor squirmed, but as long as he was stuck here, he might as well have a bit of fun. So he delivered a tale about a trip to the Hungarian countryside when he was a child, just before his family escaped the Soviet aggression and fled to France. A true story, actually, though he’d been tempted to invent some nonsense to please his audience. It was a memory he was particularly fond of, so why not let Jean-Claude and the others imagine him as an excitable boy of five, rather than the gentleman with the greying hair who sat awkwardly amongst them on these ridiculous cushions.

&nbs
p; It was the height of apple-picking season when we left the city for the fresh air of the countryside. As I rode through the orchard on my father’s shoulders in the amber light, I reached up to pluck a bright red fruit from the tangle of gnarled branches. Even after all these years, I can still feel the grip of my father’s strong hands on my knees, holding me steady as I grabbed the coveted apple. When I offered it to him, he’d laughed, and said it was mine for the keeping, so I polished it on my shirt and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. Never before or since has an apple tasted as sweet.

  A slim young man with dark, liquid eyes, whom Vidor privately called the Emirati Prince, let out a groan. But Jean-Claude reminded them that opening their hearts was an important part of healing. Bottled-up feelings, often festering for years, must be allowed to escape into the air. He cradled a brass bowl in his hand and struck it with a wooden mallet. When the high, clear note died away, he spread his arms and beamed at them. I embrace you, I embrace you all.

  Vidor had a vision of the group as actors in a play and Jean-Claude as their director. When the curtain fell on their tableau, surely he would drop all this ‘clouds and leaves’ nonsense and scuttle back to his room to light a contraband cigarette, relieved to have escaped their greedy attentions.

  Across from him, an older woman, with an air of hauteur, held tightly to a black handbag as she rose to her feet. Vidor turned to see the Emirati Prince smirking at him. A vein pulsed in Vidor’s temple, and he clenched his jaw. Good grief, would this session never end? Every cell in his body urged him to flee. Run, run. But where could he go? As far as he could make out, he was a prisoner here.

  7

  Gessen’s pulse quickened at the sight of a letter from the Bispebjerg Hospital in Copenhagen, balanced on the stack of morning mail.

  Dr Anton Gessen, MD

  Clinique Les Hirondelles

  Saint-Odile, Switzerland

  4 November 2008

  Dear Dr Gessen,

  I am writing to provide an update on the status of Mr Tobias Nielsen, aged 71, who was admitted to Bispebjerg Hospital on the evening of 22 October of this year, in serious but stable condition, following an assault that took place at Rosenborg Castle.

  At the time of admission, Mr Nielsen was non-responsive, with a superficial head laceration and a contusion to the left temple. When he regained consciousness (about two hours later), we recorded a Glasgow Coma Scale score of 13. He was held for observation for two days before being released into the care of his daughter.

  Three days later, after complaining of headache and nausea, he was readmitted to the ward. A CAT scan revealed an intracerebral haemorrhage in the posterior fossa. Following surgery to repair the bleed, Mr Nielsen lapsed into a coma, with a GCS of 4. During the subsequent days, his condition continued to deteriorate.

  This morning, at 6.32, Mr Nielsen was pronounced dead.

  It is my understanding that the man who attacked Mr Nielsen is receiving psychiatric treatment at your clinic in Saint-Odile, Switzerland. Since this case now concerns a capital offence under Danish law, I expect the municipal authorities will shortly bring charges against Mr Kiraly for either grievous bodily harm or manslaughter.

  If Mr Kiraly is charged in absentia, and his case is considered a forensic one, the courts will likely allow Mr Kiraly to continue his treatment at your clinic, pending a diagnosis. Under Danish Penal Code 69 (see enclosed), he would need to receive a diagnosis of ‘diminished responsibility’ or ‘temporary psychosis’ to continue receiving medical treatment at a recognised facility. Otherwise, Mr Kiraly will be subject to sentencing under Danish criminal law.

  I hope I have sufficiently informed you of the circumstances to date. I have passed your contact details to the metropolitan police in Copenhagen, and they may be in contact with you for additional information.

  Cordially yours,

  Henrik Larssen, MD

  Bispebjerg Hospital, Copenhagen

  Gessen smoothed out the letter and placed it in Vidor’s file, absently lining up the stack of documents as he digested this turn of events. Bad news, indeed. Not only for Mr Nielsen and his family, of course, but for Vidor, as well. Proving diminished responsibility would not be easy now. Not when he had pages of case notes from Ursula’s sessions with Vidor describing his insistence that he was perfectly fine, and that the attack on Mr Nielsen was an unfortunate consequence of low blood sugar and nervous exhaustion.

  Such a flimsy defence would not keep Vidor out of prison. The psychotic rage observed in amok syndrome might work as a diagnosis, though Gessen had little to base it on. If Vidor’s violent outburst was due to something organic, like temporal lobe epilepsy, he could build a case around that, though Vidor had no history of seizures. Vidor’s only hope was to stop pretending he was fine and allow his doctors to explore his past, something he’d adamantly resisted with Ursula. Of particular interest to Gessen was the repressed trauma that surely lurked below the surface of Vidor’s polished demeanour. Time was of the essence, and if his unwilling patient refused to cooperate, Vidor was looking at a murder charge.

  * * *

  Gessen stood in the centre of the Persian carpet, scanning the contents of his office to confirm that everything was in order. The polished mahogany desk was free of paperwork, and the dove-grey curtains were drawn against the morning sun. Between the two wingback chairs, a potted yellow orchid lent a tropical note to the otherwise neutral decor. On the far wall, the single piece of artwork, a watercolour of mountains and sky, was intentionally bland. The work of turning inward to excavate the mind required minimal distraction.

  A knock on the door, and Vidor was ushered inside by his personal attendant, a bright-eyed young man from Krakow, fresh from his trainee programme in Bern.

  ‘Professor Kiraly.’ Gessen crossed the room to offer his hand. ‘I am Dr Gessen. Welcome to Les Hirondelles.’

  Vidor’s grip was dry and cool, and Gessen studied his face, hoping for a spark of recognition from either one of them. But now that he’d seen Vidor up close, it was clear they were strangers to each other. Had he imagined it, that flicker of familiarity? He gestured to one of the chairs.

  ‘I trust you’ve settled in by now,’ he said, sitting opposite Vidor, ‘and I apologise for not meeting with you earlier. I find our guests feel more comfortable when given a chance to settle in before starting treatment.’ He waited in the silence. ‘I presume Dr Lindstrom explained that to you when you arrived.’

  He had assigned Vidor the Adagio Suite in Chalet Est, the largest on the grounds where Vidor could, if he chose, watch the sun rise over the mountains. The dawn at Les Hirondelles was a moment of sublime splendour, if one rose early enough to take it in.

  Vidor examined the objects in the room, starting with the row of books on the shelf behind Gessen’s desk and coming to rest on the orchid on the table. ‘I’ve settled in quite nicely, thank you,’ he said, his voice laced with irony. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might believe I’d been spirited away to an exclusive resort for the idle rich.’

  ‘Spirited away?’

  ‘Didn’t your Dr Lindstrom tell you?’ Vidor discreetly coughed. ‘I have no memory of my arrival here. I woke to find myself in one of your chalets wearing strange clothes.’ He gestured at the loose blue tunic and tan trousers. ‘My wallet and wristwatch were gone.’ He paused. ‘My passport, as well.’

  Gessen suppressed a flicker of surprise. He stood to retrieve the file on his desk and extracted two sheets of paper. The clinic’s admissions form and a document from the hospital in Copenhagen confirming the transfer to Les Hirondelles. ‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’

  Vidor blinked at the papers and shook his head. His air of befuddlement seemed genuine. ‘I don’t remember signing these.’ He handed them back. ‘Dr Lindstrom mentioned something about an incident in Copenhagen. But whatever it was, I feel perfectly fine now.’ He smacked his chest in a parody of health.

  Gessen eyed his patient with interest. Unless he was lying
, Vidor appeared to be suffering from retrograde amnesia. Not unusual following a trauma, but the fact that he claimed no memory of his arrival, while appearing completely lucid, was odd. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you do remember?’

  ‘Could we have some air in here?’ Vidor tugged at his collar. ‘It’s very stuffy.’

  Gessen opened the window. A gust of wind with a hint of dying leaves ruffled the papers on his desk. Vidor leaned forward and sucked the fresh air into his lungs.

  ‘Would you like to lie down?’

  ‘No, I’m perfectly well.’

  ‘Let’s start with Copenhagen.’ He returned to his seat and picked up his pen. Vidor’s pallor was worrisome, and Gessen wondered if he might faint. ‘What were you doing in the city?’

  ‘I was there to receive an award.’

  Gessen pointed to the documents on the table. ‘How did you end up in hospital?’

  ‘I suppose I must have passed out.’ Vidor’s eyes shifted to the window. ‘I remember rushing to Heathrow to catch my flight. There was no time to eat anything before boarding. In fact, I’d had nothing since breakfast, and that was just coffee and a roll. I was met at the airport in Copenhagen and driven straight to the venue. Rosen… something.’ He frowned at a dark speck on his sleeve. ‘I remember seeing the Crown Prince. A handsome man. Rather impressive in his full regalia. My name was announced.’ He paused. ‘I climbed up to the dais.’

  ‘And after that?’ Gessen tried not to stare, but he wanted to catch every flicker of the eyes or twitch of skin.

  ‘After that… nothing.’ Vidor straightened his shoulders. ‘Until I woke up here.’

  Very odd indeed, Gessen mused. He scratched a note on his pad. From a clinical perspective, Ursula’s account of meeting Vidor in Copenhagen and organising his transfer to Les Hirondelles was unremarkable. According to her description of the trip, the patient had been lucid, cooperative, even friendly. Relieved, by all accounts, to be discharged from the hospital in Copenhagen. ‘Very charming’ were the words she used. Where had those memories gone? Though perhaps they’d never been stored. Lost to time in the aftermath of damage to the brain. A minor bleed, perhaps, or a seizure.