by Ann Gosslin
‘According to eyewitness reports,’ Gessen said, consulting the file, ‘you attacked a man at the back of the lecture hall. He was badly injured and taken to hospital by ambulance.’ For now, Gessen would not tell Vidor the man had died. It would only make things worse, and as Vidor’s doctor, his first job was to address two questions: what caused him to attack a stranger, and what was the chance he would do it again?
‘Attacked a man—?’ Vidor leapt clumsily to his feet. ‘Preposterous. I’ve never harmed anyone in my life.’
Faced with Vidor’s sudden anger and spluttering denials, Gessen felt again a wave of déjà vu. A conviction, stronger now, that the two of them had met before. There was that medical conference on Neurology and Psychiatry in Paris a few years back. Could they have passed each other in the congress centre or stood in the same queue at the coffee bar?
Gessen had downloaded from the internet the scant information on Vidor he could find. A refugee from the 1956 Hungarian uprising, who’d spent his childhood in Paris before moving to the UK to attend university. Gessen had lived in Paris during his student years at the Sorbonne. Their paths could have crossed while Vidor was in the city between terms. A student cafe, a film festival, or simply passing each other in the street. Whatever it was, he couldn’t shake the feeling they had met somewhere before.
‘Please sit down, Vidor.’ Gessen smiled, hoping to return their discussion to an even keel. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Vidor, do you? It will facilitate our work together if I can address you by your first name.’
‘Our work together?’
In the silence that followed, Vidor fiddled with the black plastic strap on his wrist. Ursula would have explained it was an electronic monitoring device required of all the patients, but perhaps that detail, along with his other memories, had failed to stick.
He met Gessen’s eyes. ‘Am I a prisoner here?’
‘A prisoner? Whatever gave you that idea?’
Vidor pointed at the black wrist monitor and his clinic-issued clothing.
‘The monitor is for your own safety. Heart rate, blood pressure, and sleeping patterns are transmitted electronically to your personal medical file. And the clothing… Is it not to your liking? In the many years I’ve been running this clinic, I’ve found that it’s easier for our patients to access their true selves when the need to cover and adorn their bodies is taken out of the equation. So much of our energy goes into the presentation we create for public view, wouldn’t you agree? Soon, you’ll appreciate the chance to strip all that away. The only personal item we allow patients to wear during their stay is their wedding ring.’ Gessen nodded at the gold signet ring on Vidor’s left hand. ‘Though I understand in your case…?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I only mention it because you didn’t provide us with an emergency contact.’
Vidor stiffened.
Gessen could imagine his thoughts, that neither his marital status, nor the provenance of his ring was anyone’s business.
‘Since I feel perfectly fine,’ Vidor said, in a clipped voice, ‘when will I be discharged? With a department to manage and a lab to run, I don’t have time to faff about in the Swiss mountains.’
As the silence grew, Gessen decided to call his bluff. ‘If you’re not satisfied with our services, Professor Kiraly, you’re of course free to go at any time.’ He abruptly stood. ‘I’ll have our admissions coordinator arrange for a car to take you to Spiez. From there, you can get a direct train to Bern or Geneva.’
‘I’m free to go?’ Vidor’s face brightened.
‘You have always been free to leave.’ In an attitude of dismissal, Gessen turned to pull a binder from the shelf.
‘In that case, I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.’
The sky had grown steadily darker, and a thunderclap punctuated the stillness. Fat raindrops clattered against the glass like a fistful of stones. Gessen hurried to shut the window. He’d been too intent on registering the nuances of Vidor’s facial tics to notice the change in the weather.
‘Before you go, you should know, however, that while you’re free to leave my clinic, resuming your old life will not be simple.’ He drew close to the glass to track the storm’s path as it swept across the valley. Rain pummelled the hills, and the wind thrashed the pines. ‘In all likelihood you’ll be charged with a serious crime,’ Gessen said, keeping his back turned. ‘Assault and battery, at the very least.’
He pivoted and caught the look of confusion on Vidor’s face. In time, Gessen would have to reveal the extent of the bad news. But if Vidor knew that he’d killed the man in Copenhagen, before Gessen could properly evaluate his case, he might be tempted to fake symptoms of psychosis as a means of claiming diminished responsibility.
‘Reinstatement of your position at the college is contingent upon my advice that you’re well enough to resume your duties.’ He moved to the desk and consulted Vidor’s file. ‘Since I most certainly cannot give such assurance to your Chancellor, you’ll have to find another way into his good graces. Would you like to see the letter?’ Gessen held up a sheet of ivory writing paper, with the gold crest of the university engraved on top.
Vidor’s face flushed. ‘I’ve got a lab to run and a grant proposal to write. Does he expect me to lounge around here in these glorified pyjamas while my rivals snatch a key breakthrough from under my nose?’
Gessen removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Some patients needed more time than others to accept they were ill. Getting to that point was often akin to hauling a bucket of rocks up a mountain. One arduous step at a time. ‘It’s not only your Chancellor keeping you here. There’s the more serious matter of the assault charge. There’ll be an arraignment as soon as you’re released.’
‘Assault?’ Vidor’s fury collapsed like a dead balloon. ‘But how can I be held responsible for something I can’t remember?’
‘So you claim. But that won’t hold up in a court of law.’ Gessen waited for this to sink in. ‘You need a doctor – a psychiatrist – to argue that you were not yourself at the time of the attack, and that your act of violence was due to diminished responsibility.’ He laced his fingers together. ‘As I’ve said, you’re free to go whenever you wish. But I hope you’ll see the value of staying on here.’
Rain lashed the windows. Far below, in the windswept valley, all was grey. For a moment Gessen had a vision of himself and Vidor as two strangers set adrift in a leaky boat, foundering at sea. He pressed a button on his phone to summon the attendant.
‘Take some time to think about it,’ Gessen said, noting the aggrieved look in Vidor’s eyes. ‘If you do decide to stay, I should warn you that our work together won’t be easy, and the outcome far from certain. Much will depend on you.’
8
Sheltering under the umbrella of a young man from Eritrea, who appeared to be one of his personal minders, Vidor retrieved from his inside pocket the scrap of paper he’d found next to his plate at breakfast.
In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself in a dark wood, for the straightforward path was lost. It is a hard thing to speak of – how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was – that the very thought of it renews my fear. – Dante, The Divine Comedy.
Vidor crumpled the scrap in his fist and tossed it in the shrubbery. If this was Gessen’s idea of a joke, it was anything but funny. The man was a charlatan. Feeding off the pain of the poor souls who washed up on his doorstep. Lost in the woods, my eye.
Anxious to escape his faithful attendant, who likely reported to Gessen in minute detail anything he said or did, Vidor ran up the steps of the chalet and slipped past the bearded chap at the front desk, with his nose stuck in a magazine, and into the common room. Empty, thank god. At least there was that. The last thing Vidor wanted was to be forced into small talk with the Emirati Prince while making a cup of tea. Something about the boy’s absurdly misplaced hauteur got under his skin.
On the wall near the tea and coffee station, four botanical prints provided the
only bright spot in the otherwise featureless decor. He leaned in close to read the names. Hornbeam, brimstone butterfly, candle snuff fungus, witch hazel. Brimstone butterfly. Candle snuff fungus? You couldn’t make this stuff up. If the prints were meant to be cheery, they sadly missed the mark.
The third inmate in the shared chalet was a weedy sort who never seemed to leave his room. At least he was quiet in his habits. Vidor tiptoed across the parquet flooring and pressed his ear against the door. Water running in the bathroom. Poor chap. Probably washing his hands again. Vidor could picture the phrase an unhealthy obsession with germs scrawled in the man’s patient file. How many hours of the day did he spend washing his hands?
The few times Vidor had seen him, scurrying from the chalet to the main building, he wore a surgical mask, and hopped along the slate path in an awkward gait to avoid touching any patches of grass. His meals, brought to his room on a tray by an attendant, were wrapped in plastic, having been nuked into oblivion, Vidor surmised, in a microwave. Before stepping away from the door, Vidor coughed twice. Mean and petty to be sure, but his first meeting with Gessen, and the shock of learning that quitting this place had consequences, had put him in a sour mood.
He hurried into his own suite and firmly shut the door. A pity there was no lock, a fact he found disturbing. He’d never been able to sleep properly in a room without a bolt on the door. But the information binder on the desk explained it was clinic policy for safety reasons, assuring him that the front desk is staffed round the clock for your comfort and safety. As if that was supposed to make him feel better. Each night, before going to bed, he took the precaution of pushing the heavy leather armchair against the door. He’d always been a light sleeper, so if someone tried to come in, at least the noise would wake him.
Relieved to be alone, he noisily expelled the air from his lungs. Peace at last. He dropped his satchel on the floor and stretched out on the bed. For a place that was essentially a hospital, the room was a pleasant surprise. A far cry from the scuffed linoleum flooring and metal-frame beds one might expect. Separate bedroom and living spaces, kitted out with sumptuous linens and furnishings, and a large bathroom done up in polished limestone. Though trapped here against his will, it would do nicely for the brief time he planned to stay.
On the wall opposite the bed, two paintings were hung, side by side. The one on the left, a watercolour seascape of a clutch of sandpipers – ten in total – chasing their shadows at the water’s edge. The other, a desert scene in gleaming oils, had a darker palette. Red rocks and blistering sands stretched to the horizon, seemingly empty. But if he squinted, he could just make out the hazy outline of a camel caravan, like a mirage floating on the horizon.
Vidor pressed his ear to the wall behind the bed. No sounds came from the other room, though at night he could sometimes hear the Emirati Prince, muttering and pacing, his bare feet slapping against the parquet. Not much else to do at night here if one couldn’t sleep. No internet or television or radio, nothing to distract them from the hamster cage of their thoughts.
A weariness fell over him like a shroud. While he could find no fault with the amenities, it was the free-floating unease of being a prisoner that made his heart tick oddly. All the luxuries in the world couldn’t make up for the fact that he was trapped inside the perimeter fence. Forced to undergo who knew how many more interrogations by this Dr Gessen. A man who appeared to enjoy the power of having Vidor’s fate in his hands.
The hourglass in his brain, that inexorable taskmaster, ticked away the minutes. How long would it be, before they let him go?
9
Gessen cleared his throat and posed the question again. It shouldn’t be this difficult to extract an answer, but however many times he asked Vidor about his family, the man spun and wove like a matador, shutting down in anger if Gessen even hinted there had been discord of any kind.
A vein pulsed in Vidor’s throat. ‘My father was a hero, and my mother a saint,’ he said, biting off each word. ‘You may doubt all you want, but that’s the truth.’
Gessen held up his hands, palms out. ‘I don’t dispute your description of their characters. But it would help to know more about your relationship with them. Jean-Claude tells me that in one of your Movement & Meditation sessions you mentioned a visit to an apple orchard. How you rode on your father’s shoulders and plucked apples from the trees. It sounds like a wonderful memory. Why don’t you share something similar with me? Or a few details, perhaps, about your early days in Paris.’
They were fifteen minutes into a game of chess. A tactic Gessen had hit upon after their last fruitless session as a means of tricking Vidor into revealing a snippet of memory from one part of his brain, while concentrating on the game with another.
The mountains, shrouded in mist, were framed by the half-drawn curtains. Earlier, Mathilde had brought in a tray of coffee and pastries and set them on the table. A homely touch designed to induce Gessen’s patient to drop his guard.
Vidor swooped in to capture Gessen’s queen. ‘Check.’ His smile was triumphant. ‘You want a memory? All right.’ He stared into the distance, as if trying to conjure the perfect anecdote to get Gessen off his back. ‘My first memory of Paris was the sound of the dustmen in our street.’ He sipped his coffee and examined the chessboard. ‘Our flat was on the first floor and with the windows open we could hear everything that went on in our little quarter. The greengrocer stacking the wooden crates on the shelves outside his shop. The knife sharpener pushing his bicycle with its squeaky wheel. Cats mewing around the fishmonger. It was a typical Parisian street.’
He looked at Gessen and sighed. ‘I assume you know the city? Though there weren’t so many cars in those days, and in our working-class neighbourhood, none of the elegance that people associate with Paris today.’
Gessen waited, his eyes on the chessboard.
‘Most of our neighbours were immigrants. Hungarian émigrés like us, along with Russians and Armenians, and other foreigners whose origins I wasn’t aware of. I was a child. Everything was new, everything was strange. But I do remember, after a time, being happy.’ He briefly closed his eyes. ‘Except for one thing.’ Leaning over the board, Vidor deftly executed the en passant move to evade capture of his pawn. ‘In our haste to get away, I was forced to leave a treasured toy behind. A tin soldier, of no value to anyone but me. I wept, heartbroken, until my mother promised she’d buy me a new one as soon as we were settled.’
Gessen let this sink in before moving his bishop to the only possible square, though it was clear he was cornered. ‘It sounds like you made a lucky escape,’ he said, avoiding Vidor’s eye. ‘All of you safe and sound in a new city.’
Vidor sighed. ‘My parents were happy to find a place of refuge, and we made a good life for ourselves.’
A pleasant enough story, but Gessen didn’t believe it for a minute. Any kind of move involved a level of disquiet, ranging from mild to the traumatic. Even more so when a family, running for their lives, was forced to leave behind everything they knew and loved. He studied Vidor intently under lowered lids as he waited for him to expand on the story, but Vidor, having claimed Gessen’s king with a crow of triumph, had shut the door on that particular moment in his past.
* * *
A week later, six intensive sessions had come and gone, and Gessen’s desperation to crack the mystery of Vidor’s affliction was growing by the hour. With surprising skill – or was it cunning? – Vidor had stymied every effort to unpeel the layers of his life. Time for a new strategy. For today’s session, rather than meet with Vidor in the clinical setting of his office, Gessen invited him into the adjoining sitting room. The intimate atmosphere and sumptuous furnishings in the style of a London club might just coax Vidor out of the defensive posture of a patient and into the belief he was Gessen’s equal. Two men sitting by the fire, talking about their lives.
In the glow from the flames, the two leather armchairs gleamed like chestnuts. On the far wall, framed oil painti
ngs of the Matterhorn and the Eiger, subtly lit, created an atmosphere of intimacy.
Gessen noted Vidor’s surprise at the richness of the room’s decor, and the sense, easy to presume, that a butler might appear at any moment bearing brandy and cigars. Which was exactly the point, to lull Vidor into a state of relaxation. In their previous sessions, Vidor had visibly stiffened when Gessen pressed him to talk about his family. Even now, despite the cosy setting, his neck and shoulders were tense, alert to whatever traps Gessen might have in store for him.
He motioned at the chessboard by the fire. ‘Shall we?’ As they settled in their chairs, he engaged in a few pleasantries about the weather and general queries about Vidor’s comfort before segueing smoothly into the pressing matter at hand. ‘We touched on your father the last time we spoke. He sounds like an interesting man,’ Gessen said. ‘Why don’t you tell me more about him?’
Vidor, his attention on the board, moved his pawn to e6, exposing his queen. A surprising move, but Gessen had learned to expect nothing but surprises from this puzzle of a man.
‘I told you about my father the last time.’
‘Ah, yes. The courageous man who led his wife and children to safety. An upstanding member of the Hungarian émigré community in Paris. Loving husband and father.’
Vidor’s expression soured. ‘Are you suggesting none of that is true? That all this time I’ve been lying?’
Gessen moved his pawn to f4. A deliberate mistake. If Vidor spotted it, in another two moves he would be in checkmate.
‘Not at all,’ Gessen said. ‘But the past can be a slippery thing, and as we grow older, we sometimes create stories to fit an idealised version of it.’ He met Vidor’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t call it lying, but it’s a natural, human instinct to protect ourselves from difficult truths or sad memories. In the short term, it can feel like a valid strategy. The problem is, those painful parts of our story never go away. They slumber in the deep caverns of the mind, until something happens, usually a shock of some kind, and they bubble to the surface. That’s when the real trouble begins.’