The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  He scrunched his brow, wondering if there was a way to game this thing. ‘Wet.’

  ‘Blank.’

  ‘Paper.’

  ‘Iron.’

  ‘Magnet.’ A spot on his left foot itched. This was ridiculous, being reduced to a lab rat. Though it was probably no worse than the sensory integration experiments he put his test subjects through. Asking them to identify a scent or sound while he flashed a series of words or colours on a screen, their scalps studded with electrodes. But such experiments were meant to elucidate key neural pathways in the brain. This ludicrous exercise felt like two children playing a game of pat-a-cake.

  ‘Broken.’

  Fatigue weighed down his limbs. ‘Bones.’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘Gone.’

  On and on they went through the list of words. There was no rhyme or reason to them, no pattern he could discern, though he’d always been more of a numbers person. Analysing data was his strong suit. The gears in his parietal and frontal lobes clicking into place as he worked through a series of equations and algorithms. But as his muscles relaxed, he gave himself over to the sound of Dr Lindstrom’s well-modulated voice and lilting accent, until the rhythm of the words took on the cadence of a lullaby. Never a good sleeper, he could imagine sinking into a deep slumber, her cool fingers soothing his brow. Not a lover’s touch, but a maternal one. His own mother had been dead for thirty-five years, but in Dr Lindstrom’s soothing voice she seemed to rise again.

  ‘Dry.’

  ‘Desert.’

  ‘Bird.’

  ‘Caged.’

  On and on, until it felt as though they’d been trapped in the little room for days. As fatigue turned to exhaustion – when had he ever felt this tired? – the painting on the wall appeared to take on a three-dimensional form. An oblong shape pushed out from the canvas and beckoned to him. A portal. His body slipped its bonds and levitated above the couch for a few moments before floating towards the aperture, just large enough for him to slip through.

  On the other side, he caught a glimpse of paradise. That enchanting word, Persian for garden, and the paradise arrayed before him was indeed an enticing garden of delights, shimmering and dancing in the sun. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of orange blossoms and rose petals, rejoicing in the sound of water splashing in a fountain. A dark-haired woman in a white robe appeared from behind a pomegranate tree and held out a slender hand. Her green eyes beckoned. Come.

  In a strangled voice he called out Ummi! and stumbled forward to meet her.

  ‘Mr Kiraly?’

  Dr Lindstrom leaned over him, peering into his face with a frown. ‘Are you all right?’

  He struggled to sit and fell back. ‘I’m sorry, what? I must have… nodded off.’ He squeezed his head in his hands.

  ‘It is rather warm in here.’ She touched his shoulder. ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’

  Her face swam in and out of his line of vision. Water, yes. His throat was inexplicably parched and his head ached terribly, as if he’d been travelling through a scorching desert under the noonday sun. She unfastened the shutters and opened the window to let in the mountain air, damp and cool as water from a spring. When he looked at the painting, the blood still pounding in his chest, it was flat and innocuous. Nothing but a few lines slashed in chalk. The garden of earthly delights was gone.

  12

  As he waited on the platform at the tiny station in Saint-Odile, Gessen studied the printed itinerary provided by his assistant. Assuming no delays, he should arrive in London shortly after midday. In his carry-on bag, he’d tucked the folder of Vidor’s case notes to review on the trip, though doubtful he’d find anything he hadn’t spotted before.

  He’d gone over the transcripts from Vidor’s sessions a dozen times. Searching for clues or a break in the rambling narrative where Vidor betrayed himself in a lie. But each retelling of his family history spooled out like finely spun thread. Too smooth, Gessen felt, his fingers tingling like antennae, each time he listened to the polished replies. On Vidor’s home ground, with any luck, he might dig up something to shatter the illusion of the perfect life his patient insisted upon.

  * * *

  A ray of sun broke through the clouds as the taxi turned into Camden Road, a tidy street of terraced houses, and slowed to a stop in front of number 29. The white paint on the window frames was showing signs of age, but otherwise the Georgian house, with its glossy black shutters and bright red door, looked well cared for. In a round clay pot on the doorstep, a profusion of orange and yellow asters bloomed, and the box hedge bordering the front garden was trimmed with surgical precision. Someone must be looking after the place while Vidor was gone.

  A striped cat with protruding hip bones and a feral look lurked in a corner of the garden, its yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion as Gessen passed through the front gate. He wondered if this was the cat Vidor mentioned in the letter he’d written to a woman named Magdalena Bartosz. It was clinic policy to have a quick look through any patient’s letters before they were posted from the village. A breach of privacy that made Gessen uneasy, but he’d been forced to institute the practice a few years ago when a written cry for help from a Russian oligarch’s son brought a SWAT team to the clinic’s front gates.

  He brushed a bit of lint from the lapel of his coat before mounting the steps and pressing the bell. Schools would be out for the day, but there were no sounds of children in the road. Nothing but the twitter of sparrows and the faint hum of tyres on a distant street. When no one answered, he pressed the bell again. Such was the scarcity of knowledge about Vidor’s life, Gessen had no idea whether or not he lived alone. The seconds ticked past, and as he turned away, disappointed to have struck out so soon, the door swung open. A solidly built woman with dyed blonde hair coiled in a bun, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Is this the home of Professor Vidor Kiraly?’

  She crossed her arms with a proprietary air. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘My apologies, madam, for not introducing myself.’ He made a slight bow. ‘My name is Dr Anton Gessen. Professor Kiraly is currently under my care, and I was hoping to have a quick look at his home and surroundings.’ Natural habitat was the more accurate term, but that might sound eccentric to this suspicious woman. Even though it felt like it at times, Vidor wasn’t a forest creature he was studying in the wild.

  ‘Does Professor Kiraly know you are here?’

  He hesitated. ‘I have his blessing to look around.’ A half lie. Surely if he’d asked, Vidor would have consented. But he couldn’t worry about that now.

  Her stern expression relaxed. ‘In that case, you may come in, Dr…?’

  ‘Gessen.’

  She stood aside and invited him through. ‘I’ve been so worried about Vid— um, Professor Kiraly, I mean.’ Her cheeks reddened. ‘Nearly a month since his collapse and not a word. I telephoned the college, but they will not tell me anything. Confidential, they said, and I am not anyone. Not family, I mean.’ She blushed again. ‘Only the housekeeper.’

  Her English, though fluent, was marked by a distinctive accent. Polish would be his first guess. Or perhaps Romanian.

  As he stepped into the hall, she grew flustered. ‘I am Mrs Bartosz.’ She extended her hand. ‘Magda. I don’t know where my manners are. Would you like tea? I have only just now put the kettle on.’ She ushered him into a sunny kitchen with two large sash windows overlooking the garden. The cat slunk in behind them, and Magda clapped her hands. ‘Scat,’ she said, chasing it out the back door. ‘Professor Kiraly loathes that animal. I don’t mind it myself, but he is always threatening to put poison out if it keeps coming into the garden.’

  Interesting, Gessen thought. In his letter to Magda, Vidor had written, Don’t forget to feed the cat. If he didn’t tread carefully, she might grow suspicious and clam up.

  ‘Cats give him the… how is it called? The willies?’ Magda was saying. ‘Not just this one. All cats.’ She shook her head as
one might when speaking of a misguided child. ‘He thinks they have… secret knowledge, like mysteries of the universe, maybe. And if cats had thumbs like people,’ she waggled her hands, ‘they would rule the world. Szalony. No?’ She tapped her forehead, though her smile was quickly followed by a frown. ‘What kind of doctor did you say you are?’

  Gessen met her eye. ‘The ordinary kind.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ She flushed. ‘I thought maybe you were one of those, you know,’ she twirled her finger by her ear, ‘and here I am saying that Professor Kiraly is not right in the head.’ As she talked, she set the tea things on the table. ‘You do not mind if we sit here? Or maybe in the garden, if it’s not too cold? When Professor Kiraly isn’t here…’ her voice trailed off. ‘He is fussy about his things, so when I finish cleaning, I have my tea in the kitchen.’

  She sat heavily in the chair and poured out two cups. He hadn’t noticed before, but the kitchen was spotless. The counters, cooker, and fridge all gleamed as if new. Not a smudge or a fingerprint.

  ‘This is a lovely home.’ Gessen stirred sugar in his tea. ‘To be honest, I was expecting the charming but chaotic household of a man who spends all his time in the lab, or with his nose in a book. Forgive me for prying, but do you live in?’

  She clattered her cup in the saucer. ‘I am not a live-in housekeeper, no. But I come every day after Professor Kiraly leaves for the college. I clear the breakfast dishes and tidy up. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I am here all day to do the whole house. Top to bottom. He likes a clean house. Everything in its place. Not so strange in someone like him, no?’ She leaned in and whispered. ‘A brain scientist. Very organised, very neat.’ She smiled shyly. ‘Not that I understand what he does.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘But I hear he is like… genius, you know? Such an honour, his prize.’ Her face clouded over. ‘A shame what happened. Poor man. Too much excitement, maybe? Too many people. Cameras flashing. Bright light gives him headache. Did he tell you?’

  Bright light, headaches. Gessen made a mental note to look more closely at possible epilepsy. When he’d finished his tea, he pushed back his chair and moved to the window. ‘Lovely garden. Is that your handiwork, as well?’

  ‘Oh, no. I know nothing about flowers… except… to look at them. A man comes once a week to tidy the garden and fix anything broken. I think maybe Professor Kiraly’s mind is too much on his work to think about the business of living.’ She gestured at the room. ‘He does know you are here?’ A frown creased her forehead. ‘A very private man. I do not like to think you come here without his permission.’

  He assured her once more of his good intentions. After she filled the sink with water to soak the dishes, she dried her hands and turned to face him. ‘You are a nice man, I think, so maybe I tell you this. A letter came from him a few days ago. He said he was fine, and I must not worry, except... ’ She plucked the yellowed leaves from a potted geranium and dropped them in the bin. ‘Before this trouble… he sometimes said things like how the Russians want to kidnap him. Silly, no? If he is ever in danger, he said he will send me a note with secret message. Anything about a cat means he’s been kidnapped.’ She straightened the kitchen chairs. ‘So I can’t help but worry…’

  Gessen tried to keep a straight face. If he smiled at such foolishness, she would likely march him to the door. But he wasn’t surprised. Mild paranoia in someone like Vidor, who appeared to have repressed an enormous swathe of his psyche, was not unusual.

  He made a slight bow. ‘I will do my very best to get Professor Kiraly back on his feet.’

  Magda folded the tea towel and hung it over the sink. ‘I show you the rest of the house, then, though there is not much to see. Many years before this, I was housekeeper for another professor. His wife was artist of some kind, and the house was…’ she waved her hands. ‘How do you say, a shambles? So stressy for me. I never knew what they want, with everything higgledy-piggledy. Books everywhere, big round cushions for sitting on floor. No telly. The man would not allow it. And the children… oof… like wild animals.’

  In Vidor’s house, chaos was not an issue. Neat as a pin, quiet as a sepulchre. Spare, minimalist furnishings in the lounge. Plain wooden floors and slatted blinds on the windows. A taupe sofa and matching armchairs. Nothing on the walls except for two black-and-white photographs of marshland, geese flying overhead. No bevelled mirrors or crystal chandeliers. Not a single silk lampshade or porcelain tchotchke. For some reason, he’d imagined Vidor’s tastes would be more epicurean. The little he’d mentioned of family life in Budapest hinted at servants, velvet settees, crystal decanters, a grand piano. All left behind in the scramble to flee the Soviet tanks.

  He left Magda in the kitchen and climbed the stairs to find more of the cheap flat-pack furniture in the bedroom, decorated in the style of a Marriott off the motorway, circa 1984. Beige curtains. A carpet the texture and colour of porridge. On the nightstand, a travel-sized clock ticked the minutes away. The only odd note was the heavy brass bolt fixed to the inside of the door. Did Vidor lock himself in at night? Against what, or whom? The neighbourhood seemed innocuous enough. It wasn’t as if bands of thieves and cutthroats were menacing this quiet corner of Cambridge.

  He stepped into the bathroom to peek in the medicine cabinet. So much you could learn about a person by what they kept in there and how it was arranged. A steel razor and packet of extra blades. A bar of yellow soap from a Cambridge shop, still wrapped in paper. Gessen lifted it to his nose and sniffed. A faint scent of sandalwood and myrrh, reminiscent of an Eastern bazaar. A glass and toothbrush. A bottle of aspirin. No other drugs that he could see.

  He pulled open the curtains and looked down into the garden where the feral cat was sunning itself on the flagstones. Gessen turned away to examine the room, so silent he could almost hear the house settling on its foundation. The abode of a solitary man, alone in the world. No photos of family, at least none that he’d seen. No evidence of the four sisters, or the beloved mother and heroic father. What of them? Their likenesses must be immortalised somewhere. Perhaps in a photo album tucked away in a cupboard. Or had a family rupture occurred sometime in the past? Vidor once let slip that his eldest sister had emigrated to North America long ago, but it wasn’t clear whether he’d meant the States or Canada.

  His father was long dead, apparently, if Vidor had told the truth. And if his mother were still alive, she’d be in her late eighties, at least. Vidor alone, tout seul, as if he’d sprung from the bowels of the earth, with no ancestors or history behind him.

  When he pushed open the door of Vidor’s study, he stopped dead. In contrast to the rest of the house, it looked as though a cyclone had blown through. Books and paperwork were spilled across the desk in a chaotic jumble. An open drawer was bursting with folders and thick with papers. A quick search through the files revealed nothing of interest. At the sound of a creak on the stairs he yanked his hand away, slicing his thumb on a jagged piece of metal. Blood flowed from the cut, but with nothing else to staunch the bleeding he hastily pressed a Post-It note against the wound.

  As he backed out of the room, a square of stiff paper stuck behind the bookcase caught his eye, and he crouched down to tease it out. A snapshot, yellowed with age, of a small boy in leather sandals and short pants standing on an outcrop of reddish stone, squinting in the sun. Vidor as a child? Then why tuck it away in such an odd place?

  With a start of recognition, it reminded him of a similar photo of a boy he’d found while snooping in his father’s study, having come across a jumble of black-and-white prints shoved in a drawer. As an excitable five-year-old boy, he’d been thrilled to uncover that cache of photos. So mysterious and alien, the desolate landscape, compared to the dappled sunlight and flowering trees of his own neighbourhood. In some of the photos, grey-faced women and children huddled in the sooty light, posed against a series of low buildings in the background.

  Innocent of their nature, he’d been captivated by these tableaux, as he gazed
into the eyes of the children, sensing that the pictures were old, and that the children would be all grown up then. He’d pocketed one of the photos, that of a boy his age, in short pants and with grubby knees. Dark hair and vacant eyes. He had the snapshot still, if for nothing other than a reminder to keep the memory of that nameless boy alive.

  Magda marched into the room, arms crossed over her bosom, severe as the guard at a sacred temple. ‘Professor Kiraly does not allow anyone in here.’

  He hid the photo behind his back. ‘Is it always this untidy?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have never seen it like this before. Mostly, it is very neat. But the day he leave to accept his prize, he turned this room upside down looking for something. His plane ticket, I think, or maybe his speech? Later, on his way out the door, all in a fluster, he says something about a notebook with a dark green cover. If I find it, I am to take it home with me for safekeeping.’ She looked around at the mess. ‘I never did find the green notebook, and it gives me much pain to see his things like this. But God help me if I touch anything.’ She made the sign of the cross. ‘He would have my head on a plate.’

  Gessen backed away, hoping she wouldn’t notice him tucking the photo into his back pocket, or the bleeding cut on his thumb. ‘Please don’t think I was snooping,’ he said, stepping into the hall. ‘I’m merely trying to get a sense of Professor Kiraly’s life before his collapse. We don’t know what’s wrong with him yet. Or why he hurt that man in Copenhagen, but certain details about a person’s life can provide important clues.’

  ‘What kind of clues?’ Her pencilled brows rose.

  ‘Diet, daily habits, medications. Potential allergens or toxins. He doesn’t keep any poisons in the garden shed that you know of?’

  ‘Poison?’ She shook her head, looking chastened. The mention of poison always did the trick, though she’d already let slip Vidor’s threat to exterminate the cat.

  ‘What about health problems. Did he ever talk about feeling unwell?’