The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  A twitch about the eyes.

  ‘So you were worried about him, before his collapse?’

  ‘Oh, no. He was in fine shape.’ It had grown uncomfortably warm in the narrow hallway, and she pulled a tissue from her sleeve to dab her face.

  When they returned to the safe ground of the kitchen, Magda’s relief was palpable. They stood awkwardly for a moment before Gessen said, ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Bartosz.’ He noted the tense set of her shoulders, the nervous flick of her eyes. She was hiding something. If only he had more time, he might get her to open up, perhaps spill the secrets only a housekeeper knew. But if he didn’t leave now, he’d be late for his appointment at the college with one of Vidor’s students. Perhaps this Farzan Rahimi would be more forthcoming.

  13

  For such a glorious day, unusually warm for mid-November, the quadrangle at St Catharine’s College was oddly deserted. A trio of sparrows pecking at the gravel provided the only sign of life. Though not the type to yearn for idle pursuits, Gessen felt a sudden desire to hire a punt and drift down the Cam through the falling leaves and dappled sunshine.

  It was far too lovely to sit inside a stuffy office and interrogate some unwitting student about the minutiae of Vidor’s life. But duty called and having stopped at the Porter’s Lodge to announce himself, he couldn’t back out now. Mr Rahimi was expecting him any moment. He checked his watch. Vidor should be in his session with Ursula now and he wondered how she was getting on. Ursula excelled at drawing out even the most obstinate patient. Under her skilled ministrations, Vidor might finally loosen the stranglehold on his thoughts.

  He headed across the wide expanse of lawn to the opposite corner of the quadrangle. Inside the vast hall, he paused to breathe in the stone-cooled air, his mind flitting briefly to his own student days at the Sorbonne. A different place and time, but the cool and musty atmosphere, suffused with the weight of history, smelled oddly the same.

  Up two flights of stairs and down a long dim passage, he paused to check the names on the doors as his feet tapped on the floor, polished by years of academics pacing the halls, and with centuries of intellectual sweat and toil steeped into the wood. He knocked on a closed door and waited, but all was silent. Pushing it ajar, he peeked in to see a thin young man hunched over a computer terminal, eyes fixed on the screen, furiously typing.

  ‘Mr Rahimi?’

  The man jumped like a scalded cat.

  Gessen stepped inside and introduced himself. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Mr Rahimi pushed the hair off his forehead and blinked. ‘Not at all.’ He rose from the chair and studied Gessen with his dark, intelligent eyes. ‘I was lost in my work.’

  Gessen smiled. ‘Of course you were.’ He took in Mr Rahimi’s slight form and the bluish tinge under his eyes. Didn’t they feed them at the college? Or perhaps his meagre bursary obliged him to live on tea and stale buns. His mind rushed ahead to fill in the blanks. A bad habit, difficult to break, of assigning an imagined life to someone that probably had little to do with their real one.

  ‘It’s no problem, I knew you were coming. And please call me Farzan.’

  An international student, hailing from Iran, his perfectly enunciated English was tinged with an Edwardian lilt.

  ‘Shall we go to a cafe?’ Farzan grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall. ‘Much nicer than sitting in this stuffy room.’

  Indeed, the little office was cramped and dark. This wasn’t a social call, but it would be a shame to waste the mild weather. ‘Lead the way.’

  Their footsteps echoed as they clattered down the stairs and into the sunshine. Gessen had never been to Cambridge, and everywhere he looked he saw something to please the eye. The autumnal sun glazed the magnificent stonework, and the neatly clipped lawns, an enchanting emerald green, appealed to his sense of beauty and order. He could understand why Vidor had chosen to spend his entire academic career here. Undergraduate, graduate, lecturer, professor. It would be difficult to move away from hallowed grounds such as these, with their hidden quads and sacred halls, steeped in history. Though an unwavering commitment to a single place, Gessen reminded himself, could also be a sign of rigidity or fear of change.

  As he followed Farzan out of the cloistered quadrangle and into the town, he couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of the gossip circulating amongst Vidor’s students and colleagues. The words ‘nervous breakdown’ were surely being bandied about. A nonsense term in medical circles, but a handy description when speaking to a layperson. He glanced at the young man by his side, brow furrowed, head bent, likely devising an algorithm to explain the impenetrable processes governing the brain. More philosopher than scientist, Gessen held fast to his belief that the human mind, unfathomable in its mystery, would forever resist being described by a series of equations.

  They threaded their way through a busy street thronging with shoppers and students weaving like mad on their bicycles, before ducking into another courtyard where their footsteps rang out pleasingly on the stone. Tables were set out in a sunny corner, perhaps for the last time this year, before the cold weather drove everyone indoors. The tables were empty, except for the one closest to the cafe where a girl in a long skirt and knitted cardigan was bent over a book, oblivious to their presence.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Gessen asked.

  ‘No, you are my guest.’ Farzan’s voice was firm. ‘They have excellent coffee here. Or tea, if you’d prefer.’

  Though a confirmed coffee drinker, Gessen decided on tea. After the two cups of excellent tea he’d drunk at Vidor’s kitchen table, it seemed unwise to make the switch to a more bitter brew.

  While Farzan ducked inside to get their drinks, Gessen surreptitiously studied the girl at the table nearby. Intent on her book, she hadn’t looked up when he and Farzan approached. If he were a young girl, dreaming away the afternoon, he might have been dazzled by Farzan’s film star looks, but she clearly had more serious pursuits on her mind. He tried, and failed, to catch the title of her book.

  Farzan returned with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits and scones. All very English, as one might expect, but now that they were out of the lab and in the fresh air, Farzan’s nervousness had only grown. When he picked up his cup, his hand shook, and his eyes flicked worriedly at the girl seated a few metres away. Twice he turned his head to glance behind him.

  ‘It’s terrible what happened to Professor Kiraly,’ he said, stirring sugar in his tea. ‘Everyone is worried about him.’ Farzan scanned Gessen’s face as if hoping to find clues to the fate of his advisor.

  Had Farzan seen the video of Vidor’s very public breakdown? Probably everyone in the college had seen it by now. It was a terrible violation, and he cursed the person who’d posted it online. Privacy was becoming a thing of the past. What kind of world was it when you couldn’t fall apart without the whole of humanity watching?

  ‘He’s doing well,’ Gessen said, mindful of doctor–patient confidentiality.

  ‘Will he be returning to the college soon?’

  Gessen poured a splash of milk in his tea. ‘Difficult to say, I’m afraid, but it’s important that Professor Kiraly not feel pressured to return to his normal duties until he’s ready.’

  A thick-chested man, solid as a tank, in mirrored sunglasses and a beige windbreaker headed towards them. Farzan stiffened, like a concerned fox, ready to bolt.

  Gessen studied him over the rim of his teacup. ‘Forgive me for prying,’ he said, ‘but are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, it’s just that lately…’ He rubbed his palms on his jeans. ‘I’ve been feeling rather spooked.’ He turned to look behind him. ‘A bit paranoid, I know. But after what happened to Hisham…’ His voice trailed off.

  The man in the beige jacket, who’d paused to peer in the teashop window, ambled down the street and turned the corner. Farzan, visibly relieved, picked up a half-eaten scone, only to set it down again. His elbow knocked a teaspoon off the table
and the sound of it hitting the pavement was like a shot.

  Gessen studied Farzan’s face over the rim of his cup. What was he afraid of? He patted his mouth with a napkin. ‘Who’s Hisham?’

  ‘Another graduate student in the department. A nice guy. About eight months ago, he disappeared.’ He absently tore a paper napkin into shreds. ‘We were friends, but since he worked in a competing lab, Professor Kiraly didn’t like us talking to each other. He was afraid Hisham would pump me for information.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘Details about our lab’s recent data. But we never talked about our work. I knew better than that. I didn’t even know the research project Hisham was busy with. In the past couple of years, the work we were doing in Professor Kiraly’s lab was garnering all kinds of praise, and after learning he’d won the Søgaard Prize, a prestigious award worth a million in cash, he got really paranoid that another lab would steal our data and publish it first.’

  Gessen ears pricked up. ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘Not often.’ Farzan poured more tea into his cup. ‘But you do have to be careful. There’s a lot of pressure for funding, and some of these top brain researchers are like rock stars, you know? At least in our field.’

  Gessen spread strawberry jam on another scone and took a bite. Heaven. How he’d like to eat the entire pot with a spoon, just like a child. On the ground between the tables, a group of sparrows pecked at the crumbs on the cobblestones. ‘And how are you faring in Professor Kiraly’s absence?’ He couldn’t help but wonder about the boy’s emotional state. Though Farzan wasn’t his patient, he seemed distressed about something. ‘Do you go home often?’

  Farzan looked startled. ‘You mean to Iran?’ He shook his head. ‘No, never. I can never go back.’ He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ He lit one and turned his head to exhale a stream of smoke.

  The poor boy’s face was stiff with fright.

  ‘I did something stupid before I left. It’s nothing, really, but in Iran it’s punishable by death. I thought as long as I was here, I would be safe, but after the thing with Hisham…’

  Gessen waited, but Farzan fell silent. ‘What thing?’

  Farzan took a drag from his cigarette. ‘Like I said, he disappeared. I thought he might have been deported back home to Iraq, even though he’d received his notice of leave to remain, but the Home Office had no information on him. So I figured he’d been either kidnapped or killed, maybe by someone with a vendetta against the Kurds. But six months after he disappeared, I got an email from him with a photo of a mosque in the background. He said he’d returned home to Kurdistan in northern Iraq, and everything was fine. Sorry that he’d left in such a hurry and didn’t say goodbye. Something about a family matter or his mother being sick.’ He raised his head and looked Gessen in the eye. ‘But I don’t think Hisham sent that email.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ As Gessen studied the tremor in Farzan’s hand, the ghost of his old terror came flooding back. The wild hammering on the door late at night. The frantic flight to Switzerland by boat and train, all under the cover of darkness. His mother’s sudden disappearance on a rainy afternoon, not long after he’d been told his father wouldn’t be joining them.

  ‘We had a code word,’ Farzan said. ‘Something we came up with one night at the pub. Hisham wasn’t used to alcohol, so he was a bit, you know, loopy.’ He waggled his head. ‘His idea was that if one of us ever vanished, we should use a code word to signal we were in trouble, and another one that meant we were safe.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Mountain meant safe. Rock meant danger. I picked the danger word based on the name of a legendary bird in ancient Persia. So huge it could carry off an elephant in its talons. Terrified me as a child.’

  The girl at the next table closed her book and stood. As she tucked the paperback into her bag and buttoned her cardigan, Farzan grew silent and followed her movements with his eyes.

  Gessen drank the last of his tea and shivered in his thin jacket. The sun had gone behind a bank of clouds, and a chill wind chased bits of paper across the pavement. ‘What do you think happened to your friend?’

  Farzan lit another cigarette. ‘I suspect he was being followed. Someone broke into his flat while he was out and searched through his things. Nothing was taken, but…’ A breeze whipped his hair, and he stood to zip up his jacket. ‘There’s something else. Not long after Hisham disappeared, his computer was infected by a virus and all his data – three years of work – were gone. Poof, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Apparently, nothing was backed up on an external drive or saved on the server.’

  He exhaled a great plume of smoke. ‘The thing that bothers me most is that our code word meaning all was well didn’t appear in his email. Hisham’s not a British citizen, so the Home Office wouldn’t look into it. I called all the airlines to find out if he’d boarded a flight to Baghdad, but of course they wouldn’t tell me anything. Who am I? Not family, just a friend.’ He tamped out his cigarette and flicked it away. ‘Someone else sent that message. Someone who wanted him out of the picture for good.’

  Farzan gazed across the courtyard as if looking for a sign in the blocks of stone. ‘You asked me what I think happened to my friend?’ He looked straight into Gessen’s eyes. ‘I think Hisham is dead.’

  14

  Paris, France

  September 1968

  A lorry scoured by burning sands; a boat rocking in the wind; a night train trundling through the darkened countryside. Wind, sand, stars… on his journey to another world.

  On the sleeper train he shares a compartment with four other students on their way to the capital. They disembark at first light, and he walks through the vaulted station, nearly empty at that hour, dull-witted and stiff-limbed from the long journey that began in a dust-choked village and ended in the shining city of his dreams.

  His heart sings as he walks out of the Gare de Lyon and stumbles into the morning sunshine. Taxi touts vie for his attention, ‘Taxi, monsieur?’ But he shakes his head and drags his luggage towards the Métro. It would be nice to get his first look at the city by taxicab, but his bursary, while generous, won’t pay for such luxuries. Later, he’ll explore on foot, radiating out from the Latin Quarter where his student flat is located, in an ever-widening arc, following the snail-like spiral of the arrondissements, all the way to the twentieth.

  He’s been studying a map of the city for weeks and when he closes his eyes, he can picture the neighbourhoods and landmarks in his head. Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomphe, Montparnasse, Notre-Dame. Every one of these splendid architectural gems, gloriously here, on his doorstep, waiting to be discovered. For the first time in his life he understands what it means to be free. No more skulking about the menacing alleys, or dodging shadows under a brutal sun. No one knows him here. Cloaked by a glorious anonymity, he can wander the streets unmolested and alone.

  A few days later, still buzzing with the newness of his surroundings, he passes a cafe where tables crowd the pavement under a row of linden trees. A girl, sitting with two others, calls him over. ‘Have a drink with us, why don’t you?’ He freezes, terrified, but the girl’s smile and bright flaxen hair have a hypnotising effect on his fear. Before he knows it, he’s joined their table, and a glass of wine appears. He’s never drunk alcohol before, and the sharp taste comes as a shock.

  With its dark berry colour, he thought that wine would be sweeter, like nectar. But the second sip is better and the next one better still. And there he is, drinking a goblet of wine in the golden light, a true Frenchman at last. The spirits loosen his tongue, and their free-ranging talk slips and glides over the usual subjects: films and books and favourite authors. The girl with the flaxen hair, the one from Norway, smiles at him over the rim of her glass, while the dark-haired girl lights a slim cigarette and playfully blows smoke in his eyes.

  ‘So, where are you from?’

  He squ
irms. Should he tell them the truth? He has nothing to hide. And yet he hesitates, wondering if his newfound friends will look badly upon him, once he reveals his colonial origins. But the alcohol has made him reckless, and at the cusp of new beginnings, he is anxious to start off on the right foot, and to be honest and forthright in all things. So he tells them he is from the desert land across the water, a vast and unknowable place of dark shadows and blazing light.

  The blonde girl has gone pale. Realising his mistake he tries to improve the mood by raising his glass in an awkward toast. Santé. But the air around them has thickened into silence, and the moment is lost. When the girl looks at him, her eyes are wide with shock. To her friends she cries, Allons-y, grabs her bag and hurries away.

  A wave of shame crashes over him. What does she take him for, some kind of monster? Will he never escape the ruinous bonds that lash him to his fate?

  15

  Clinique Les Hirondelles

  Saint-Odile, Switzerland

  18 November 2008

  After an excellent luncheon of poached lake perch in lemon butter sauce and parsley potatoes, Vidor settled into a lounge chair in a corner of the rock garden with a view across the valley. A breeze carrying the sharp scent of pines from a nearby copse riffled the pages of his notebook. The only bright spot left in the garden was a spray of faded pink flowers from the rambling thyme clinging to the stones. Wrapped in a wool blanket against the chill, and sated from the noonday meal, he closed his eyes and prepared to doze. An excellent repast, though a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé would have been a welcome addition. A pity alcohol was forbidden. Even the coffee, he suspected, was cut with decaf.

  When a blast of gunfire rent the air, Vidor leapt from his seat, heart thumping. What was that? Another two shots followed in quick succession, and he flinched at the sound. Were they under attack? But the sharp reports, still ringing in his ears, appeared to be echoes from across the valley. Was it hunting season? He’d heard one of the staff mention it. The government-sanctioned culling of deer and chamois. Vidor loathed blood sports of any kind, and he felt a sudden kinship with those innocent and terrified creatures, gunned down for sport.