The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  He was an excellent mimic, that boy, and quite a delightful person, actually, though painfully shy. Rather anxious about doing or saying the wrong thing. He arrived in Paris from a foreign country, though I can’t say which one, and it was clear to me that he was desperate to fit into our way of life. One night when Vida had gone out with his friends, our young lodger moped about the flat, almost as if he’d been abandoned. I’m no psychologist, but it was obvious to anyone who looked that the poor boy had never received much affection or love.

  Once, he seemed so bereft that I asked him to join me on the sofa while I watched a film on the television. Attentive as always, he made me a cup of tea and asked if he could do anything to help around the flat. Scrub the floors or run errands. Anything to make us happy. It did seem a little strange, this yearning to belong to our family, until he confessed this odd belief… that he and Vida were fated to meet, and that a power not of this earth had sent him to us. When I inquired how he knew this, he said it was a question of their names. Both Vida’s and this boy’s name meant, in their respective languages, the ‘happy king’.

  So strange, the memories your visit has unleashed! Almost as if the spool of time was rewound, and by merely closing my eyes, I can roam freely through the days and hours of forty years ago.

  If you are ever in Paris and would like to meet again, do remember to call on me.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mme Katerina Sovàny Chabon

  Gessen folded the letter and swivelled his chair to face the mountains. Avalanche warnings had been sent out earlier in the week, and some of the roads through the valley were closed as a precaution.

  The happy king. Vidor Kiraly. Malik Sayid. Easy enough to confirm after a quick search online of the Hungarian and Arabic translations. Two boys, mirror versions of each other. It must have seemed to someone in Malik’s fragile state a happy omen to have joined the household of someone whose name echoed his. A sign that it was possible to move forward in life, with the prospect of a bright future. To lay down the burden of the past and accept the mantel he’d been born with. The happy king. An admonition – or a benediction, depending on how he viewed his fate. And after the real Vidor disappeared, it might have seemed natural for a young man suffering from childhood trauma, and a disturbed sense of self, to step into the empty space left by the other boy’s absence.

  Perhaps Malik felt, in a convoluted way, that it was his duty to ensure that Vidor lived on, even if in a different form. To carry Vidor’s legacy to the lofty heights he might have reached had he not disappeared into the roiling waters of the Seine.

  And what of Malik Sayid? Who would miss him, who would notice or care if he were simply to disappear? A sewer rat, a bastard, rotten scum. A loathsome wretch from the colonies who dared to walk the streets of the shining city, the birthplace of Voltaire, Baudelaire, Renoir. What right did he have, born of an illiterate mother and a murderous father, to call Paris his home? But with the new mantle of a borrowed identity and the burnished pedigree of a survivor of Soviet oppression, he could walk with his head high, and construct the golden future that otherwise might ever be out of reach.

  Gessen laid down his pen, his fingers cramped from trying to order his thoughts and determine the next course of action. As outlandish as it seemed, it all made sense. Only now he would have to prove it. If he came out and accused Vidor of being Malik Sayid, Vidor would surely laugh in his face – show me the proof – and challenge Gessen to a duel of wills.

  50

  Gessen shut the curtains against the darkening sky, only to open them again a moment later, after experiencing a discomfort at being shut in, though the room was cheery enough with the fire in the grate and the tea tray on the table. The Christmas holiday had come and gone with little fanfare, apart from a special meal on the day itself. Yet he felt the usual post-holiday let-down all out of proportion to what was, after all, just another day in the calendar.

  For the first time in many years, since his early days as a practicing psychiatrist, Gessen experienced a flutter of anxiety before meeting with a patient. Now that he had documented proof that Vidor suffered from either a severely repressed or dissociative identity, it was time to inform him that this disturbance in his psyche was likely the cause of his violent outbursts. As a doctor, Gessen had an ethical duty to tell his patient what was wrong, to candidly discuss the reasons behind his diagnosis, and to present him with a treatment plan. But in the case of dissociative identity, the space between informing Vidor he had two personalities, unbeknownst to each other, and getting him to accept it was a yawning chasm he would need to bridge.

  If it was a case of a wilfully repressed identity, Vidor was either a very good actor or a sociopath. If unconsciously repressed, it would take a skilful treatment strategy to break through Vidor’s massively fortified ego defences. The revelation that he was someone else could lead to a catastrophic, and perhaps irremediable, breakdown. Gessen would have to tread carefully.

  To complicate matters further, if this truly was a case of dissociation, it could be argued that it wasn’t Vidor, but his alter Malik who was responsible for attacking both the man in Copenhagen and the local in the village. What these very different men might represent in Malik’s mind, Gessen was determined to discover, not only to hasten Vidor’s ongoing recovery, but also to prevent him from attacking other strangers in future. So far, the count was two, with one dead. Not to mention the ongoing, nagging suspicion that Vidor had played a role in Ismail’s death. At least the man in the village had declined to press charges.

  The deceased gentleman in Copenhagen was another matter. Unless Gessen could prove diminished responsibility, Vidor would be faced with a charge of manslaughter, or even murder. And few jurisdictions accepted a dissociative disorder as a mitigating factor in a plea of temporary insanity. Otherwise, it would be all too easy to say: ‘Your Honour, it was my alter ego who made me do it.’ Such a claim would not hold up in court.

  * * *

  Vidor entered the room, looking befuddled, as if he didn’t quite know where he was, but then his expression cleared and he was the same courtly, self-possessed, and wryly humorous man Gessen had known since their first meeting.

  After Vidor was seated, and coffee or tea offered and refused, Gessen waited a few moments, allowing the mood in the room to settle. Mathilde had placed a lit candle on the table, and the scent of orange blossoms filled the air between them. Gessen asked Vidor about his health and how he’d slept, but these were just delaying tactics. There was no getting around the fact he was obliged to impart difficult news. No patient wanted to hear he had a repressed identity or split personality. That he harboured more than one fully formed, and often vastly different, persona within a single mind, complete with different mannerisms, voices, and facial expressions. How Vidor would take the diagnosis was impossible to fathom. Denial would be the likely knee-jerk reaction. Or perhaps relief that at last a name could be pinned to his bewildering array of symptoms.

  Gessen leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. ‘We’ve made a great deal of progress together, haven’t we, Vidor?’

  ‘Progress?’ He blinked rapidly, as if trying to dislodge a piece of grit from his eye.

  ‘Yes. Since the unfortunate event that brought you here, you’ve made great strides. I know you found it difficult to talk about yourself, at first, or to allow me access to your memories.’ He paused. ‘It’s not easy to let a stranger peer at our darkest secrets. But your trust in me and your willingness to take the first difficult steps on the road to recovery have led to important insights.’

  Vidor’s gaze drifted to the window.

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  But his attention was fixed on something outside. Gessen turned to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there. Just the usual jagged peaks, softened by a blanket of snow.

  ‘I feel no differently than the day I arrived,’ Vidor said. A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Perhaps a trifle more res
ted and well fed, but as for my mood, or my personality, I feel the same as I always have.’

  Gessen tried to catch his eye. ‘Do you know why you attacked that man in Copenhagen, or the man in the village?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Vidor had yet to look directly at Gessen. ‘Though in both cases, I’m convinced it was simply a matter of exhaustion and low blood sugar. Or perhaps a momentary disturbance in my frontal lobes.’ He examined his fingernails. ‘In all this time, we’ve never talked about the possibility of epileptic seizures as a mitigating factor.’

  ‘Your EEG and brain scan in Copenhagen were normal.’

  ‘A normal EEG in and of itself is not sufficient to rule out epilepsy,’ Vidor countered.

  ‘Have you ever wondered,’ Gessen said, rising to close the curtains and shut out the mountains, ‘why those two men? Or those particular occasions? I believe you have no record of previous incidents.’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’ His face darkened. ‘I’m not a ruffian.’

  ‘What about the lapses in memory and the sleepwalking we talked about earlier? Or the feeling you once described of someone standing next to you, just behind your left shoulder. What do you make of that?’

  Vidor shrugged. ‘The brain shrinks as we grow older, and occasional memory lapses or quirks of proprioception are quite normal for someone my age.’

  Gessen made a show of mulling over these assertions, before launching into it. ‘I have another explanation,’ he said, keeping his eyes on Vidor’s face. ‘I only suspected it at first, because it’s quite rare. But all the evidence points to the same conclusion. And during our last session, the final clue fell into place.’

  Vidor crossed his arms over his chest. He looked placid, even bored.

  ‘While in a state of deep relaxation, you talked about your childhood. How you were born as a twin, and almost died, and were sent away to be raised by a woman in a nearby village. You mentioned what it felt like to watch your twin brother thrive under the care of your mother and sisters while you were cast aside. That your father was a monster who abandoned you to your fate as an outcast and a bastard, having accused your mother of having relations with another man, and insisting that you were not his son.’

  Vidor removed a piece of lint from his trousers. ‘Have you gone mad?’ His thin smile looked pasted on.

  ‘You have all the hallmarks of someone with a dissociative identity disorder,’ Gessen said, keeping his voice steady. No need to antagonise Vidor any more than necessary. If he stomped out of the room in a rage, it might take weeks to reel him back to a place where he would listen to reason. ‘Quite rare, but it’s definitely legitimate. It’s unfortunate that a few notorious cases have been misrepresented by the media. The condition typically arises after trauma as a protective mechanism. Childhood trauma in most cases.’

  Vidor’s face, cast in shadow, could have been carved from stone. ‘I experienced no trauma as a child.’

  ‘You lost your father at the age of six. I would call that a trauma.’

  Vidor’s chin jerked up, and the blood drained from his face.

  He must be wondering how this fact had come to light, Gessen mused, having fought so hard to hide the truth of his father’s betrayal.

  ‘Many children lose a parent at a young age,’ Vidor said smoothly, as if nothing were amiss. ‘Are you telling me that all of them grow up to have a split personality?’

  ‘Of course not. But on the face of it, it’s a perfectly logical defence mechanism. The traumatised ego…’

  Vidor held up his hands. ‘Spare me your jargon. Where’s your proof?’

  Proof he had, fortunately, in the form of a video of Vidor narrating memories that belonged to the boy named Malik. But a stalling tactic might be a better way forward. Cornering Vidor felt akin to stalking a fox. Best to hunker down in the tall grass and let the quarry come to him. Later, if all else failed, he would show Vidor the video of himself as Malik describing his memories in French. But not today. If it was a true case of dissociative identity, it would come as a shock. But if Vidor was fully conscious of his deception, he would prevaricate and bluster. Or claim, for instance, that he was just having a bit of fun. If Gessen’s tactic backfired, it could set Vidor’s recovery back by months.

  ‘Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?’ He retrieved Vidor’s file from his desk and flipped it open. ‘Periods of amnesia, and what you’ve referred to as sleepwalking, may not have been sleepwalking at all, but your other personality controlling your nocturnal habits. For example,’ Gessen consulted the yellow pad, though it wasn’t necessary. Such was the unusual nature of Vidor’s case that every detail was etched in his mind. ‘You’ve told me that there were a couple of occasions when, having gone to bed early and slept deeply, you entered the kitchen in the morning to find a half-drunk cup of cocoa on the counter, or an empty packet of biscuits. Yet, you’ve previously claimed not to have a sweet tooth and mentioned your dislike of cocoa. Perhaps, after considering the possibilities, you decided it was a simple matter of sleepwalking. A perfectly plausible explanation why you couldn’t remember these activities when you woke the next morning.’

  He flipped to another page in the file. ‘A regression to a childlike state during times of stress could explain your hankering after sweets, but I believe my explanation is a better fit. In which case, you didn’t go to sleep at nine o’clock at all. At that time your other personality would emerge. This other personality, more nocturnal than you, as Vidor, would make hot cocoa, eat a packet of biscuits, watch television, and perhaps go for a late-night stroll through the neighbourhood, before going to bed at one or two in the morning.

  ‘It would explain why you might have felt tired the next day, even after an early bedtime, or discovered mud on your shoes when you remembered cleaning them before turning in. “Vidor” is a man of regular habits, who keeps a tidy home and eats dinner at seven and goes to bed at nine-thirty, while your alter is more slovenly. Perhaps, we might even call him angry or rebellious. He prowls the house at night or wanders the neighbourhood. Tracks mud into the front hall, leaves the television on and indulges in sweets, while Vidor has been cautioned by his doctor to watch his sugar intake.’ Gessen waited half a beat. The air in the room had grown stale. ‘How would you explain it?’

  Vidor’s mouth flattened into a thin line. ‘What you’re saying is preposterous. I am not two people. I am one person. Professor Vidor Kiraly, chair of the Neurobiology department at Cambridge University. Who happens, I readily admit, to suffer from bouts of tiredness and mild anxiety from time to time. Who occasionally sleepwalks at night. It’s a known phenomenon, often exacerbated by stress, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you.’

  ‘But let’s say for the sake of argument that you did have a twin, or a double,’ Gessen said, plunging on. ‘Who would he be? Someone exactly like you, or your polar opposite? Someone capable, perhaps, of killing a stranger. A stranger he’d mistaken for someone else.’

  ‘Killing a stranger…?’ Vidor’s expression was stony. ‘I’ve done no such thing.’

  ‘I’m afraid you have,’ Gessen said. ‘I refrained from telling you earlier because I didn’t want the shock to interfere with your recovery.’ Vidor’s face had gone white. ‘That man you attacked in Copenhagen suffered a severe head injury. Shortly after being taken to hospital he fell into a coma. Three days later, he died.’

  When Vidor spoke his voice was flat. ‘I am not responsible for that man’s death. Nor do I have a twin, or have I ever entertained such an idea. Are we finished? I have a monstrous headache and would like to return to my room and lie down.’

  51

  Paris, France

  May 1969

  He spends all day at the Jardin des Plantes. The stale croissant and bitter coffee he bought from a kiosk did little to quell his hunger, and he wanders with an air of dejection into the great hall of the Natural History Museum. The skeletons of dinosaurs and mastodons rear above his head, and he consoles
himself with the thought that the lifespan of earth is finite, and soon he will be dust. Along with all the other creatures who have come before him. Dead, mort, mayit. Millions of years, dead. That should be enough time to cleanse him of his sins.

  A few minutes after four, he leaves the park to wander the city. At least the air is balmy and the skies clear. Perhaps, as the weather warms, he will take to sleeping on park benches, anything to avoid the disgusting room he’s rented in a slovenly quarter after being tossed out of the Sovàny’s flat. He misses the lovely mother and sisters. The boy who’s turned tyrant doesn’t merit a thought.

  All he has waiting for him is the sour-faced drunk who patrols his domain like an ogre, sometimes banging on the bedroom door in the middle of the night. Sale Arabe! Filthy Arab. The man can’t get in, not when the door is barricaded with a chair. But loss of sleep and the terror of being murdered in his bed have worn him out. Some days he feels he’s going mad.

  His bursary ended with the school term, and his money is running out. He’ll have to find a job for the summer. Cleaning floors, or schlepping carcasses at the butchers. It would be nice to get a gig on one of the bateaux mouches that cruise the Seine. Out on the water, and away from the streets, where he tramps alone day and night, perhaps he’ll find a measure of peace.