The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  He limps along the endless length of the Rue de Vaugirard, wincing at the throbbing blister on his heel, past throngs of students and housewives and businessmen enjoying the sun-kissed air. As he approaches a cinema, he slows to study the films on show.

  A few people trickle out of the theatre with a desultory air and blink like moles in the light filtering through the lindens. A strange time to see a film, he muses, on such a beautiful afternoon. But perhaps, like him, they are desperate to escape their lives.

  As he turns away, a man steps out of the cinema and tilts his head to look at the sky. In that instant, at 16:39 on 18 May 1969, the world as he knew it shatters into bits.

  A man steps out of a cinema. He can scarcely breathe when their eyes meet for a tantalising second then flick away. With a grim set to his mouth, the man lights a cigarette and exhales the blue smoke into the air. He glowers as he looks at his watch. Merde. Spits on the pavement, walks away.

  He follows. Sucking in air as his heart crashes against his ribs. When the man stops at a kiosk in front of the Pasteur Institute to buy a newspaper, he studies his profile. The aquiline nose, the flared nostrils, those agate eyes. How could it be? He’s supposed to be dead. But there he stands, jaw clenched, rage oozing from his skin, very much alive. A familiar silver ring, intricately carved, glints on the man’s finger.

  There’s the proof.

  He’s older of course. He hasn’t seen that face for nearly ten years. But he knows that face as if it were his own. Every line of the cruel visage is etched in his brain. The voice thick with venom. That villainous madman who’d tortured his mother. He was supposed to be dead.

  Blood pulses in his ears; his hands curl into fists. He longs to leap at the man’s throat and squeeze until his eyes bulge in terror.

  The man continues down the street, walking faster now. He follows, nearly running to keep up as the golem ploughs onward, weaving through the crowd, as if he senses he’s being stalked.

  He tries to close the distance between them without attracting attention. But the man is thirty metres ahead when he steps to the curb and hails a taxi. The look on his face is one of contempt. A dagger to the chest. His hands shake, he can’t breathe. As the man reaches for the handle of the taxicab, he begins to run.

  ‘Monster! Traitor! You’re supposed to be dead.’

  The man’s chin jerks up and they lock eyes briefly before he steps into the taxi and speeds away.

  He drops to his knees, gasping for air as the pavement spins and the world goes black.

  Hours later, when he comes to his senses, darkness has fallen, and he finds himself in a neighbourhood he doesn’t recognise. How did he get here? He touches the bloody cut on his chin. His palms are scraped raw. Tears spring in his eyes. So tired. He longs for home with the desperation of a child. That’s all he wants, all he’s ever wanted: to go home. But where? Where is that place? Not the land he’s fled, or the flat with the mean drunk. Nor any place on the earth he can think of.

  Katerina. So kind and sweet. She would take him in, he is sure of it, if only for one night. She’ll make him a cup of tea, soothe his fears, assure him that everything will work out in the end.

  But he can’t go back. If he were ever to see her or Rennie again, he would tell them his story, the one that is etched in blood on his skin for all the world to see. An unwanted, bastard child, tossed in the gutter and left to die.

  * * *

  For days, he wanders the city, roaming the streets at night, sleeping rough, a wretched, loathsome creature, pustular and dirty, fit for nothing but the abattoir. Each evening, from midnight to the hour of the wolf, he walks along the river, trying to work up the courage to throw himself into the roiling brown waters.

  Just after midnight, he stands on his chosen spot on the Left Bank. Beginning his journey at the tip of the Île de la Cité and heading west. Halfway to the Pont Neuf, he sees a scrum of rabble rousers. The lamplight glints off the hair of the boy in the center of the group, as he holds a wine bottle by the neck and dumps its contents on another boy’s head. ‘Plus de vin!’ he cries, grabbing a bottle out of yet another’s hands. Vidor.

  He hangs back in the shadows cast by the trees overhead and when the friends grow tired of their drunken revelry and disperse, Vidor continues along the river, talking to himself, or tossing back his head to howl at the moon.

  He follows, keeping out of the light. It’s clear his nemesis is very drunk, weaving amongst the trees and benches and stumbling on the cobbles.

  Keeping ten paces between them, they pass by the Musée d’Orsay and come to a deserted stretch of the river. Where is he going? Vidor whirls suddenly and squints into the darkness. ‘Who are you? Why are you following me?’

  He holds back in the shadows, waiting for Vidor to continue on his way. But the boy is two sheets to the wind and spoiling for a fight.

  Stepping forward, Vidor holds up the bottle. ‘Wanna drink?’ But then his face changes when he sees who it is, tracking his movements.

  ‘Connard. Bastard. What are you doing here? I told you to scram. Leave me and my family alone.’ He slurs his words, sways on his feet.

  ‘I just want to talk to you,’ he says. ‘I have no designs on your sister. I’d like to come back…’ He almost says home but knows that would only enrage this surly lad looking for trouble.

  The golden boy, master of the realm, stumbles towards him and swings, whirling comically when his fist fails to meet its target. That his adversary succeeds in evading the punch seems to enrage him. He stumbles and swings again.

  Having nimbly avoided the attack, he decides it’s time to flee. As his feet pound the pavement, certain he’s being pursued, he hazards a look back, but no one is there. No one and nothing but the dark river flowing inexorably towards the coast. He steps close to the edge of the embankment and stares into the rushing water.

  Has anyone seen him? If he returns to his room, it will mean waiting in fear for the police to arrive and take him away. Better to consign himself to the muddy waters than go on like this. He doesn’t belong here, not in this city of emperors and queens. Connard. Bastard. For nine months he’s been holding his breath, waiting to be found out.

  The great river surges through the darkness. He closes his eyes, feels the damp spray on his skin. How easy it would be to jump.

  52

  Clinique Les Hirondelles

  Saint-Odile, Switzerland

  4 January 2009

  At the sound of a knock on the door, Gessen dropped his pen and closed the file he was reading. ‘Ah, Libby,’ he said, when she poked her head through the doorway. ‘Come on in. I’ve got a few minutes before my next session.’ He stood and guided her to a chair. ‘Ready to head back to uni?’

  ‘More or less.’ Her normally bright eyes were cast in shadow.

  He followed her gaze to the window.

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘What I mean is, I wouldn’t mind staying on longer.’ She fiddled with a button on her cardigan. ‘It’s been such an eye-opening experience, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to observe real patients, and you and Dr Lindstrom at your work. I’ve learned more in six weeks here than I would from years in the library.’

  He nodded to the bound report on his desk. ‘I’ve already read your paper. You’ve done an excellent job.’ He stood and passed it to her. ‘I jotted a few notes in the margins. Have a look and let me know if you have any questions. I’ve also sent my feedback to your supervisor. I’m sure Dr Wakeford will be pleased with your efforts.’

  Libby took the report and flipped through it. ‘It’s been a fascinating journey,’ she said, tucking the report into her bag. ‘I do feel badly, though, about pretending to be a patient. Especially with Professor Kiraly. He seems like a nice person, though I was struck by his pervasive air of sadness.’ She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Have you found out why he attacked that man in Copenhagen?’

  Gessen demurred. Surely, she knew he couldn’t reveal the d
etails of Vidor’s case.

  ‘I wasn’t sure I should bring this up but…’ She hesitated. ‘Do you think he might have had something to do with Ismail’s death? I got the feeling there was something… a bit off between them. A simmering animosity. Perhaps they fought. Or Ismail insulted him, and Professor Kiraly…’ her voice trailed off. ‘I’m sorry. I know you can’t tell me, but I do hope I’m wrong.’

  He stood and adjusted the blinds to block out the sun. It would be a relief to confide his own suspicions about Vidor’s part in Ismail’s death, but it would be unfair to unburden himself on a student who was already questioning her role in duping the others by pretending to be a patient. A fox in the hen house. He assured her she had played an important part in Vidor’s recovery, and that the confidences from Vidor she’d passed on to him were things he would never have gleaned on his own.

  ‘I realise it might have felt unethical, at times,’ he said. ‘Deceiving the other patients. But please be assured it was all in service to their healing. Professor Kiraly was able to open himself up to you in ways he couldn’t with me, or Dr Lindstrom. You’ve made a tremendous contribution to his care.’ Her eyes were troubled, and he held her gaze. ‘Without your help, he wouldn’t have made the progress he has.’

  ‘So he’s getting better?’ Her face brightened. ‘He’s desperate to get home.’

  ‘I know that. But sometimes, Libby, the life we’re trying to get back to is just an illusion. The glossy carapace we create to conceal our inner pain. As you progress with your studies and begin to treat patients of your own, you’ll find that much of our work entails stripping that carapace away.’

  He laced his fingers together and regarded her with paternal sympathy, hoping she would take his advice to heart. Though he didn’t want to belabour the point, she seemed reluctant to leave, as if needing something more. ‘In humans, consciousness is both a gift and a curse,’ Gessen said. ‘We spend the vast majority of our time either agonising about the mistakes of the past or worrying about the future. Ever aware of our mortality, how do we construct a healthy life? How do we live, love, work when we know that obliteration awaits us at some unknown point in the future? Death might be decades away.’ He paused. ‘Or next week.’ He had her attention now. ‘Terrifying isn’t it?’ He tried to soften his words with a smile. ‘It’s no wonder we’ve invented all kinds of defences and distractions to avoid this one inescapable fact: that our time here on Earth is finite, and none of us gets out alive.’

  ‘That’s awfully gloomy. When you put it that way,’ Libby said, with a nervous laugh. ‘You’d think more people would put themselves out of the misery of waiting for the end.’

  ‘Many do.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t need to tell you that.’

  Her face blanched.

  Of course, she was thinking about the brother who’d hanged himself. It was Libby who’d discovered the body when she arrived home from school. A shy and sensitive girl of twelve, just embarking on adolescence, the experience could have destroyed her. But that early tragedy had spurred her on to learn about the human psyche and fostered a desire to help others construct meaningful lives in the face of existential terror.

  A shadow passed through Libby’s eyes.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Just that… I wish it wasn’t necessary to lie to him about who I was. He only confided in me because he thought I was a patient.’

  And not my spy. He leaned forward and met her gaze. ‘We’re all patients,’ Gessen said. ‘All of us. I myself have regular sessions with the analyst I’ve been seeing for years. Sometimes only two or three times a year, but when it’s time to meet with her, and take my turn on the couch, I am reminded how fragile we are. Even those of us who pretend to have all the answers.’

  When she didn’t respond, he searched for something to give her solace. ‘If you go on to qualify as a practicing psychotherapist, you’ll find there are hard choices to make with every patient. Ethical dilemmas will come at you from all directions. I once had a patient whose mother died while he was in residential treatment. He suffered from severe depression and had attempted suicide twice. I made the very difficult choice to wait until he was stabilised before I gave him the news.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Not well. He threatened to sue me for malpractice, furious I had denied him the chance to say goodbye or attend her funeral. But as his doctor, my loyalty was to my patient, not to a woman who was already dead.’

  From the look on Libby’s face, it was clear she would have told the patient about his mother.

  ‘About three years later,’ Gessen said, ‘the man sent me a letter, thanking me for saving his life. He mentioned that every year on his mother’s birthday, he would visit her grave to apologise for not being with her at the end. But also to tell her that I had rescued him from the depths of hell. I keep his letter in a file with the others I’ve received from patients over the years. They help remind me that some decisions, however difficult, turn out all right in the end.’

  She stood and gathered her things. ‘I should say goodbye to Dr Lindstrom. My train leaves at three.’

  As he walked her to the door, he glanced at her profile, and was struck once again by the slight but distinct resemblance to Sophie. If they had married, as he’d wanted until fate intervened, they might have had a daughter like Libby. Fiercely intelligent, brimming with life. She sometimes appeared in his dreams, this fictional daughter, as a vibrant soul with a forgiving heart. Someone he would never meet.

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said, walking her to the door. ‘I see wonderful things ahead for you.’

  When she was gone, he murmured the words he’d planned to say at the end of their meeting. But had changed his mind, finding them too heavy for the occasion. Of the oblivion that awaits us all, be not afraid. Stride boldly into the future.

  Choose life.

  53

  ‘I would like to show you a video recording of one of our recent sessions,’ Gessen said, as soon as Vidor was seated. ‘It might come as a shock, but it will make it easier for your therapy to progress. Once you see for yourself that a second personality is residing in your psyche, your real treatment can begin.’

  Begin? He thought they were finished. Vidor felt exposed, like a fox under a floodlight. What was on this video? Something embarrassing, no doubt. Footage that Gessen could use to humiliate him or as a form of blackmail. Knowing that a looming and ever-present threat hung over his head would ruin him.

  ‘We need only watch a few minutes.’ Gessen darkened the room and pressed a switch. A panel on the wall slid open to reveal a large screen. He clicked the remote control, while Vidor tensed in the chair.

  On the screen his face appeared in close-up. The camera zoomed out to show his whole body, seated in an armchair. Gessen’s shadowy profile was just visible on the left side of the frame. Gessen increased the volume until Vidor could hear the sound of his own breathing.

  In the video, the shadowy profile spoke. ‘I’d like to hear more of your story. Would you tell me your name?’

  ‘Malik.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Dix-neuf.’

  Malik. Nineteen. What the hell was this? The voice in the video was deeper than Vidor’s own, and he was speaking French. That was odd. He hadn’t spoken French in years.

  ‘Malik Sayid,’ said the man in the film, who looked like Vidor in most respects, though some kind of transformation had happened. His expression was slack and frightened, his posture awkward. In the film, Vidor held a pencil in his left hand and scribbled on a piece of paper. Vidor frowned. He was right-handed and always had been.

  In the video, Gessen asked, ‘Can you tell me where you’re from?’

  ‘I’m from a place called Al Madinat Almajhula, a small city halfway between the mountains and the sea.’

  Vidor reared up from the chair. ‘What is this? Some kind of trick? More of your mind games? That isn’t me. You’ve splic
ed my head onto someone else’s body and altered my voice, like they do in films. Any half-wit kid with a computer can do the same thing.’

  Gessen pressed pause. ‘It isn’t you, Vidor, you’re right about that. But I assure you it’s not a trick. I believe the person talking in the video is your alter, or other personality. At some point, not long after you moved to Paris to attend university, you met a boy named Malik Sayid. You may have been friends, or lovers perhaps, or even enemies. But I believe that this boy, Malik, played an important role in your life. I believe something traumatic happened to you, or to Malik, and that you somehow internalised his psyche, perhaps during a fugue state.’ He waited a moment before going on. ‘Does the name Vidor Sovàny mean anything to you?’

  Vidor shook his head.

  ‘He was a lycée student in Paris. Not long after he earned his baccalaureate in the spring of 1969, he vanished. Later, in the absence of a body or evidence of life, he was presumed dead by drowning in the Seine. How and when it happened isn’t completely clear, but I have my suspicions.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Vidor’s body felt heavy and dull. ‘I’m leaving here today. With or without your permission.’

  ‘Let’s watch a few minutes more. You’ll see it’s not a trick.’ He pressed the start button.

  In the video, Gessen handed the man in the chair, who looked less like Vidor than a terrible imposter, a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Could you write your name for me in Arabic, and a description of your family?’

  The man wrote for several minutes before handing back the paper to Gessen who held it up to the camera. Vidor started when he saw the loops and swirls of the Arabic alphabet.

  ‘I speak four languages,’ he said stiffly, ‘none of which is Arabic.’

  ‘You might not speak Arabic, but Malik does.’ Gessen extracted a file from a binder on his desk and handed Vidor a sheet of paper. ‘This is what Malik wrote. Can you tell me what it says?’

  The swirls and curlicues shimmered before Vidor’s eyes. A child’s scribble that meant nothing. He tossed the page on the table. ‘Is this some kind of monstrous attempt to drive me insane?’ He leapt from the chair and stomped to the door. ‘We’re all pawns in some elaborate game you’ve concocted for your own amusement.’