The Double

by Ann Gosslin

  Gessen removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I realise this is difficult for you to take in, but the first stage in getting well is acceptance. Please humour me for a few more minutes. I’ll play the rest of the video, to see if anything strikes a chord.’

  In spite of the burning anger lodged in his throat like a fist, Vidor was riveted by the image on the screen. The man who was Vidor but not Vidor spoke in the voice of a shy and frightened adolescent. In excellent and nuanced French, he told the story of growing up in a dusty village. The searing days and freezing nights. How he was given away at birth. The person on the screen, man and child in turns, who was Vidor but not Vidor, spoke of how he’d dreamed of two things: that his father would die, and his mother reclaim him. But as he grew older and neither came to pass, he turned his face to a different horizon, towards the mythical city of Paris he’d learned about in school. He understood that if he worked hard, he might qualify for a scholarship to pay for his university fees in the great city to the north. It was a way out. A dream and a yearning for another world that softened the harsh reality of his circumstances.

  * * *

  Vidor jerked awake and rubbed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? He was startled to find himself seated on a chair. Across from him, a man with wiry black hair stared at him intently. He could have sworn he’d been running through a maze of streets, his worn sandals kicking up dust, and his heart beating like a captive bird in his chest.

  ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  The man, whose name he now remembered – Gessen, Dr Gessen – looked at him kindly. ‘Not quite, but we’ll get to that later.’

  54

  Gessen waited until Vidor was safely escorted back to his room before reading again the letter he’d received that morning. Another nail, apparently, in Vidor’s coffin.

  Cambridge, UK

  6 January 2009

  Dear Dr Gessen,

  I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time, but my life has been rather hectic these past few months, and in Professor Kiraly’s absence I’ve taken on a number of administrative tasks in addition to my own research. The rest of my time has been spent trying to convince the Home Office to allow me to stay in the country. It was just last week that I finally received the welcome news that my visa will be extended for another year. Who knows what will happen when it expires, but for now I can rest easier and return my focus to my studies.

  When Professor Kiraly won last year’s Søgaard Prize, everyone was thrilled. It was a great achievement for him as an individual, but also a coup for the department and the university. There was much talk of him winning the Nobel at some point in the near future. But after the prize ceremony in Copenhagen and Professor Kiraly’s breakdown, some things came to light that made me question his contribution to the breakthrough which led to him being awarded the prize. Professor Kiraly received the award for his work on sensory processing, and communication between the cortex and thalamus. That’s also the area that Hisham had been working on under the direction of Dr Tritter. It’s not my own area of research, but it’s similar enough for me to have known it was in direct competition with the work in our lab.

  About a month ago I was looking for reprints of a paper Professor Kiraly authored, and in the bottom of his desk drawer, shoved in the back, I found one of Hisham’s lab notebooks. Hisham mostly wrote in English, but this one had margin notes in Arabic. Quite a number, and many with exclamation points, so I take it Hisham was excited about some of his findings and wanted to keep them private. I don’t read Arabic, and as far as I know, neither does Professor Kiraly, so I took the notebook to a Palestinian friend of mine who’s a student in the Physics department. After he translated the notes, I was disturbed to find that much of Hisham’s data provided the key to solving the last piece of the puzzle Professor Kiraly had been trying to crack in his own work.

  I am not suggesting that Professor Kiraly stole Hisham’s research. In the scientific disciplines, much collaboration is involved, and there is frequent sharing of data. However, such a coincidence, combined with the fact that the lost notebook had been mixed up with Professor Kiraly’s papers seemed odd to me. Perhaps I suffer from an overactive imagination. Make no mistake, Professor Kiraly is a brilliant scientist, but the accomplishment he was recognised for may not be solely his. I have a meeting tomorrow with the Chancellor to discuss my concerns. Though I can’t predict how this meeting will go, he may suggest contacting the awards committee about a possible infraction. Worst case scenario, they might rescind Professor Kiraly’s award, but I do hope it won’t come to that.

  Kindest regards,

  Farzan Rahimi

  55

  In the morning, Vidor was outraged to learn from Dr Lindstrom that he wouldn’t be discharged as requested. How typical of Gessen to send a woman to do a man’s job. What did Gessen think, that he’d attack him? Even worse, she had hinted that the police were interested in questioning him again about Ismail’s death. Apparently, new evidence had come to light that pointed to foul play. Those words, foul play, straight out of a bad detective novel, were clearly a sign of an overheated imagination.

  But two could play at this game. If Gessen was determined to hold him hostage here, emergency measures were needed. He might even have to take a hostage of his own. That Babette woman would certainly enjoy the drama, assuming her Munchausen’s shenanigans weren’t enough to attract the kind of attention she craved.

  His mind skittered along a narrow precipice as he considered the possibilities. Storming out the main gate and boarding a train bound for the UK wasn’t an option. Upon admission to the clinic, he’d handed over his passport and credit cards. He also needed Gessen to certify he had been mentally unstable at the time of the attack on that man in Copenhagen. Otherwise, he would be faced with an assault charge, or worse. Had he really died as Gessen claimed? Vidor can’t remember now what he’d been told, though surely the man wasn’t dead. Gessen only said that to frighten him. Sweat broke out on his neck, and he clawed at his collar for air.

  On his way to his room, he spotted Hélène in her fur hat and dark green parka, making her way to the bench by the statue of swallows in flight. She might come to his aid, and he hurried to intercept her. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  She looked up, startled. ‘Are you all right?’

  His eyes darted about. Every fibre of his being urged him to run. ‘I need your help.’ He took her arm and steered her in the opposite direction of the main building and towards the far end of the property. He’d spotted an isolated chalet there once, hidden behind a dense stand of fir trees. He was certain it was empty. They could hide out in there until he figured out his next move.

  If Hélène refused to help him, then drastic measures were called for. He could hold her hostage in the chalet, or threaten to burn it down, unless he was provided with passage home and absolved of all responsibility for the events in Copenhagen. He cursed the day he’d been given that award. It should have been the crowning pinnacle of his career, not the gateway to an unimaginable hell.

  When they reached the chalet, he looked back to see that the trees had closed in behind them. The snow was piled high on either side of a recently cleared path that led to the door. The shutters on the front windows were fastened and no smoke rose from the chimney. All signs pointed to a vacant building. He hurried her up the front steps, dragging her by the arm. ‘Ouch, you’re hurting me.’ Fear flashed in her eyes.

  ‘I won’t harm you,’ he said, pushing her through the unlocked door and into a dim foyer. ‘But I need to get away from here. I can’t get Dr Gessen… he doesn’t understand that I…’ He grabbed the edge of a table and gasped for air. ‘If I don’t return to my life, I’ll die here.’

  ‘You’d better sit down.’ She led him to a chair at the end of the hall. ‘Try to breathe. You’ll feel better in a minute.’

  He didn’t think he’d ever feel better, and certainly not in a minute. What a stupid measure of time. Tick-tock. In a min
ute there is time… for decisions and revisions… Was he going mad? His thoughts buzzed with the fragments of a poem he’d read long ago.

  The front hall of the chalet was shadowed in darkness. There was a telephone on the table and he caught Hélène eyeing it. ‘Don’t touch it. Not until,’ he coughed raggedly, ‘I’ve come up with a plan.’

  With snow piled up to the window ledges, and no wind, the chalet was eerily quiet. A perfect place to negotiate his release. He could fasten the shutters and barricade the door. Clearly no one had been in here for months.

  ‘Do you mind if I turn on the lights?’ Her voice had lost its tremor. Surely now, seeing how desperate he was, how impossible it was to remain here for another day, she would help him get away. Having been a patient for so long, Hélène must know more than anyone how it felt to be trapped, year in, year out, on this godforsaken mountain. A permanent psychiatric patient at the whim of whatever diagnoses and drugs that trickster Gessen might throw at you.

  Without waiting for an answer, Hélène strode down the hall and switched on the lights in the kitchen and began to unload the contents of a straw bag on the counter. Eggs, milk, butter, bread in a paper sack. A bunch of carrots and a sack of potatoes. After putting away the food, she lifted a red enamel kettle from the hob and filled it with water.

  ‘I don’t know what’s upsetting you, but I’ve always found that a cup of tea works wonders.’ She rummaged in the cupboard. ‘I have chamomile, peppermint, and lemon verbena. Or black tea, if you’d rather.’

  While waiting for the kettle to boil, she set up a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, and a blue-patterned bowl of sugar cubes. He was puzzled by all this activity and looked around in growing confusion. When he’d hustled her through the front door, he had the idea they were entering a disused chalet, or even a storage facility. It was too far away from the clinic’s other buildings to house any patients, and the private residences of the staff were clustered around the sprawling manor house. He couldn’t imagine what this was. Although as Hélène moved into the next room to turn on the lights and adjust the curtains, he noticed the window ledges were filled with plants. A piano stood in the corner. Two sofas, upholstered in a slate-grey fabric, faced a stone fireplace. On the walls hung reproductions of paintings one might see in a museum, except their quality was exceptionally fine, and the colours so exquisite, he sensed they weren’t reproductions at all.

  He passed his hand over his eyes, expecting the earth to crack open and swallow him whole. Gessen was right. He was mad as a hatter. What other explanation could there be to explain how reality had morphed into a slippery beast, impossible to grasp. When he opened his eyes, Hélène was carrying the tea tray over to the seating area in the living room. She placed it on a low table by the sofa and stooped to examine the mottled leaf on a lush green plant with waxy leaves. For a moment, he forgot all about his plan to hold Hélène hostage, though she made the perfect bargaining chip for getting him back to Cambridge.

  She slapped her hands together as if wiping off dust. ‘Why don’t you have a seat, Vidor. You’ll feel much better after a cup of tea. I’ve brewed a pot of the lemon verbena. It’s very soothing, and perfect for a wintry day.’ She poured out the tea and settled in the corner of the sofa. ‘Come join me. I won’t bite.’ Her eyes shone with mischief.

  As he sat beside her, it was easy to picture the excited young girl she once was, with her whole life before her. It occurred to him he didn’t know a thing about this woman. Nothing but rumours and wild speculation. He looked around for the quilted Chanel bag with its supposedly gruesome contents, but there was no sign of it.

  ‘What is this place?’

  Hélène cradled the teacup in her hand. Her slim fingers looked naked without her rings. ‘This is my home.’

  ‘Your home? I don’t…’ It made no sense, unless she was eligible, as a long-term patient, for special privileges. Even if that were true, he couldn’t believe any patient ill enough to be a resident here would be trusted with kitchen knives. Especially since the house was tucked away in the trees and out of sight of the clinic. ‘You live here?’

  ‘Yes. I live here.’ Her eyes gleamed like a child with a long-held secret. With the sleeves of her sweater pushed up, her wrists were exposed. No monitor. He squeezed his eyes shut. Had she managed to cut it off?

  ‘Vidor? Still with us?’ She fluttered her fingers before his eyes. ‘I thought you might have guessed long ago. Though given what the others say about me, it would be easy to think otherwise.’ She sucked in her breath and let it out slowly. ‘I’m not one of Dr Gessen’s patients. I’m a private individual, and this…’ she waved her arm to take in the room, ‘is my home. It has been for many years, long before Dr Gessen came on the scene.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t understand. What about the baby who died, and the doll you carry around in that bag of yours?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Her lips twitched into a smile. ‘That’s one bit of fun that got out of hand, I’m afraid. Actually, it was Anton’s – Dr Gessen’s – idea. When I sold him the property for the clinic, at a below-market rate I might add, we made a deal that I would not only be allowed to remain in my home, but also have use of the clinic’s facilities during the periods I was here. In the early years, I wasn’t here very often. Mainly a few weeks in summer and during the Christmas holidays, but three years ago, I sold my flat in Geneva, and this house became my primary residence. As I grew older, I began to see the advantages of having year-round access to the spa facilities and excellent dining.

  ‘Dr Gessen felt it best to concoct an explanation for my enduring presence here. So we came up with the story that I was a chronic patient who required extended care. From time to time, when I left the clinic to travel or visit my children, he would tell people, if anyone asked, that I had gone off to a specialist clinic in Germany, say, or France, for more intensive treatment.’

  A wave of dizziness nearly knocked him flat. Hélène wasn’t a patient? How was that possible, when all this time he’d thought… The deception was outrageous. What else was Gessen lying about? More than ever, he was sure he’d stumbled into the lair of a madman. Where left was right and up was down. Nothing he’d seen or heard while here could be counted on as real.

  ‘You have children? But the picture of those models you showed me in that magazine. I thought…’ He pressed his palms against his eyes. A dull ache beat at the back of his skull.

  ‘You’d better lie down,’ she said. ‘You’re positively green about the gills.’

  They’d been speaking French, and it took Vidor a moment to realise she had switched to English. With an American accent at that. He dropped his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. What was going on?

  ‘You poor man.’ She refilled his cup and handed it to him. ‘There’s no conspiracy. And I never actually lied to you, did I? Nor to anyone else, for that matter. People only see what they wish to see. When the others find me eating in the dining room or taking part in the meditation and bodywork classes, of course they assume I’m just another patient. Though one with special privileges, perhaps, as I’m not dressed in the clinic-issued clothing, and I’m allowed to wear my jewellery.’ She paused, as if expecting him to interrupt.

  ‘And that business with my Chanel bag…’ She held up her hands and smiled. ‘What can I say? It started out as a bit of mischief, to make me look like a genuine kook, but as things do, it got out of hand. Once the rumour spread that I kept a doll in there I believed was my dead child…’ She tossed him a wry look. ‘Yes, I’ve heard the story. It became so entrenched that I couldn’t stop carrying the damn thing around. I’d dug my own grave, so to speak.’

  He stood on wobbly legs and made an awkward circuit of the room, briefly touching a brass bowl, a glass vase full of lilies, and fingering the curtain fabric, before collapsing back on the sofa. He stared at her helplessly. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Would you like to hear my story?’ She leaned back into the
sofa cushions. ‘It’s a familiar tale, the world over. When it comes to love, we’re all fools. None more foolish than a sheltered young woman eager to cast off the bonds of family, and hopelessly naïve about the ways of the world.’

  He pressed his hands to his eyes. What was she going on about? Some fairy story she wished to tell him? He was in no mood to hear about a princess who lived happily ever after.

  ‘I’m not sure whether anyone uses the word “heiress” anymore,’ she said, fiddling with the gold locket around her neck. ‘But that’s what I was. You won’t have heard of it, I don’t imagine, but in the early years of the twentieth century, my grandfather founded a department store in the American Midwest. At the time, nobody thought much would come of it, but he was clever at business and within a few short years his store became hugely successful.

  ‘My father later took it over, but when he died, rather prematurely at the age of fifty-two, the business was sold and the money left to me. A shrewd man, he included in his will a sternly worded letter encouraging me to use the money for the public good, and a warning to steer clear of fortune hunters. But I was a stupid girl of nineteen, cooling my heels at a finishing school in Switzerland, and desperate to break free from parental bonds.’

  Vidor opened his eyes and squinted at Hélène. An American girl. An heiress. Such were her acting skills, he would never have guessed. She poured out more of the sweetly aromatic tea that brought back memories of a walking holiday in France. The bright lemon scent created a funnel in time he could pass through, and for a moment he was confused. Not sure anymore where – or who – he was.

  ‘When word got out about my inheritance,’ Hélène said, ‘it didn’t take long for the wolves to come sniffing at my door. The most persistent of these was an impossibly handsome and charming man, with sleek chestnut hair and beguiling brown eyes. You’d recognise his name if I told you, but I prefer not to speak of him. Some people claim you can summon the devil himself by speaking his name aloud, so let’s not take any chances.’ Her eyes crinkled. ‘Anyway, we had a whirlwind romance, a lavish wedding, a glamorous honeymoon and parties galore. Of course I was too smitten and starry-eyed not to realise he had no money of his own. When the first of my three children was born, I wanted them to have the best in life, so no money was spared in raising them, though my Midwestern Calvinist heart quailed at the extravagance of our lifestyle. My father had drilled into me the idea that the two pillars of a good life were hard work and giving back to the community.