‘He was about to attack me, you know,’ Vidor said, warming to his role as victim. ‘He would have smashed my head on the floor like a pumpkin if I hadn’t defended myself.’

She sighed in sympathy. ‘I don’t know why they let him roam around the village. But these mountain men think they own the place. As if anyone from outside is an intruder – or a threat.’

As Vidor listened to her voice, his breathing slowed of its own accord, and his limbs grew heavy. Was he naturally tired, or had she put something in that juice she gave him? Never mind. The floating sensation was pleasant, and her voice a soothing whisper in his ear.

‘Tell me, did the man say anything to you? Had you ever seen him before?’

His lids fluttered, and he allowed them to close. ‘Something about the eyes. Something…’ As his mind drifted off, he struggled to stay awake. From a great height, he observed his own body stretched out on the couch, noting the shifting planes of his face and the laboured breath, as darkness descended like a veil.

‘I saw him once before,’ he said, his voice straining against the weight on his chest. ‘In Paris. A long time ago. Cold wind slicing through my skin. Shivering in my thin jacket, feverish, ill. A man with a face like thunder stepped out of a cinema and frowned at the darkening sky. It was the man who’d been stalking my nightmares for years. He lit a cigarette and hurried away. I followed him. When he stopped at a kiosk to buy a newspaper, I caught a glimpse of his hands, and the familiar silver ring. I tried to call out, but no words came. Just before he stepped into a taxi, he looked up at me, but showed no sign of recognition. Only after he disappeared down the street did my voice return. I knew who he was and cried out. Masakh! Khayin! But it was too late. He was gone.’

* * *

Ten minutes into the video of Ursula’s session with Vidor, Gessen nearly leapt from his chair. For a few seconds, Vidor’s face and voice underwent a dramatic transformation. A brief spasm altered his urbane, middle-aged countenance into that of a terrified boy. A split-second change brought on while recalling the memory of a man stepping out of a cinema.

He would have to confirm with a translator, but he would bet anything that the words Vidor shouted were not Hungarian.