BooksBarbecue
Back The Double
Chapters (63)
  1. 1
  2. 2
  3. 3
  4. 4
  5. 5
  6. 6
  7. 7
  8. 8
  9. 9
  10. 10
  11. 11
  12. 12
  13. 13
  14. 14
  15. 15
  16. 16
  17. 17
  18. 18
  19. 19
  20. 20
  21. 21
  22. 22
  23. 23
  24. 24
  25. 25
  26. 26
  27. 27
  28. 28
  29. 29
  30. 30
  31. 31
  32. 32
  33. 33
  34. 34
  35. 35
  36. 36
  37. 37
  38. 38
  39. 39
  40. 40
  41. 41
  42. 42
  43. 43
  44. 44
  45. 45
  46. 46
  47. 47
  48. 48
  49. 49
  50. 50
  51. 51
  52. 52
  53. 53
  54. 54
  55. 55
  56. 56
  57. 57
  58. 58
  59. 59
  60. 60
  61. 61
  62. 62
  63. Acknowledgements

Returning to his desk, Gessen rewound the video to study it again, frame by frame, hoping to catch the exact moment of transformation. As he advanced the frames, a convulsion marred Vidor’s features, followed by a flash of terror and a heart-rending cry. Just as quickly, the boy’s frightened face vanished, to be replaced, a millisecond later, by Vidor’s placid expression. As Ursula wrapped up the session, she looked straight into the camera and nodded. Vidor sat up and looked around him, befuddled, as if he’d returned from a long and complex journey through a barren landscape.

Who was he? Gessen had waited to open Bertrand’s letter until he’d watched the video of Ursula’s session with Vidor, but he reached for it now and slit open the envelope.

Chèr Anton,

I’ve held off writing to you until I had some news. It took some digging, as nothing is digitised from those years, and the archives are tucked away in a dusty annex. After calling around, I was able to get a copy of the registration forms for three students, one of whom could be your man. Fortunately, a photo is stapled to the forms and, though much faded, might help you find what you’re looking for.

Do let us know when you’ll next be in Paris so we can find a time to meet. Eveline greatly enjoyed our evening together and sends you ‘gros bisous’.

Bon courage,

Bertrand

He placed the copies of the student records side by side on his desk. How young the boys looked, with their earnest faces and shaggy brown hair. The first boy, Alejandro, was born and raised in Uruguay. On the second boy’s file, a water stain had smudged the ink, so it was difficult to make out his country of origin. The first letter, A, was legible, though that hardly narrowed it down. Albania, Argentina, Algeria, Afghanistan, Australia? It could be any of those. The third boy, Zivko, was Yugoslavian.

Gessen turned back to the second file and studied the boy’s eyes and the curve of his jaw. This one felt right, somehow, and when he saw the name, he smiled. Malik Sayid. Not Milen or Mikhail, or Miguel, but Malik. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his brain, he had always known the right name, but the memory, slippery as a minnow, had hovered tantalisingly out of reach. Malik Sayid. He leaned back in his chair and smiled again. Progress at last. He’d have to proceed carefully, but the moment had arrived. It was time to confront Vidor with what he knew.

41

Vidor stubbed his toe as he stumbled out the door and into the biting air, trying to shake off the effects of another bad night.