But here he was, driven by his compulsive need to help the suffering. After digging into the details of Vidor’s past life in Paris, and compiling a meagre dossier on Malik Sayid, he hovered on the cusp of a hypothesis for Vidor’s trouble. But even after viewing Madame Chabon’s photographs of her brother, Vidor, the last taken when he was seventeen, it was difficult to say whether his patient, the grown-up Vidor Kiraly, was the same boy. The colour of the eyes matched, as did the slope of his forehead, but who at fifty-eight resembled their teenaged selves?

Somewhere along the wavy line stretching into the past, Malik Sayid must have played a part in Vidor’s story. Had they been friends – or something more? A love sought and spurned. Perhaps Malik died in an accident and Vidor, in his guilt or anguish, had absorbed some of his friend’s mannerisms. Gessen felt he was tantalisingly close to discovering the connection, but only Vidor could provide the final piece to the puzzle.

As if on cue, Vidor shuffled into the room, whey-faced and hesitant in his movements. Gone was the debonair strut and sheen of cultivated irony. Was he ill? Perhaps, in this more vulnerable state, like a newly hatched moth, Vidor would soften and reveal his true self.

‘Please have a seat by the fire,’ Gessen said. ‘It will distract us from the weather.’ With the speed of a freight train, a bank of clouds had rolled across the valley and the snow was coming down fast.

As soon as Vidor was settled, Gessen poured out the tea. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you’re looking rather worn out. Not sleeping well?’

Vidor’s eyes swam as he attempted to focus on Gessen’s face. ‘Something keeps waking me at night, and I end up staring at the ceiling. Often till dawn.’

‘Is something troubling you?’ Gessen studied Vidor over the rim of his teacup.

A shake of the head.

‘Strange dreams, perhaps?’

Vidor shifted in his seat. ‘If I have dreams, I don’t remember them.’

Gessen handed across the plate of almond biscuits, but Vidor grimaced and pushed them away. Like the last time, either the sight or smell of the biscuits seemed to sicken him. Almost as if Gessen had handed him a plate of uncooked snails. To give Vidor a chance to compose himself, he rose and closed the curtains, blocking out the elements. He dunked one of the almond biscuits into his tea and took a bite. Delicious. His chef had recreated a recipe he’d found in a cookbook on North African cuisine.