‘But let’s say for the sake of argument that you did have a twin, or a double,’ Gessen said, plunging on. ‘Who would he be? Someone exactly like you, or your polar opposite? Someone capable, perhaps, of killing a stranger. A stranger he’d mistaken for someone else.’

‘Killing a stranger…?’ Vidor’s expression was stony. ‘I’ve done no such thing.’

‘I’m afraid you have,’ Gessen said. ‘I refrained from telling you earlier because I didn’t want the shock to interfere with your recovery.’ Vidor’s face had gone white. ‘That man you attacked in Copenhagen suffered a severe head injury. Shortly after being taken to hospital he fell into a coma. Three days later, he died.’

When Vidor spoke his voice was flat. ‘I am not responsible for that man’s death. Nor do I have a twin, or have I ever entertained such an idea. Are we finished? I have a monstrous headache and would like to return to my room and lie down.’

51

Paris, France
May 1969

He spends all day at the Jardin des Plantes. The stale croissant and bitter coffee he bought from a kiosk did little to quell his hunger, and he wanders with an air of dejection into the great hall of the Natural History Museum. The skeletons of dinosaurs and mastodons rear above his head, and he consoles himself with the thought that the lifespan of earth is finite, and soon he will be dust. Along with all the other creatures who have come before him. Dead, mort, mayit. Millions of years, dead. That should be enough time to cleanse him of his sins.

A few minutes after four, he leaves the park to wander the city. At least the air is balmy and the skies clear. Perhaps, as the weather warms, he will take to sleeping on park benches, anything to avoid the disgusting room he’s rented in a slovenly quarter after being tossed out of the Sovàny’s flat. He misses the lovely mother and sisters. The boy who’s turned tyrant doesn’t merit a thought.

All he has waiting for him is the sour-faced drunk who patrols his domain like an ogre, sometimes banging on the bedroom door in the middle of the night. Sale Arabe! Filthy Arab. The man can’t get in, not when the door is barricaded with a chair. But loss of sleep and the terror of being murdered in his bed have worn him out. Some days he feels he’s going mad.

His bursary ended with the school term, and his money is running out. He’ll have to find a job for the summer. Cleaning floors, or schlepping carcasses at the butchers. It would be nice to get a gig on one of the bateaux mouches that cruise the Seine. Out on the water, and away from the streets, where he tramps alone day and night, perhaps he’ll find a measure of peace.