On the screen his face appeared in close-up. The camera zoomed out to show his whole body, seated in an armchair. Gessen’s shadowy profile was just visible on the left side of the frame. Gessen increased the volume until Vidor could hear the sound of his own breathing.

In the video, the shadowy profile spoke. ‘I’d like to hear more of your story. Would you tell me your name?’

‘Malik.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘Dix-neuf.’

Malik. Nineteen. What the hell was this? The voice in the video was deeper than Vidor’s own, and he was speaking French. That was odd. He hadn’t spoken French in years.

‘Malik Sayid,’ said the man in the film, who looked like Vidor in most respects, though some kind of transformation had happened. His expression was slack and frightened, his posture awkward. In the film, Vidor held a pencil in his left hand and scribbled on a piece of paper. Vidor frowned. He was right-handed and always had been.

In the video, Gessen asked, ‘Can you tell me where you’re from?’

‘I’m from a place called Al Madinat Almajhula, a small city halfway between the mountains and the sea.’

Vidor reared up from the chair. ‘What is this? Some kind of trick? More of your mind games? That isn’t me. You’ve spliced my head onto someone else’s body and altered my voice, like they do in films. Any half-wit kid with a computer can do the same thing.’

Gessen pressed pause. ‘It isn’t you, Vidor, you’re right about that. But I assure you it’s not a trick. I believe the person talking in the video is your alter, or other personality. At some point, not long after you moved to Paris to attend university, you met a boy named Malik Sayid. You may have been friends, or lovers perhaps, or even enemies. But I believe that this boy, Malik, played an important role in your life. I believe something traumatic happened to you, or to Malik, and that you somehow internalised his psyche, perhaps during a fugue state.’ He waited a moment before going on. ‘Does the name Vidor Sovàny mean anything to you?’

Vidor shook his head.

‘He was a lycée student in Paris. Not long after he earned his baccalaureate in the spring of 1969, he vanished. Later, in the absence of a body or evidence of life, he was presumed dead by drowning in the Seine. How and when it happened isn’t completely clear, but I have my suspicions.’

‘You’re mad.’ Vidor’s body felt heavy and dull. ‘I’m leaving here today. With or without your permission.’

‘Let’s watch a few minutes more. You’ll see it’s not a trick.’ He pressed the start button.