In the video, Gessen handed the man in the chair, who looked less like Vidor than a terrible imposter, a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Could you write your name for me in Arabic, and a description of your family?’

The man wrote for several minutes before handing back the paper to Gessen who held it up to the camera. Vidor started when he saw the loops and swirls of the Arabic alphabet.

‘I speak four languages,’ he said stiffly, ‘none of which is Arabic.’

‘You might not speak Arabic, but Malik does.’ Gessen extracted a file from a binder on his desk and handed Vidor a sheet of paper. ‘This is what Malik wrote. Can you tell me what it says?’

The swirls and curlicues shimmered before Vidor’s eyes. A child’s scribble that meant nothing. He tossed the page on the table. ‘Is this some kind of monstrous attempt to drive me insane?’ He leapt from the chair and stomped to the door. ‘We’re all pawns in some elaborate game you’ve concocted for your own amusement.’

Gessen removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I realise this is difficult for you to take in, but the first stage in getting well is acceptance. Please humour me for a few more minutes. I’ll play the rest of the video, to see if anything strikes a chord.’

In spite of the burning anger lodged in his throat like a fist, Vidor was riveted by the image on the screen. The man who was Vidor but not Vidor spoke in the voice of a shy and frightened adolescent. In excellent and nuanced French, he told the story of growing up in a dusty village. The searing days and freezing nights. How he was given away at birth. The person on the screen, man and child in turns, who was Vidor but not Vidor, spoke of how he’d dreamed of two things: that his father would die, and his mother reclaim him. But as he grew older and neither came to pass, he turned his face to a different horizon, towards the mythical city of Paris he’d learned about in school. He understood that if he worked hard, he might qualify for a scholarship to pay for his university fees in the great city to the north. It was a way out. A dream and a yearning for another world that softened the harsh reality of his circumstances.

* * *

Vidor jerked awake and rubbed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? He was startled to find himself seated on a chair. Across from him, a man with wiry black hair stared at him intently. He could have sworn he’d been running through a maze of streets, his worn sandals kicking up dust, and his heart beating like a captive bird in his chest.

‘I must have fallen asleep.’