Gessen noted Vidor’s surprise at the richness of the room’s decor, and the sense, easy to presume, that a butler might appear at any moment bearing brandy and cigars. Which was exactly the point, to lull Vidor into a state of relaxation. In their previous sessions, Vidor had visibly stiffened when Gessen pressed him to talk about his family. Even now, despite the cosy setting, his neck and shoulders were tense, alert to whatever traps Gessen might have in store for him.

He motioned at the chessboard by the fire. ‘Shall we?’ As they settled in their chairs, he engaged in a few pleasantries about the weather and general queries about Vidor’s comfort before segueing smoothly into the pressing matter at hand. ‘We touched on your father the last time we spoke. He sounds like an interesting man,’ Gessen said. ‘Why don’t you tell me more about him?’

Vidor, his attention on the board, moved his pawn to e6, exposing his queen. A surprising move, but Gessen had learned to expect nothing but surprises from this puzzle of a man.

‘I told you about my father the last time.’

‘Ah, yes. The courageous man who led his wife and children to safety. An upstanding member of the Hungarian émigré community in Paris. Loving husband and father.’

Vidor’s expression soured. ‘Are you suggesting none of that is true? That all this time I’ve been lying?’

Gessen moved his pawn to f4. A deliberate mistake. If Vidor spotted it, in another two moves he would be in checkmate.

‘Not at all,’ Gessen said. ‘But the past can be a slippery thing, and as we grow older, we sometimes create stories to fit an idealised version of it.’ He met Vidor’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t call it lying, but it’s a natural, human instinct to protect ourselves from difficult truths or sad memories. In the short term, it can feel like a valid strategy. The problem is, those painful parts of our story never go away. They slumber in the deep caverns of the mind, until something happens, usually a shock of some kind, and they bubble to the surface. That’s when the real trouble begins.’

‘Caverns of the mind?’ Vidor raised his eyebrows. ‘How poetic. Though I can only assume you’re referring to the hippocampus and the amygdala.’

Gessen chose to ignore this. He had no desire to go head to head with Vidor on the anatomy of the brain. He was less concerned about the ‘where’ of trauma than the ‘why’. ‘Tell me more about the toy soldier you were forced to leave behind when your family fled Budapest.’