My name is Castor, my brother is Pollux. When we were children, we were happy; now we are adults and as you know, adults are not happy. We were born in Eindhoven, Holland. We are twins. In our language we say "twin" not "twins", because "een tweeling" is a closed set: two people joined in a common noun.

Our parents were circus people, engaged on an endless perambulation from town to town. It became obvious to them that twins could form an excellent act, and with mouths to feed they began to train us in the entertainment. So the two of us had a singular education. There was no formal language or mathematics to learn, but we learned the art of mind reading. We spent most of each day between the age of 3 and 11 playing mental ping pong with my each other. We were eager students, because to spend time in such an intimate communion both pleased our parents and a warm bath of connexion bathed our minds, even our souls. T

The habit was so compelling that we spent hours sharing ourselves as we lay in our cots at night. "Are you there, brother?" I'd say. "I am, brother." He'd reply.

By the age of 11, we were performing in the circus ring, one of us blindfolded, sometimes me, sometimes he, and the other touring the front rows of the crowd and cajoling them to hand over items for a minute or so.

"What have you got?”

“The gentleman has passed me an object”

“is it a wallet?”

“Yes, brother! And what’s in it?”

“I see a photo of a pretty lady”

"Correct! Anything else?”

“Alas brother, other than that it's empty. He will not be buying his girl dinner tonight!”

As you may know, this kind of act relies on a code and with practice anyone could duplicate our act. But we had no code. I would not say we were telepathic, but we practised without ceasing, and maybe we had a code even we could not recognise, but of inner groans and implied gestures that made our performance faultless. Every day, our communion grew: brothers of one mind as well as one womb.

But now we are adults and deeply unhappy, because we do not work the circus crowds but still we perform. I stand in an office in Tehran, and my brother draws on a whiteboard in Langley.

“The general is pointing to a map.”, I say.

“Is it a map of Iraq?” says my brother.

“Well done! This is the missile site.”

“is that 50 kilometres east of Basra?"

“You are so clever, my brother. I miss you.”

"Do you remember Mother? How she called you Snoepje?

"I do, Brother. I will be home soon."

"I know you will." He replies.