Freud's Mistress (11 page)

She ventured over to the bookshelves and brushed her hand across the thick leather volumes, an abundance of riches that suddenly overwhelmed her with joy. She felt as if she could take any book from the wall and read all night and into the morning and into the next day and the next. Her eyes flew from shelf to shelf as she tried to register all the titles. One would think there would be mostly medical journals, but instead the library was filled with books on archaeology, history, art, religion, and philosophy.

Bursting from the shelves were strange and fabulous tales, fantasies, myths, plays, legends, and novels. Shakespeare, Goethe, Twain, Milton, Homer. Tragic heroes abounded. Hamlet, Macbeth, Dr. Faustus, Oedipus Rex. Detective stories, adventure stories, stories that dealt with the unknown continents of the human soul. The books were in German, English, French, Italian, and Spanish, the languages she knew he spoke fluently.

“If I owned your library, I'd assemble and reassemble the books for days. I'd alphabetize them by subject matter. . . .”

“I have.”

“Well, then, by author . . . or both. I'd have a separate section for all these rogue volumes, the ones too tall for the shelves.”

She turned around and noticed he was staring at her.

“By the way, do you still have that Thomas Carlyle I lent you? Years ago, when you were engaged? Remember?” she asked.

“Vaguely . . .”

“Never mind, it's just that over the years I've had to get rid of most of my books. . . .”

“Let me give you one. . . .” he offered, walking toward her.

“How sweet of you, but I couldn't possibly. Did it ever cross your mind, Sigmund, that you don't need friends with all these books around?”

“You don't?” he answered, looking amused.

“Not at all. In fact, if I had all these books, I wouldn't even have the impulse to actually read them. I'd just stare at them and think about how clever I was.”

“You
are
clever, my dear,” he said, gently pushing wisps of hair back from her face, his fingers resting on her neck. She was momentarily unnerved by his touch. She could explain away everything else about the way she felt when he was near her—his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't noticing. But the feeling of his warm skin on hers was different. There was no escaping the raw physicality of it. A flush of desire swept through her and she brushed his hand away, trying to dispel the afterglow. Good God. She hoped this was the coca.

She crossed to another bookshelf, pulling out a well-worn brown leather-bound volume. Freud poured her a glass of wine and glanced at the book she was holding.

“Plato's transcription of Socrates. He forced people to confront themselves, like I do. The Latin for this is
elenchus
—an inquiry or cross-examination. But I've noticed my patients only ask questions they already know the answers to. That's where Socrates and I part ways.”

“You're parting ways with the great Socrates?”

“One can question giants. One can question anyone. It's the only way to get answers. And everyone wants answers. Everyone except, of course, my wife,” he said, fidgeting irritably with a paperweight on his desk. His brow was creased with annoyance, bristling at just the thought of her. “She's an example of a person who doesn't seek answers because she has no questions. How can that be, I ask you? How can anyone have no questions? Except concerning our children, of course. Well, even then, she has no questions. If they're sick, she calls the doctor. And they're always sick. I can never recall a time when one of them wasn't sick. They get throat infections, scarlet fever, German measles, mumps, whooping cough. Everything available except smallpox and the plague. Mark Twain said his home had ‘a heart and soul and eyes to see us with . . . peace and grace and benediction.' What can that be like?”

He spoke in quick frenetic bursts, with the intensity of a revved-up adolescent, as his conversation grew more and more elliptical.

She watched in silence as he turned the glowing cigar in his mouth. Supper sat in its tray, untouched. Congealed herring salad, small squares of pumpernickel with butter, cheese, and German sausage.

“The
elenchus
of things. Asking questions. It makes people happier, maybe more virtuous. That's why Socrates chose death rather than give up his questions. Not that I'm suggesting that for Martha.” He smiled wryly, painting a bit more coca in his nose. “You see, I take coca and Martha takes opium. She has her reasons and I have mine. I take it for work and she takes it for everything. I don't get involved in her logic and she doesn't get involved in mine.”

He stopped abruptly, looked at her, and seemed undecided as to whether to proceed.

“You see what we have here?” he said softly, his voice catching for a second. “I am alone in a house full of people.”

Something about this frank revelation made her want to look away. She was uncomfortable witnessing his sudden confession. It occurred to Minna that all etiquette had been dispensed with and she was hearing things she'd rather not. But the smoke smelled sweet, almost nostalgic. And the wine was spectacular. She was about to say something important, perhaps in defense of her sister, but then completely lost her train of thought, her mind floating off into space.

“The Delphic oracle, ‘Know thyself,' that's what Socrates believed,” he continued. “Did you know he was the first to insist that dreams didn't come from the gods? Brought philosophy down from the heavens, his greatest achievement.”

This is what he's like when he's lecturing, Minna thought. Head thrust forward, eyes so dark and luminous they seemed almost theatrical. She inspected an Etruscan antiquity, a carving of a sphinx, half lion, half woman. Then spoke with a bravado that surprised her.

“You know,” she said, “Socrates was an artist and a stonecutter. That's what he was. But some people believe there was
no
Socrates at all. Perhaps Plato just invented him to suit his own philosophy. After all, there's no actual record of him giving lectures, teaching, or even writing books. So as Plato's puppet, he simply asked questions. Granted, they were deep questions about ethics and virtue. But what's the proof he ever existed?”

He gave her an exploring gaze and for a moment she felt it. An imperceptible shift in the air. As if they understood each other. As if they were experiencing a significant moment, a realization that what was occurring here was important. As if something had been settled. Or maybe it was the coca.

“What's the proof he didn't?” he asked. “More wine?”

“Maybe Plato took liberties,” she said, holding out her glass. “Thank you. My mouth is so dry. He was a dramatist, you know.”

“Well, it doesn't matter to me whether Socrates existed or not. It isn't important, is it? He's an idealized being, like God. I don't talk to Him, either. I don't ask Him for pointless favors. Martha does that. She's the religious one in the family. I do, however, celebrate Christmas. And Easter.”

He flashed a diabolical smile and Minna thought about her family's strict Orthodox upbringing and their grandfather, the old rabbi from Mainz, who'd have been outraged if he hadn't died suddenly from apoplexy.

“How can you celebrate these holidays?” she asked, taking a gulp of wine. “You're a Jew.”

“Do you think I'll be punished? Struck down in my prime?”

“Are you a godless man, Sigmund?” she teased.

“‘I can understand murder but not piety.' Arthur Schnitzler,” he quoted, with an irreverent laugh.

“Scandalous playwright.”

“Of course, that's part of his appeal. You know that most of his work is autobiographical.” Freud drew on his cigar with a heightened sense of appreciation. “Ahh, it feels good to smoke again. Don't know how I ever gave it up. Nothing warm between my lips for seven months.”

“Autobiographical?” Minna reacted. “His male characters are so cold. They change mistresses every week.”

“He has that reputation . . . even famously counts his orgasms,” he added, carefully gauging her reaction. “Writes them down in a journal.”

“Really?” she said, her curiosity overriding her sense of impropriety.

“Yes. I've heard the count is over five hundred so far this year. Sex has much the same place in his life as cigars have in mine.”

“Five hundred. Is that possible?”

“Oh, it's possible.”

“And you have knowledge of this?”

“Not personal of course, but clinical.”

“Of course,” Minna said, now feeling slightly dizzy and uncomfortable.

“You see . . . Martha and I have been living in abstinence,” he said, “so you can understand why I've taken up smoking again.”

Minna tried to keep her face expressionless as she watched him take one last elegant drag and slowly exhale. She felt a sudden chill in the air and even the coca couldn't mask her surprise at this revelation. The whole scenario was fraught with inexplicable peril, and all at once she felt afraid. She fixed her gaze at the far end of the room and politely concluded the conversation with the feeble excuse that she was exhausted. Head aflame, she stumbled out of his office.

Through all her years of knowing him, this is what she learned that night. He was an unhappy man. And unhappy men are dangerous.

M
inna was having that dream again. Someone was sleeping beside her, his chest pressed against her back, his arm draped gently over her hip. She could hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing as he intertwined his legs with hers and cradled his head in the crook of her neck. He inched closer, the heat of his body permeating her bedclothes and engulfing her in a low burn of desire.

But the feeling was brief. A sense of unease came over her, a moment of inexplicable anxiety, and then she saw him. It was Ignaz. The effect was vivid and immediate. There was a sudden constriction in her chest, a tinge of pain as she pressed her hand upon her heart. She slowly reached for him, her hand striking nothing but space and darkness.

She awoke with a start. Gradually, she grew accustomed to the dark. Her temples ached and her nose was congested. Last night, she remembered climbing the stairs, barely able to unbutton her boots and pull her clothes off before she collapsed on the bed, dead to the world. She was exhausted, but afraid to go back to sleep, her thoughts wandering from lucid awareness to the gray of dreams, a confusion of events, past and present, all mixed together in some unintelligible way. Over the years, she had had this nightmare before, and it always left her unnerved and vulnerable. Sometimes she had the urge to lock all the doors and windows, as if someone was lurking in the darkness. Other nights, she just lay there, longing for the light. She hadn't mentioned this to Sigmund, of course. What
did
she mention to him? It was all a blur.

She got up, took off her drenched flannel chemise, and opened the small window in her room. Her hair was matted with sweat, and the muscles in her lower back had stiffened up. She put on her dressing gown, draped a shawl over her shoulders, and looked out toward the canal. The day, a pink smear above the Vienna sky, had barely begun. Directly to the north, a succession of cross streets glowed, as if each still held the dawn, and the street lanterns gave off a halo of feeble orange light. It was bitter cold and the unusually warm air had disappeared. Patches of ice had begun to form over the breadth of the Danube. In another month, the river would be frozen solid until spring.

Minna stood like a sentry, wondering why she was still dreaming about Ignaz nine years after his death. Perhaps it was her discussion with Sigmund the night before. Or perhaps it was guilt. She had not visited Ignaz, even at the end, when he was dying of the white plague. When he first discovered he had tuberculosis and had to drop out of the university, he adopted an air of noble melancholy, writing her letters filled with snatches of poetry or philosophy stolen from Immanuel Kant or Joseph Butler. But then he turned angry and resentful and dashed off terse letters from the sanitarium telling her not to visit. So she stayed home. She should have gone to him. Sigmund had said that they were estranged, but that wasn't true. Ignaz just wasn't himself. Who, after all, wants to die alone?

Minna rubbed her hands together and watched her breath transform into opaque puffs of vapor. Her feet and hands were growing numb with cold, and her throat tasted bitter. She lit the coal fire, reached under her bed, grabbed her bottle of gin, gargled, then spit into the basin. She was desperate for a bath. And even though Martha didn't like her bathing too early—the gas geyser heating the water was noisy, not to mention combustible; occasionally it exploded. She filled the tub anyway and slipped into the warm water.

As she sank in, she batted away the little voices rattling on in her head, dissecting the implications and consequences of her behavior the night before. She had always held herself up as someone with high standards and an inbred sense of propriety. And yet she couldn't help feeling that what had happened last night was, at the very least, inappropriate, at the most, dishonorable. Was she a muse or a Judas? Was she capable of such a thing? Guilt—the unwanted emotion—engulfed her like a toxic hangover.

There was a sudden compulsion to go over every detail, from the moment she stepped inside his office until she stumbled out several hours later. First of all, did she set the supper tray down on his desk, or did he take it from her? Then, did she sit down on her own or did he invite her to stay? When did he first offer her the coca? And why didn't she just say no?

Furthermore, after she painted the coca, did he offer her the second dose or did she somehow imply she wanted more? And who brought up the subject of Martha? He had. Of this she was certain. But then he had gone on to malign her. Why hadn't Minna
rushed to her sister's defense? For shame. It must have been the coca. The whole scenario was completely out of character. She wasn't the sort of person who would tarry in a gentleman's private sanctum, engage in intimate conversation, and share coca with him at the drop of a hat. Even if it was medicinal.

•   •   •

A
lthough it wasn't what she
did
that was bothering her, it was what she was
thinking
. And what she was thinking was that Sigmund had been far too engaging. And she had been far too conspicuous in her appreciation of him.

At this point, she heard familiar, heavy footsteps in the hall, and they seemed to stop in front of her door. She held her breath and waited. Would he
dare
come in? The bathwater had obviously awakened him. Her bedroom door was closed but the bathroom door was open. She dunked her head into the water and waited for the footsteps to recede down the hall.

This morning Minna would not take pains with her appearance. Normally she would wear a light-colored day dress, but today she deliberately put on a dark wool ensemble, shapeless and severe, the one she used to wear when she accompanied her prior employer to the rectory. No salved lips, no pinked cheeks. As she passed the mirror, she noticed dark, bruiselike circles under her eyes, and for the rest of the day, she refused to look at herself.

Before Minna could leave the room, Martha appeared at her door looking frazzled, as if it were the end of the day and not the beginning. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her head, and little beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. Her blouse puffed out over the top of her skirt, which was already wrinkled.

“Are you ready?” Martha asked.

Minna had forgotten that this was her day to take the children to the park.

“Almost,” Minna said, jamming combs in her hair. “I was just—”

“Well, hurry up. I think I'll join you. Sigmund won't be home for dinner. He's
consumed
with work at the university. By the way, thank you for delivering his tray last night. I couldn't bear the thought of dragging myself downstairs one more time.”

It was at that moment that Minna felt she should tell Martha about the night before. To dismiss the night's events would be a deceit. Completely out of the realm of possibility. But what if she
was
making too much of it? At the lecture, Freud's demeanor was so similar to the way he acted last night. He had been charming and humorous one moment, intense and dramatic the next—his literary references, his humor—all there, carrying himself with unflinching confidence and energy.

A man who could explain the soul so profoundly. Perhaps none of it last night was for her benefit alone. Perhaps it was just Freud being Freud.

She decided to casually mention that she had lingered in Sigmund's office after she delivered the tray.

“I hadn't realized what an extensive library he had, how many valuable artifacts piled up in a heap—well, not in a heap, God no—but certainly displayed on every conceivable surface. . . .” Minna paused, as if she had suddenly forgotten what she was going to say and then was conscious of a chalky dryness to her mouth.

“In any event, I'm afraid I overstayed my welcome. In the future, I'll certainly be more considerate of his time, in case he happens to mention my absence of tact in this matter.”

Minna knew she was not being truthful. She grew conscious of this fact in the middle of explaining it away. She also knew that Sigmund was not likely to complain about her presence. Another wave of guilt struck her.

“Don't be silly. Sigi works late, and has no difficulty expressing a desire for privacy. Anyway, he enjoys an audience,” Martha said, neglecting to add that she herself hadn't spent time in his office in years.

Minna heard children's voices shouting down the hall and was glad to have the conversation at an end.

“Mama, do I
have
to go?” Mathilde said in her typical obstinate way.

“You know the answer to that. The fresh air and exercise are good for you. Where are the boys?” Martha asked, as Ernst gleefully burst into the room.

“Mama, Mama, come look! Martin and Oliver are having a big fight!”

By the time Martha and Minna arrived on the scene, the two boys were on each other like a pack of dachshunds, their canines cutting through earlobes, tufts of hair flying, nail marks on stomachs and necks. Martin had Oliver pinned on the floor and was finishing him off with one more blow while Ernst was egging them both on.

“Boys! Stop it right now! Martin, get up!”

“I hate him!” Oliver cried, through a swollen lip, his nose dripping blood.

“It's all
his
fault. He started it,” Martin said.

“Martin, go to your room. You could have poked his eye out.”

“But, Mama . . .”

“Not another word.”

“This isn't fair. He's a liar!” Martin said, skulking off to his room.

“And you, too,” Martha said to Ernst, who was flushed with excitement.

Minna marveled at Martha's ability to be nervous and irritated about so many minor things, yet cool as a cucumber when it came to her children. They could tear each other's hearts out in front of her, and her demeanor would be almost pathologically calm. And this instance was no different. After the assault, Martha calmly announced that she was canceling the outing and then disappeared into the kitchen to consult with the cook. Meanwhile, Minna took Oliver, sobbing and dripping blood, to the bathroom.

“Christ almighty,” she whispered under her breath. She had been in this household long enough to understand one constant in Martha's life—the children fought all the time, about everything. She dipped a washcloth into a basin and began gently dabbing Oliver's wounds. The cut on his lip was bigger than it seemed.

“Does this hurt, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” he said, bursting into tears. As she held him in her arms, stroking his head, she wondered how a pack of children could be so sweet one moment and so uncivilized the next.

And why was it that Sigmund was never around when the children were behaving badly? His
Studies in Hysteria
could be the household diary.

•   •   •

L
ater that afternoon, after the bloodshed, Minna thought she heard Freud's voice calling her from the kitchen, so she quickly walked into the living room. There she stood pressed into the corner, waiting for him to leave. A little while later, when she heard his low voice again in the hallway, she took the long route to her bedroom, out the back door, through the garden, around the house to the front door, and up the stairs to her room. She knew this behavior was silly. She was acting like a foolish schoolgirl. But even a short exchange after last night would be awkward and embarrassing. And, come to think of it, why was he home so early? He never showed up at this hour. It didn't much matter. She preferred not to see him just now, especially when the house was so quiet. Martha had fled the scene to the Karnter Strasse to do some shopping, and the boys, who were usually underfoot, were still banished to their rooms. Minna assumed Mathilde and Sophie were with the governess.

She closed the door to her room and tried to read but it was hard to concentrate. She was restless and distracted, so she decided to take a walk, always a soothing diversion. But before she could get halfway down the stairs, she heard Sophie's distressed little voice on the landing.

“Tante Minna! Where are you going? I want to come. . . .”

“Sophie dear, you still have your lessons. I won't be long.”

“No, no. Don't leave,” Sophie sobbed, rushing down the stairs and sitting on Minna's feet. “It'th not fair. We were thuppothed to go to the park. Oliver and Martin ruined everything and Mathilde ith being horridly mean. Why can't I go with you? Pleathe?”

“Good heavens, Sophie. You're so dramatic,” Minna soothed, sitting down on the step and pulling Sophie onto her lap.

Sophie nodded and wiped her nose. Then she curled herself up in Minna's lap and let out a sigh.

“I'll tell you what. Why don't we go in the parlor and have a sweet, and then you can go back to your schoolwork,” Minna said.

Sophie's face brightened as they stood up and walked downstairs. Meanwhile, the child broke into a stream of gibberish, most of which Minna couldn't quite understand. Sophie's lisp got progressively worse the more excited she became. And her speech lessons didn't seem to be working in the least. They stopped off in the kitchen, where Minna put a few precious leftover dinner sweets on a plate, and carried them to the parlor.

“Tante Minna? Whoth's older? You or Mama?” Sophie asked, seating herself on the sofa next to Minna and wolfing down the cake. Children from large families, like packs of dogs, learn early to consume unexpected treats as fast as possible, or suffer the consequences. Someone else could snatch it before they could say “mine.”

“Your mother's older. Why?”

“I just wondered. I told Mathilde you were much younger becauthe you're prettier, but Mathilde thaid you have a long face and you're not really that young. Do you want the lath one?”

“No, you can have it.”

“Do you have a huthsband?” Sophie pressed, wiping her mouth and licking her hands.

“Here, use my handkerchief, you're all sticky now. No. No husband. How about you?”