Freud's Mistress (7 page)

T
he card game was always the same—almost a ritual. At precisely seven o'clock, Dr. Eduard Silverstein rang the bell and was ushered into the parlor, where he clapped a fraternal arm around Freud's shoulder and then headed straight toward the refreshment table. He could always be relied on to make himself at home in the cozy, domesticated room, and indeed he did, helping himself to a large Sacher torte on a silver tray, spilling the crumbs on the carpet.

“And how are you, Sigmund?” he asked as he sank deeply into an armchair, stretched out his legs, and produced a slightly squashed, pale brown Maria Mancini cigar from his waistcoat. He stared at it in admiration, as if it were a woman.

“It's the genteel, slender body that I love,” he said, with a handsome smile, not waiting for his host's reply. Then he lit up and inhaled with exaggerated pleasure.

“Ah . . . moody, but pliable . . .” he added, flipping through one of Freud's newspapers.

Freud nodded with good humor at his only bachelor colleague, but professed loyalty to his stout, homely Trabuco. “It's less flighty,” he volleyed, “less temperamental . . . with an even, reliable draw. You can keep the Marias of the world. . . . too much bother.”

Dr. Ivan Skekel arrived next, removing his weather-beaten tweed coat and making the usual excuses for his tardiness—crowded omnibus, the “wife,” his swollen ankles. He smoothed his square-shaped beard and straightened his woolen waistcoat over his sizable paunch, as he too headed for the refreshments and uncorked a bottle of wine. He was about to light up the third cigar, adding to the thickening cloud of smoke, when the door to the parlor swung open and Minna walked in.

She had changed into a white lace-trimmed blouse that was slightly open at the neck, her hair swept up in soft waves with a set of combs, and she was trailed by the scent of lavender-perfumed soap. For an instant, she hesitated, conscious of Freud's gaze roaming her face. Did he see it in her? she wondered. Her tense shoulders, her flushed cheeks, and the care with which she had applied her makeup?

He had noticeably transformed the moment she stepped into the room. His hard, bright eyes softened and his stiff demeanor relaxed. He had taken her hand, whispered a word of hello, and then given her another lingering glance. Minna wondered if this intimacy was merely her imagination but it gave her a peculiar sensation.

Earlier, when she was getting dressed, her sister had been all ambrosial sweetness, like a mother sending her daughter off to a ball. Why then did Minna feel as if she were doing something behind Martha's back? If there was nothing to hide, why did she feel guilty?

“Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Fräulein Minna Bernays,” Freud said, rising from his chair, taking her hand in his, and ushering her into the room. “She'll be our fourth tonight. Eduard Silverstein and Ivan Skekel.”

It was obvious to Minna that Sigmund had not discussed her joining the game, and his partners looked noticeably surprised. She calmly regarded the group with her hazel eyes and walked over to the sofa.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Delighted,” Dr. Silverstein said, breaking the silence. He stood up, took her hand, and kissed it lightly. Then he poured a glass of wine from one of Martha's good crystal decanters on the sideboard and handed her a glass.

“How very kind,” Minna murmured.

Minna knew very well who Eduard Silverstein was. Martha had mentioned him several times. He was on her list of eligible bachelors. The son of a successful doctor and an enthusiastic supporter of the arts, he took over the thriving family practice when his father retired. Minna thought he wore his hair a little too long to be stylish but, on the whole, he was handsome, with liquid brown eyes and a worldly air. And even though he seemed pleased to see her, he had to be wondering, along with Skekel, why Freud hadn't called one of their other colleagues who usually filled in when someone was indisposed.

Minna sipped the wine and settled herself on the sofa. She was still not quite at ease. Her feet felt prickly and ached from the day, the left boot pressing on her anklebone. She had left the children still awake, one of whom—was it Ernst? no, maybe Oliver—shouting something as she went downstairs.

“Are you up to this, my dear?” Freud asked solicitously, as he sat down next to her and lightly touched her on the shoulder. “Second thoughts?”

“Not at all,” she said, and smiled, laying her hand on the sofa arm, which was covered with several of Martha's ubiquitous doilies.

They sat together while Skekel and Silverstein drifted over to the fireplace, finishing their conversation. They were talking about what everyone was talking about, the recent election of Karl Lueger, the new mayor of Vienna, who was known to be rabidly anti-Semitic.

“You know what this means, don't you?” Skekel said. “The liberals are losing ground. It's the Christian Social Party now, and they can't wait to take away our rights. It's like the Middle Ages.”

“I wouldn't go around saying too much in public, old boy,” Silverstein replied, draining his glass. “You might lose a few patients, as well as some of your imperial connections. Don't you agree, Fräulein Bernays?” he said, abruptly turning to her.

“Well, most certainly the emperor has no choice,” Minna said, going on to discuss the disastrous ramifications of imperial support of Lueger, especially for the Jews.

“My sentiments exactly,” Silverstein said, smiling at Minna. “My word, Sigmund. A beautiful, intelligent woman living in your house. What good fortune . . .”

“Let's play,” Freud said, with sudden irritation.

Freud took the cards out of the pack and shuffled deftly. He glanced at Minna seemingly in annoyance, which left her slightly rattled. Then he cut the deck and dealt counterclockwise, sixteen cards to each player, carefully placing the six tarock cards facedown in the center.

As the bidding began, Minna found herself in a slightly awkward situation, trying to join the conversation with the men, darting from one subject to another, while making a respectable impression with her card-playing skills
.

“I just canceled my subscription to
La Libre
,” said Skekel, referring to the newspaper
La Libre Parole
, Lueger's political tool. “I couldn't endure any more of their fanatic ravings.”

“I agree, I just read the
Neue
,” Minna said, trying to keep her mind on the game.
Follow suit if you can.

“I had a nephew,” Skekel said, lowering his voice, “who changed his Jewish name to a Christian one . . . and then he went into the ‘arts.' . . . Destroyed his mother.”

If you can't follow suit, play a tarock.

“He can go to vespers twenty times a day, and they'll still call him a Jew,” Freud added.

No tarock, so I can play any card.

The discussion carried on as Minna tried not
to lead with a tarock until a tarock had been played or, heaven forbid, discard the wrong number of cards or, disaster, fail to beat the highest card. At one point, she thought, Perhaps I should just play the Fool. But then again, he never wins a trick. Finally, Silverstein got up to refill his glass, and the men decided to take a bit of a break.

“More wine, my dear?” Silverstein asked.

“Why, yes, thank you.”

He walked over with the decanter and began to fill her glass.

“So when do you get a free day, Minna?” he asked. “Do they ever let you out of here?”

“She's not a domestic,” Freud said, glaring at him. “She's my sister-in-law.”

“Don't get so testy, Sigmund,” Silverstein said, with an amused smile that was not returned.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Silverstein wisely decided to change the subject. “I suppose you've read about Oscar Wilde?” he asked.

“How could one not? It's been in all the papers,” Freud snapped back.

“He should have fled to France, but his mother advised him to stay and ‘fight like a man,'” Silverstein said.

“That's what you get when you listen to your mother,” Freud replied.

“He only has himself to blame, his behavior was reckless and indiscreet,” Skekel added.

“And his play
The Importance of Being Earnest
, such a hit in America,” Minna said.

“Well he's finished now . . . two years' hard labor, the maximum for gross indecency and sodomy—” said Freud.

“Gentlemen, I don't think this is an appropriate subject . . .” interrupted Skekel, nodding at Minna.

“I'm perfectly capable of discussing the Wilde case,” Minna said, brushing off the man's patronizing, if well-meaning, concerns. “In my opinion, if he hadn't sued the Marquess of Queensberry for criminal libel, he wouldn't have been in this fix. A private prosecution at the height of his success. What a tragedy. And the salacious details of the poor man's life plastered all over the news.”

“Bravo,” Silverstein said, breaking into a proprietary grin.

“My dear, perhaps you don't understand . . .” Skekel explained patiently. “Mr. Wilde enjoyed the company of young . . . men. . . . These were
ho-mo-sexual
acts,” he said, slowly enunciating each syllable of the word as if she were a complete idiot.

“I understand what the word
homosexual
means, Dr. Skekel,” Minna said, clearly vexed. “In fact, some say homosexuality is just a passing phase. I hear university boys experiment with it all the time.”

“Well, I went to university, and I can tell you we experimented with a lot of things, but we didn't do that. Maybe in the medical school . . .” Silverstein said, laughing and nodding at Freud.

“There's so much ignorance on the topic,” Freud replied, ignoring Silverstein's attempts at humor. “My research has shown that homoerotic tendencies stem from a primitive oral phase, followed by an anal one and then a phallic one.”

The word
phallic
hung in the air as everyone quieted down.

“Very interesting, but that wouldn't have helped poor Mr. Wilde in court,” Minna said, without hesitation.

“Ah, but what if I could prove that
everyone
has these tendencies?” Freud said, looking at Silverstein.

“Sigmund!” said Skekel. “It is
highly
inappropriate to be discussing these things in mixed company.”

“Nonsense. Minna wasn't put off by it . . . were you?” Freud asked.

“Not in the least.”

“There. You see? Not in the least,” he repeated, pleased.

“More wine, my dear?” Silverstein offered.

“Why, yes, thank you.”

The game and the conversation went on into the night, with Skekel uncorking bottle after bottle of wine. At this point, Minna had lost count of how many glasses of alcohol she had consumed and watched with amusement as Skekel launched into an inebriated monologue on the state of the world.

“Things are going to hell here. . . . Every day, another demonstration in town, people shouting anti-Semitic rhetoric . . . and the monarchy—completely ineffective. God knows, the military can't deal with it. And it's spreading. Why, I read just the other day that we're a ‘proving ground for destruction.' . . .”

“Don't believe everything you read, my man,” said Silverstein, looking at Minna with an openly flirtatious smile. “Things aren't that catastrophic.”

“Yes, they are. Even the suicide rate is up. . . .”

“Just a lot of bored aristocrats who amuse themselves by jumping off bridges,” Silverstein said irreverently. Minna laughed, but didn't know why, as Silverstein stood up, squeezed her shoulder, ambled to the piano, and proceeded to pound out a dreadful but enthusiastic rendition of Müller's “The Fair Miller Maid.”

“Gentlemen, it's late,” Freud said, grimacing as he listened to the off-key notes. Skekel downed the last of his wine and slowly began to close the keyboard cover on Silverstein's fingers.

“Let's go, Eduard. I'll get a cab.”

Silverstein swayed a bit as he stood up.

“Might I perhaps call on you sometime?” he asked as he kissed Minna's hand, lingering a bit too long. “It's a pleasure to find a woman who possesses such considerable knowledge of the world. . . . Magnificent,” he added.

“How kind of you,” she responded in a noncommittal way, as Freud escorted the two men out of the parlor and into the hallway. She could hear them arguing on the stairs and then Eduard's slurred voice.

“So she's forbidden fruit, is she?”

“You're drunk, Eduard. Go home.”

Freud shut the front door a little too hard and then climbed back up the stairs.

“I wouldn't advise encouraging Eduard,” he said, throwing a pillow aside and sitting down on the couch. He sulked as Minna gathered up the dirty glasses and bottles, and then he followed her into the kitchen.

“I wasn't encouraging him.”

“One could interpret it that way.”

“Are you asking me something or telling me something?”

“Both. In any event, I know him well. While an amusing companion for me, he's very much a ladies' man.”

“I think my mother would like him,” Minna said, teasing. “A nice Jewish doctor.”

“Well, she didn't like me. And he couldn't cure a ham.”

“Sigmund.” Minna laughed. “I don't find him particularly appealing.”

“Who
do
you find appealing?” he asked, following her back into the parlor.

“Ah, there's the question. Martha has been asking me that for years.”

Minna fell silent and gathered up the last of the glasses, as a wave of fatigue hit her.

“Forget about those. Come here, my dear,” he said, patting the space on the sofa next to him. She sat down, feeling the warmth of the smoldering logs and sharing one last glass of wine. He leaned back, stretched out his legs, and let out a sigh.