Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [113]
It was Freud’s wife’s sister, Minna Bernays, who answered the door to the second-floor apartment. Although they were expected, Miss Bernays wouldn’t let them in, explaining that Dr. Freud and his wife, Martha, had retired early. She was asking if they could come back tomorrow when a deep male voice intervened, declaring his retirement to be much exaggerated.
Their greetings were cordial. Much was made of Luc being a full head taller. “Well, Minna,” observed Freud, “Martha was mistaken, as I predicted she would be.” To Younger and Colette, he explained: “My wife was certain the two of you would be married before the year was out.”
“The year’s not over yet,” said Younger.
“She meant 1919,” Freud replied drily.
“Then tell her there is still hope for 1920,” said Younger.
“I’ve given you no reason to hope, Stratham,” Colette rebuked him. “Not for any year.”
Younger, stung, resolved to make light of it: “In that case I’ll schedule the wedding for midnight December thirty-first,” he said, “which doesn’t belong to any year.”
Colette turned to Minna Bernays and said, “He’s hopeless.”
“First she chides you for hoping,” Freud replied to Younger, “then for being hopeless. Women—what do they want?”
Sigmund Freud looked his age, sunk deep in an armchair in his study. A furrow knit his white brows into a scowl. His usually frenetic chow, Jofi, curled sympathetically at the master’s feet. They had talked of the Wall Street bombing, the kidnapping, and the collapse of the finances of the psychoanalytic association. Freud’s son Martin had finally been released from prison. “His first act of freedom,” Freud said, “was to relinquish it. He got married.”
Colette thanked Freud for agreeing to treat her brother.
“I haven’t agreed to treat him,” answered Freud. “I wrote you, Fräulein, stipulating my one condition. You didn’t answer.”
Colette made no reply.
“I’m too old and too busy for half measures,” said Freud. “I take very few new patients now; I only have time to train others to do so. Every new hour I take on is an hour lost for my own work. Psychoanalysis, Miss Rousseau, is not accomplished in a few days. You must be prepared to stay in Vienna for a very substantial period.”
“But I—have no means, no work,” said Colette.
“That’s your concern,” answered Freud, his sharpness surprising Younger. “If I’m to treat your brother, I must have your word that you will remain in Vienna this time as long as it takes.”
“I’m sorry,” said Colette. “I don’t know.”
Freud rose slowly, went to the window, opened it. A fresh night breeze tousled his white hair. From the little courtyard below, where Count Oktavian’s carriage waited, came the stamping and neighing of horses. Freud took a deep breath. “So,” he said, his back to Younger and Colette. “Have you ever dreamt, Fräulein, of a child being beaten?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Colette.
“Have you?”
Colette hesitated. “How did you know that?”
“Sometimes without knowing who is doing the beating?”
“Yes,” said Colette.
“It is a surprisingly common dream in women who feel they should be punished for something,” said Freud. “Well, it’s clear you didn’t come to Vienna specifically to have your brother see me. It follows you have some other business. Based on your remark to Younger in the foyer, I can only conclude that you are here to find and marry your fiancé, the one who was in jail the last time you were here. That would explain your uncertainty about whether or how long you will be in Vienna. You don’t know where he lives now—perhaps not in Austria at all—is that it?”
Colette was astonished.
“It’s all right,” Younger said to her. “He does this sort of thing all the time.”
“The real mystery,” said Freud, “is how you managed to persuade Younger, your fiancé’s rival, to join you on such a journey. I must say I find that impressive—and puzzling.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Younger.
“Well, none of this affects my position,” said Freud. “In case, Fräulein, you decide you are serious