Freud's Mistress Page 12

  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?”

  “I’m too little,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m teasing.”

  “Well, when you do get married, will you sthill live with us?”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Freud, walking into the room.

  “Papa, we have cake!” Sophie said, jumping up.

  “How lovely, but there’s none left, my princess,” he said, picking up the child and giving her a hug.

  Minna leaned back and watched him with his daughter. She had spent the better part of the day deftly avoiding him, which was silly. Naturally, she was bound to run into him sooner or later. They both lived in the same house, for heaven’s sake. So why did she feel so uncomfortable?

  Ingesting coca with this man was definitely a lapse in judgment, but the more troubling issue was the fear that she was becoming infatuated with him. If that was the case, this was an unacceptable state of affairs. Nevertheless, and despite her misgivings, she registered everything about him at once as he walked in—the tinge of color in his face, his affectionate glance in her direction, the gentle embrace he gave his daughter.

  Sophie disengaged herself from his arms and began skipping around the room. The shrill voice of the governess could be heard upstairs, calling her in frustration.

  “Go on now,” Freud said in an authoritative tone. Sophie reluctantly walked out the door and banged up the stairs.

  “I should go, too,” Minna said, rising from the sofa. “I was about to take a walk. . . .”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you.”

  “No patients this afternoon?” she asked.

  “Canceled,” he said.

  How odd, Minna thought. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about our conduct last night. In fact, as they ventured out into the streets, he acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing did, she thought.

  But she knew it was a lie.

  13

  It was twilight, with a perfect quality to the air, and gaslights flickered on the corners where heavy-booted policemen were beginning their night shifts. They walked down a narrow side street, past a row of art dealers and a cigar shop, where he ducked in, walking directly to the back to consult with the owner. She waited up front, surrounded by glazed walnut cabinets, inhaling extravagant, husky aromas of complex notes. The whole place evoked a kind of exotic adventure with names like Monte Cristo, Quintero, and La Gloria Cubana carefully typed on white parchment and displayed in brass plates on the door of each cabinet. Sigmund considered several different brands, selected one, and rolled it gently between his fingers as though it were a fine piece of silk.

  “H. Upmann, produced in Cuba by a German banker. It’s delicious,” he said, lightly pressing the cigar to her nose. It was sweet and dry with a dark, mahogany-colored wrapper.

  “Heavenly,” she whispered, in mock reverence. There was a hush in the room, almost churchlike. Men and their cigars, she thought. And their wine. And their women . . .

  They were almost home when he suggested they stop for a drink. Minna could see Café Central up ahead and a few waiters loitering outside. She should have been back hours ago.

  “It’s getting late,” she said, with a tentative smile.

  “It’s not that late and I’m parched. . . .”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s been so long . . . the children . . .”

  He stared at her, dangling his offer in the air.

  “Really, Sigmund, I can’t stay.”

  “Well, if you were going to stay, what would you have?”

  She smiled, giving in. “A glass of wine. Half hour at the most.”

  The place was dimly lit, with bentwood chairs leaning against bare tables. A few stragglers were still sitting around, nursing their drinks, immersed in early-evening conversation but, other than that, the café was empty. If this were four o’clock, there wouldn’t be a seat to be found. The turned-down gaslights hissed softly as they walked to a table toward the back. Minna settled in her chair, unbuttoned her jacket, and straightened her blouse. He sat opposite her, called over the waiter, and ordered a bottle of Barolo. She listened to him tell her how much he loved this café, how it was a refuge from his demanding schedule. How weary he was at the end of the day. And even before. Then he abruptly changed course.

  “So tell me candidly, my dear. Are you happy here with us?” he asked.

  “Why, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Everything’s wonderful.”

  “Everything? That’s remarkable, Minna.”

  “Well, of course, not everything.”

  He looked at her and said nothing. He was a man who used silence to his advantage. She peeled off her gloves and then fussed with her napkin while he continued looking at her. He noticed that her neck was longer than her sister’s and her lips were glossy and unlined. She glanced up at him, her cheeks still shining with color from the walk.

  “Sometimes I worry that I’m a burden to this household,” she said, dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief.

  “You’re far from that. I hope we’ve conveyed that to you.”

  “And my future. I can’t impose on you forever.”

  “It’s no imposition. I don’t understand your—”

  “It’s not that difficult to understand,” she said, interrupting him. “I’m without a job, funds, penniless, impoverished, destitute,” she said wryly.

  “Insolvent?” he added helpfully, with a hint of a smile.

  “Exactly.” She laughed.

  “Joking aside, Minna, you know you always have a home with us.”

  “That’s extremely kind but I can’t stay here indefinitely.”

&
nbsp; “Why not?” he asked, casting his eye over a group of students who were about to sit down next to them and then thought better of it.

  “Surely you don’t have to ask. It’s keeping me up at night.”

  “What is?”

  “My future.”

  “Your future is keeping you up at night?”

  “Well, not only my future,” she said, pausing. “If you must know, I’ve been having these strange dreams, Nachtmahre. Highly disturbing.”

  “In what way?”

  “Are you analyzing me?”

  “Of course not. Do you remember anything about them?”

  “Oh, they’re nonsense, mostly,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

  “Do you dream of missing a train?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you dream of flying through the air or falling off a cliff?”

  “No.”

  “Do you dream of standing naked in front of strangers with no embarrassment whatsoever?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “It’s a common dream, Minna.”

  “How long have you been having it?” she asked, smiling.

  He laughed and then became serious.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well,” she said in a low tone, leaning forward slightly, “I see myself as an old spinster, living alone in a dreary pension with lots of mangy cats. You’re allergic, as I recall? Anyhow, the place smells like mackerel and no one ever comes to call.”

  He gave her a withering look. “Don’t humor me,” he said.

  “I doubt that I could,” she said, draining half her glass of wine. “All right, if you must know, sometimes I see Ignaz beside me in bed. He’s dead. And he looks terrible, ghoulish. He scares me.”

  “Your beloved Ignaz?” he asked, poker-faced.

  “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. Not at all. In fact, I’ve been working on a way to interpret dreams.”

  “Interpret them? I thought they came from problems with one’s internal organs or indigestion or some such thing.”

  “Most doctors will tell you that, but they’re idiots. It’s astonishing that, in spite of thousands of years of effort, the scientific understanding of dreams is still so backward. We’re not much better off than the ancients.”

  He went on to say that in prescientific times, the classic philosophers believed that dreams were connected to the world of superhuman beings—revelations from gods and demons. And they could foretell the future—a life of good fortune or tragedy.

  “Even now,” he said, “the majority of doctors and scientists will argue that dreams are merely a reaction to some external disturbance, like a flickering light from a candle, rain, thunder, or a lumpy mattress. The most educated men of our century still think dreams are caused by sensory stimuli when that’s only a minor factor. It’s all so unsophisticated. They believe the mind is somehow cut off in dreams. When in fact, the mind is everything.”

  “So if dreams don’t come from rain and thunder, and they don’t come from indigestion, where do they come from?”

  “Ah,” he said, smiling and clearly relishing the question. He gently tapped her on the side of the head. “They come from you. They’re derived from your own experiences. Internal sensory, not external. And I’m the first person to say this.

  “Dreams have meaning.”

  He searched her face for a reaction, to see if she appreciated his stunning discovery. The image of him at that moment, in magnificent self-confidence, his dark eyes shining, stayed with her long afterward. She took a sip of the very good wine and then said, “So tell me what my dream about Ignaz means.”

  “It’s not that simple. It’s disguised, maybe something from your childhood.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Sigmund.”

  “A dream borrows from many places, its fragments from another day, another time . . . strange images of an aunt, a cousin . . . a fiancé.”

  “I don’t usually remember my dreams, but when I do, they all seem like nonsense.”

  “Seemingly. Past loves smiling on the couch beside you, asking after your health and then brandishing a weapon . . . or perhaps a sexual encounter with someone entirely unsuitable. More wine?”

  “Yes, please. Go on.”

  “My patients’ dreams are anything and everything, mixed up from their past and present. Sometimes their stories are completely absurd, and yet, when you understand their lives, it makes perfect sense.”

  “For example?”

  “For example,” he repeated, “one woman came to me with dreams of her sister in a coffin, an aunt whose jaw dropped off in front of her, and people pelting her with dead animals.”

  “It makes mine seem rather tame . . .”

  “Ghoulish fiancés aren’t that tame,” he said, as he continued on about a forty-year-old widow who had been severely traumatized when her wealthy, older husband dropped dead in front of her while reading a newspaper. His family blamed her for the death, and she was beset by feelings of guilt and shame, which was why, he said, she was plagued by these dreams. And then there was the English governess who was hired by a wealthy widower. She was secretly in love with him but the feelings were not reciprocated. She was eventually fired, but losing the connection to the children caused her to dream about burned pudding. Another young woman kept having nightmares of men with angry faces attacking her, and would wake up with shortness of breath and a crushing feeling of strangulation. After meeting with her several times, he said, he found that her nightmares started when she discovered her sister was having intercourse with her uncle.

  He stopped for a moment, carefully unwrapping his new H. Upmann. He clipped the end, wet it with his tongue, and then lit it.

  “The reasons for these dreams are hidden,” he said, “but after examination, it all becomes clear. Dreams are simply symptoms, messages to ourselves conveying what’s wrong. An allegory for our innermost thoughts, wishes, and beliefs. For instance, another patient dreamed that she kept trying to insert a candle into a candlestick but the candle was broken and wouldn’t stand erect. So this meant—”

  “Let me guess . . .” Minna interrupted, trying not to smile.

  “Of course,” he said, “the symbolism is quite transparent.”

  “Have you discussed this with your colleagues?”

  “Many times. No one takes it seriously. They call my work fairy tales and foolishness. As Virgil said, ‘Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.’ ‘If I cannot bend the higher powers, I will move the infernal regions.’”

  There was a silence.

  “Sigmund, would you happen to have a cigarette?”

  He put down his cigar, motioned to a waiter lounging in the corner, and asked him for a smoke. The man handed him one from a pack in his waistcoat. Sigmund lit it and then offered it to Minna.

  “So you’ll unlock the mystery of my dreams?” she asked, inhaling deeply and leaning back in her chair.

  He smiled at her. And then his smile changed into something different.

  “I will indeed unlock the mystery of your dreams. And you, my dear.”

  She looked at him and felt a surge of something close to happiness. Something she hadn’t felt for years.

  “We should leave,” she said reluctantly.

  “Just one more drink.”

  “I can’t. Not for another moment. And I stayed far too late last night.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, standing up.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said, throwing some kronen on the table and helping her on with her coat.

  There is a moment just short of touching, a slight gesture of the hand, perhaps, an angle of the head or the way two bodies move in
tandem that gives a couple the look of intimacy. If someone had been passing Minna and Freud, as they walked out the door of the café, he would have noticed it: Minna, her face moist and flushed, her dark coppery bun slipping out of its confinement, and Sigmund, his hand grazing the small of her back, leading her toward the door.

  14

  When Freud and Minna arrived back at the apartment, they were met by the silver-haired night maid, who opened the door at the fourth pull of the bell. The gas lamps in the hall were already lit, and by the sound of the clattering dishes and children running around upstairs, it was obvious they had missed supper.

  “Sigi?” Martha called out from the top of the stairs, looking down on the couple. Freud nodded with a forced smile as he helped Minna take off her coat.

  “Didn’t you hear the bell? We’ve been standing out there for some time,” he said in annoyance. “Is that maid hard of hearing?”

  “Not at all,” Martha said, climbing down the marble stairway. “We were just sitting with the children. Would you like your supper now?”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” He nodded slightly at Minna and then walked past Martha toward his office. She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, which he barely acknowledged as he disappeared into his study.

  “Where have you been?” Martha said, cradling her bad arm. “You’ve been gone three hours. I had to feed the children myself.” The air smelled of boiled beef, vinegar, and tension.

  “I’m sorry, I lost track of time,” Minna said, taken aback by Martha’s anger. “I ran into Sigmund and accompanied him on a few errands.”

  “Well, you’ve missed supper, but I can have Cook put together a plate for you.”

  “Thank you,” Minna said, irritated. After all, she wasn’t a child.

  “The beef might be a bit tough. Our butcher was ill and his assistant cut it with the grain even after I told him how I liked it. Now it’s falling into stringy threads, which couldn’t in any way be called tender . . . and it’s been cooking for so long. Perhaps you’d like something else?”