Freud's Mistress Page 21

  “You’re not going to give up,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “No.”

  “Even if I walked out of here.”

  “Even if you walked out,” he repeated, his breath warm on her face.

  “And I won’t be able to resist,” she said, her heart pounding against her breastbone.

  “Poor Minna,” he said.

  She knew what he meant. That overpowering feeling she always got when she was near him had taken over and there was no decision to be made other than the one she was making. When she got back to the house, she gathered her belongings, stuffed her letters and books in her valise, and banished all traces of the waxen, wrinkled faces sitting in the living room. Her final thought, as she met him at the rail station, was Seneca’s line “Let the wickedness escape . . . for every guilty person is his own hangman.” She would go with him.

  27

  They walked down the platform at the Central Bahnhof, headed for the first-class coach. Departure time to Switzerland was in less than thirty minutes, but teams of workers were still huddled on the rails, hosing down cars, examining wheels, and pouring oil on the wheel boxes. In spite of her misgivings, Minna felt a surge of energy and excitement.

  The crush of carriage-class passengers fell behind, and still she and Freud walked on, past sleeping cars and club cars, chair cars and dining cars, until they reached the spot where dignitaries, wealthy families, and state officials were transported to their elite quarters. Electric lights burned like beacons through the large, curtained windows, and she could see stewards, maids, and waiters clad in white jackets moving back and forth between the cars.

  Minna gathered up her skirts and boarded the train, then maneuvered through the narrow aisle to the private compartment Freud had obviously reserved in advance. She quashed the somewhat disturbing thought that he had assumed all along that she would go with him.

  The porter arrived with their luggage, and Minna caught her breath as he unlocked the door. The room was spacious—palatial, even—with black walnut woodwork, gold-framed windows, polished brass fixtures, and a large picture window with elaborate, draped curtains. The banquette sofa, which converted to a bed, was upholstered in lush, bordello-red brocade, as was the chair by the private bathroom. She never dreamed that a train could be this luxurious.

  “Sigmund . . . this is so . . . grand,” she said. “I feel like we’re eloping.”

  As if in response, the car jolted backward with a screech and lumbered forward past the platform. She turned her face away from his and glanced out the window, restraining the urge to call it off. And for what? A rescue? Too late for that. They were entering the land of make-believe, of sweet beginnings. This was the bright side of love, their world transformed with a brilliant false light.

  “Do you remember . . . ?” he asked. “When was that? Eight, ten years ago? When you came to visit? I was working late, Martha was upstairs with the children, and you wanted to go to the Prater to see the carnival. I needed fresh air so I went with you. A gust of wind came up, your hat flew off, your hair came unpinned and blew all over the place. We chased after the hat . . . and I finally caught it . . . we were laughing as I put it back on your head. I remember, you were so excited, you threw your arms around my neck, and for the first time I felt your body next to mine.”

  She remembered the carnival and the embrace, but assumed it meant nothing to him.

  “It was all I could do not to kiss you,” he said, leaning forward, sliding his arms around her waist, and kissing her full on the mouth. He stroked her hair, shoulders, and back. “You knew that. You had to have known that.”

  “I didn’t. I thought you were interested in my mind.”

  “You were naive.”

  “I’m not naive now.”

  She smiled, pushed him away, and slowly stood up, pulling the shade down and locking the cabinet door. She wanted him and nothing else mattered. She unbuttoned her high-collared white silk blouse, letting it drop on the floor, and took off her plain summer skirt. Then she stepped out of her petticoat and began to slowly unlace the pale dove-gray bones of her corset.

  “Don’t,” he said, pulling her toward him, “leave it on.”

  • • •

  Afterward, she turned toward him, her head propped on her hands, and she saw his strong, sharp profile in the fading afternoon light. Lying there beside him, listening to the soothing sounds of the train and his sighs of desire, she was filled with a mixture of enormous relief and a lovely languor. The evening still stretched ahead of them, and she knew it was nearly time for supper, but the luxury of lying there with him, her curved body nestled in his arms, was liberating.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking,” he whispered in her ear, “what would have happened if I’d met you first.”

  • • •

  The dining car was a study in opulence. The ceiling was covered with painted frescoes, and Minna’s feet sank into the deep-piled burgundy carpet. Each table was strategically placed next to a picture window and was set with crisp white linens, fine china, and heavy silver cutlery. The head steward greeted them, addressing Herr Doktor Freud by name. Before leaving their compartment, Minna put on her gloves. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see the absence of a wedding ring.

  They were seated at one of the front tables and immediately served champagne from a silver bucket, and oddly shaped canapés dolloped with caviar. It was all so formal and elegant, and with the formality came a momentary calm. She picked up the menu and read it silently as the train rumbled over a bridge, causing the dishes to rattle on the table.

  The steward now cast his attention on an elderly couple making their entrance. The man wore a gray Inverness cape over his shoulders and a dark, soft hat, and carried a walking stick, which he used to steady himself as the train continued to lurch. His wife was wrapped in fur and seemed hardly to notice as her husband handed a wad of bills to the steward. The man then lit a cigar, turning it in his fingers as he picked up the menu.

  “Darling, put that beastly thing down. You know it’s bad for your heart,” his wife scolded. He looked at her in silence, then crushed it on the gold-rimmed, china bread plate, grinding it several more times than necessary.

  “We’re off to the mountains. For his health. Our physician tells him he shouldn’t smoke, but he never listens. Nasty habit.”

  The husband was now reading the menu, clearly uninterested in carrying on a conversation with either his wife or the strangers at the next table.

  “Are you from Frankfurt?” the wife asked.

  “Vienna,” replied Freud, not introducing himself or Minna.

  “I thought so. You can always tell passengers from Vienna. You look familiar. Are you friends with the Gunthers? Wilber and Elise?” she asked, glancing at her husband, who was finishing off his fourth canapé. “No more of that, dear,” she admonished him, and then, turning back to Minna and Sigmund, said, “His weight, you know.”

  Her husband wiped his mouth with a napkin, threw it on the table, and stood up.

  “I’m going to the WC.”

  “The Gunthers?” she repeated to Minna, resuming her conversation as though nothing had happened. “Do you know them?”

  Minna stiffened. She had heard that name somewhere. Friends of Martha’s, perhaps? No, maybe not. Then again, she couldn’t be sure. She glanced at Sigmund to see if the name resonated with him, but he showed no sign of recognition and seemed unconcerned. Strange that it never occurred to her that they might bump into someone they knew. She felt a tickle in her throat and the urge for a drink.

  “Don’t know them,” said Freud. “Pardon me, madame. We’re going to have to change tables. I’m planning to smoke through the entire meal.”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean for you . . .” the woman said, then paused, flushing with embarrassment at the slight. She
looked down at her napkin as Freud and Minna stood up and moved to the other end of the dining car.

  They ordered three courses, starting off with a clear beef Rindsuppe and moving on to a medley of game slices and fresh crepes filled with spinach and cheese. Minna ate little and drank a recommended white Riesling while Sigmund switched to beer. He talked about a few referrals (a man crippled with seizures, a suicidal woman) and then, in a much more spirited tone, described his new antique acquisition—a pre-Columbian plate, which Minna feared might eventually be used as an ashtray.

  At a certain point, the conversation turned to the children and their various ailments, activities, and outings. Minna felt a sudden tug in her chest and stopped herself from flooding him with questions. Was Sophie sleeping? Mathilde studying? Martin staying out of trouble? But she said nothing about the children because that would inevitably lead to questions about Martha, and she was not ready to discuss her sister or her own transgressions.

  At the end of the meal, he rummaged through his jacket pockets for another cigar, lit it, leaned back, and rubbed his temples.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “I’m working myself to the bone, if you want to know.”

  “Of course, I want to know.”

  “I’ve been in Berlin, meeting with Fliess. I’ve told you about him. Quite brilliant. And unlike Breuer he hasn’t the least doubt about my theories.”

  “I hear things have gotten worse with the association . . .” she said, hesitating to mention that Martha was the one who told her.

  “I’m simply ignoring their criticisms. Especially Breuer’s. He disagrees with me on almost every front. Purposely robs me of all credibility. He just won’t believe that the anxiety of my neurotic patients has to do with sexuality.”

  “So nothing’s changed . . .”

  “Nothing.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I have to find cures. That’s what I have to do,” he said, opening and pouring both of them a glass of champagne.

  “But on a good note, I’ve had a crucial turn with my dream book. I’m now analyzing my own dreams, finding that they reveal an enormous amount about one’s childhood. This information can be key in determining why we think the way we do, why we feel guilty or jealous or competitive. As they say, the elucidations and clues are flowing.”

  “You’re analyzing your own dreams?” she asked.

  “Yes. And you’re the only one I’ve told . . . outside of Dr. Fliess, who is becoming as indispensable to my emotional life as you are.”

  Minna leaned back and looked at him. Her mind was spinning and the room was getting warm. Indispensable. If she was being truthful to herself, she would have to admit it was what she’d always wanted.

  “The more I dig, the more I find that I’m discovering the roots of my fears and desires. The intellectual beauty of this work is . . .” A half smile played on his lips as their knees touched.

  She felt the rhythmic swaying of the train, and watched the expression in his eyes, the movement of his hands and lips when he talked. She was tired, too much wine and too little sleep, but the thought that they were here together after all these months comforted her. The monotony and grime of her former life were gone. She reached across the table and gently took his hand.

  “My dear, you’re quite ruining my critical faculties. I can’t think with you sitting so close . . . after so long . . .”

  He motioned to the waiter for the check, picked up the bottle of champagne, and led Minna back to their cabin. On the way back, she had to cling to a brass railing as the train lurched sideways around a bend and Sigmund reached over to steady her. They opened the door to their compartment to find that it had been transformed while they were gone. The banquette was made into a bed with crisp white linens. Next to the bed was a small silver vase with one red rose.

  Sigmund methodically hung his jacket on the hook, locked the door, and slid the curtain closed. Then he opened his travel valise and took out the small blue vial of liquid coca. He motioned for her to come near and repeated the ritual she now knew, dabbing a drop of coca in one nostril, then the other. He handed her the bottle.

  “I decided I wasn’t going to do this again. . . .”

  “It’s good for you. Not at all addictive. Unlike alcohol and morphine. Go ahead now.”

  She rubbed it inside her nose, sat down in the chair, and waited. And then it hit her—the strange, sudden exhilaration, the feeling of lightness. No more fatigue, just a general sense of euphoria.

  “Divine,” she said, leaning her head against the cushion.

  He smiled at her indulgently and then his eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Have you heard from Eduard?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Eduard. You remember Eduard, don’t you?” he asked, dabbing more coca into each nostril.

  “Why on earth bring this up now? And the answer is yes.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “No. I’ve told you what I think of him.”

  “Did you?”

  “He’s a rogue. And a liar.”

  “Sigmund, my dear, this is beneath you,” she said, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Such as?”

  She looked at him, her eyes softening, the coca flushing through her system. She bent over and whispered in his ear.

  “You’ll think of something. . . .”

  He slipped his hand inside her blouse and gently caressed her breast.

  “Let’s start with your mouth; it’s soft and expressive, and I like the taste of gin when you think I haven’t noticed. I like the fact that you have a man’s brain and the way you blink when you get angry and the fact that you can’t embroider. I like the way you stand tall and straight and the way you fidget when you’re bored. I like the way you look in a dress and the way your collarbone juts out of your chest.”

  Then he slipped his hands under her skirt and he began caressing the inside of her thighs. “I like your thick auburn hair and the way you try to hold it back with your combs but it keeps falling down. I like your skin, the way it feels when I touch it. Your beautiful eyes and your thick brows . . . your laughter and your fists pounding on my back. I like the way you smell and taste. That little spot on the corner of your mouth that you lick with your tongue. I like the way you cry out when we make love. I like when you’re naked.”

  She was drifting far away now. Thousands and thousands of miles. She could hardly hear his voice. She forgot who she was. She forgot who he was. And that was the beauty of it all.

  28

  The train wound its way through the night, descending from the high plains of Germany to deep folded valleys and thick black forests. It jolted to a halt at several little villages as they crossed over the Swiss border, and just before midnight, it stopped dead on the tracks for no apparent reason. Minna opened the cabin window, and looked out into the darkness. The air outside had gotten colder, thinner, more foreign, almost forbidding in a way she couldn’t explain. She closed the window and curled up next to him.

  In the morning, at the bleary-eyed hour of five, they changed trains and boarded the local Rhaetian Railway headed for the upper Engadine Valley. No dining car, no first-class cabins, and, alas, no champagne or hot water. This was a small, tired model left over from the thirties, and it huffed and heaved through the rocky landscape, letting out protracted, almost painful whistles at every curve or tunnel entrance.

  Minna and Freud sat opposite each other in a wooden-benched compartment, their coats swinging on hooks and their valuables sliding back and forth on ledges above the window. He looked out the window for a while, then reached for his briefcase. He shuffled through it and then pulled out a pile of papers. They traveled through obscure medieval towns while he worked and she read a G
erman translation of Hamlet by Schlegel and Tieck that Sigmund had brought along for his dream research.

  As he handed her the slim volume, he told her he was now convinced that Shakespeare was a fraud and Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the great bard’s works. Then he fired off a litany of reasons, starting with the fact that only a nobleman could have written with such familiarity about the intricacies of the royal court and ending with the argument that Shakespeare left no correspondence, no original literary manuscripts, or any other evidence that he was the author.

  “This is all very colorful, Sigmund,” she said, amused, “but it still sounds highly improbable.”

  “I’m sure I’m right. Even Mark Twain agrees with me.”

  “Well then it must be true, if Mark Twain believes it,” she said, laughing.

  They were quiet for a while as the train began its steep ascent into the rocky slopes of the Bergell region. At one point, he looked up from his research and rubbed his eyes.

  “Difficult?” she asked.

  “Immensely,” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  He spoke calmly and methodically, and she never took her eyes from his. He told her about the new theories he had discovered while in the midst of his self-analysis for his dream book.

  He began by saying that man was not the rational creature one would think, that “we’re all roiling cauldrons of conflicting desires we can barely keep in check.”

  “What about Kant and Spinoza and their theories of the rational man?” she asked.

  “That was hundreds of years ago,” he said, dismissing her. “And it was philosophical, not scientific.”

  “Well, if you’re going to toss out the great thinkers of the Western world, then you’ll have to elaborate.”

  “Gladly,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms with self-importance.

  He explained to her that there were three parts of a man’s psyche—the id, the ego, and the superego—all of them constantly at war with one another. The id represented man’s savage passion—the ego, his reason. Think of the image of a horse and rider, he said. The ego was the rider, the id, the horse. It was the rider’s job to rein in the superior strength of the horse and keep it from succumbing to society’s temptations.