Freud's Mistress (20 page)

T
he 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 German 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.

He then described the third part of man's psyche, the superego, which, he believed, was the most stunning of his scientific discoveries. According to his theory, the superego could be compared to the conscience, but, as he hastened to point out, it was more complicated than that. The superego was an unconscious, highly critical judge that condemned, rewarded, or punished man's unacceptable id impulses.

“I'm not sure I understand, Sigmund,” she interrupted. “How does this all work? Who's fighting who?”

He paused for a moment, his gaze trained brightly on her.

“Well, for example, if a man is wildly attracted to a woman, it's the passion of his id that seeks expression. However, should civilized rules somehow deem this passion sinful, then the ego fights back, repressing the id. But the superego could also join the fray and exert harsh self-judgment. Even to the point of trying to put a stop to this overwhelming attraction. However, one would be doing oneself more harm than good by trying to keep all these elements in check. There would be no inner peace.”

“So what you're saying is,” she said, with a certain wry humor, “to be happy, one must let these drives have their say.”

“Exactly, my dear.”

As usual, Minna thought. Happiness, in Freud's world, was all about sex.

The hours went by. They slept and read, put their coats back on, complained to the porters about the cold, and braced themselves on the bench, as the train climbed up the steep side of the valley and then leveled out to the Wetterhorn mountain range. There were stunning views wherever one looked, and he talked of their destination in Maloja, the hidden lakes, waterfalls, high alpine pastures, and air that made one light-headed.

Later on, she rested her head gently on his shoulder and clasped her gloved hand over his. She could not remember when she had felt happier. And the farther the train traveled to this cold, unearthly place, the more elated she felt. She was free, in the way that prisoners are free when they make a run for it. And although, deep down, she knew this divine interlude was fleeting, the specter of her fate did not alter her mood. In the glare of the afternoon light, she shielded her eyes and tried to ignore the fact that she was doing absolutely the wrong thing.

T
he platform at the Maloja stop was deserted when Minna and Freud stepped off the train in the late afternoon. No one was in sight, except a young girl clad in a theatrical version of the local dirndl, standing in front of her souvenir cart, her grizzled mountain dog dozing next to her.

Freud impatiently paced the platform, searching for a cab, while Minna wandered over to the young girl and looked at postcards featuring soaring glaciers and close-ups of edelweiss and trout.

They had apparently just missed a party of officers from the local garrison, who had commandeered all the hansom cabs for an arriving member of the imperial family and his entourage. The stationmaster told her that the royals were staying at the same hotel, the Hotel Schweizerhaus, and when she looked surprised, he informed her that they always came this time of year for “our fresh air and the restorative waters of the mountain springs.” Other transportation, he said, would be available in a few minutes.

Minna settled herself on a crudely fashioned wooden bench and breathed in the crisp, clean air floating off the mountains, the husky aroma of pine mixed with wildflowers. Just before they boarded the next cab, she noticed Freud cross the platform to the souvenir cart, where he bought a postcard and slipped it into his pocket.

After seven they arrived at their destination, an elegant alpine resort, high above the tree line, surrounded by gardens and manicured paths. The sun, which sometimes stayed out until ten at night, was hidden behind clouds moving in from the glacial regions. The temperature was plunging and a light flurry of snow dusted the windows, but the grand Art Nouveau lobby was warm and glowing with exquisite chandeliers and luscious, inviting sofas. A group of bejeweled women in evening gowns lounged in leather club chairs, speaking snippets of French and German, and Minna could hear the sound of violins floating in from the dining room. One red-haired beauty in a gold silk wrap was wearing a small tiara, discreetly nestled in a clump of curls, and she handed a waiter an empty goblet as he walked by, signaling him to refill it.

Minna let out a soft, delighted laugh. She smiled at Freud and he squeezed her hand in response.

“Does this meet with your approval?” he asked.

“It's a shame you couldn't find us a nice hotel,” she teased, looking around the room.

The bellman brought in their bags, while a butler offered them refreshments and directed them to the reception desk. There she stood beside him, suddenly self-conscious, her nerves tingling in her fingertips as she stared down at the beech-wood parquet floors. She heard him give his name to the chilly desk manager, emphasizing the fact that he had reserved a deluxe mountain-view room. Then, briefly raising her eyes, she watched in silence as he signed the worn, leather-bound registry.

Dr. Sigm. Freud u Frau.

•   •   •

H
e led her by the arm into the elevator and down the hall, her skirt softly sweeping the highly polished floor, which smelled faintly of beeswax. He turned the large brass key in the lock and opened the door. The room was lovely. There was a wide balcony with a view of the mountains, a high vaulted ceiling, patterned wallpaper, a fireplace, two plump armchairs, and a chandelier lit by electric lights. And then there was the bed. It was carved white-lacquered wood with a canopy of elaborately draped trousseau lace, like a wedding veil. On either side, there were matching bed tables, and in the corner of the room, a writing desk laden with silver trays of cheese, chocolates, and, in a silver bucket of ice, a bottle of champagne. From the moment Freud had signed the hotel ledger, she was no longer who she was, or she was someone other than herself. But this place made duplicity easy to forget.

Minna chided herself about her next thought. Here she was on the honeymoon she would never have, with a man who would never be her husband. No sense thinking about reality—it ruined everything. She did, however, think briefly about the romance novels she read as a girl, and the heroine at the end of the book who would triumphantly declare, “And then, kind reader, I married him.”

The first thing he did was uncork the bottle of champagne and pour them both a glass. He drank it down like a beer, winced from the bubbles, and then opened his valise and took out his vial of liquid coca. He motioned for her to come near.

“Again?” she asked.

“It's an aphrodisiac.”

“And all this isn't?” she said, glancing around the room.

He gave her an indulgent smile as he dabbed a drop of coca in each of her nostrils and repeated the dose on himself. And once again for both of them. He watched her get up and walk to the balcony, open the door, and step out. He followed her, shivering in the mountain air, and wrapped his arms around her. Faint strains of a romantic Viennese waltz floated up from the dining room. She felt that first, now familiar rush.

“It's freezing,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “Let's go back inside.”

Minna followed him, standing a moment in front of the fire; then she flicked off the lights and lit a candle by the bed. He handed her the bottle of coca again, which she dabbed inside her nostrils. She sniffed deeply, rubbed her temples, and sneezed a few times.

She thought back to her situation a few days before. The hopelessness. Despondency. And now, with the coca coursing through her system, she felt only jubilation. She wasn't sure whether it was solely the coca or the expensive room. But everything was undeniably more romantic, more thrilling than anyplace she had ever been. A cheap rooming house had its charms but . . .

She plumped the pillows on the bed and was about to lie down when she noticed a large brown spot at the hem of her skirt. What was this? Some kind of dirt? Minna felt herself sweating. Her clothes were so heavy and cumbersome, covered with soot from the train. She felt like a pile of unwashed laundry.

“Would you like some supper?”

“I'm not in the least bit hungry. How can you ask that?” she said, wandering into the bathroom.

He heard the water running. “Minna? Minna, what are you doing?”

“I can't hear you over the bathwater. . . .”

“Are you taking a bath?”

“Not yet . . .”

There was a shelf above the tub, laden with expensive bath salts, powders, collections of soap, and thick Turkish towels embroidered with a gold
S
. She inhaled the sweet smell of lavender and rose as she waited for the tub to fill. She didn't notice him standing by the door, watching her as she poured in the salts and oils, peeled off all her clothes, and climbed into the bath, her heavy locks of hair unraveling on her wet back.

Dear Lord, she thought as she immersed herself in the warm water, cleanse me from my sins.

•   •   •

L
ater, as the two of them lay in each other's arms, she asked, “I wonder what life would have been like if we were married?”

“I know what life would have been like.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Of course.”

“I wrote an essay on this once.”

“I don't recall.”

“It was called Civilized Sexual Morality et cetera, et cetera, with the emphasis on the ‘Civilized.'”

“And you concluded?”

“A satisfying sexual relationship in marriage lasts only a few years. After a while, the wife is weighed down by her domestic duties, the children, the household, et cetera, and the passion disappears. In addition, contraceptive methods cripple desire . . . and can even cause disease. . . .”

Minna raised her eyebrows in annoyance. It was obvious Sigmund was using his marriage to her sister as the universal example, and she didn't want to listen to this any longer. Not now.

“My conclusion was that spiritual disillusionment and bodily deprivation doom most marriages, and the husband is left with only dim memories of the way it once was. Furthermore—”

“Stop, Sigmund! Enough! It wasn't an academic question.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“Something different . . . something complimentary. Tell me that you'd worship me,” she said.

He smiled as he looked at her lying next to him, her skin warm and glowing from the bath.

“I'd worship you,” he teased, running his hand down her back. “I'd walk through fire for you. I'd climb—”

“All right.” She laughed. “That's enough. Never mind.”

Afterward, as she sank into the pillows, she heard the loud, lurid call of a snow finch rattling on and on.