Freud's Mistress (23 page)

T
hese days, she was always the one waiting.

What's taking him so long? she thought as she paced the floor. He was over an hour late this time.

The pension seemed dingier in the daylight. There was a stain on the quilt at the end of the bed. The wallpaper was peeling in spots, and the floorboards were buckled and scratched. Didn't there used to be a carpet here? She could hear a couple in the next room arguing. And then a door slam. She leaned out the window and caught sight of him entering the hotel.

He came into the room and sat down on the bed next to her, unlacing his shoes. Then he apologized for being late as one does when he is in no way sorry.

A few months ago, he would have been early. A few months ago, she reminded herself, she would not have been here at all.

It was getting increasingly difficult to arrange these meetings because of his schedule. This time, there was little more than a moment's notice.

“I couldn't get a cab. I had to walk blocks until I found one,” he said.

She began fidgeting with her blouse, trying to unbutton the line of tiny buttons. He touched her cheek, pushed her blouse off her shoulders. His lips quickly kissed her stomach. Then he stripped off her clothes and pulled her to him. From the first touch of his fingers, she still felt the thrill. It didn't take much.

•   •   •

O
nce they'd done it on the floor. And once in the bathtub. She liked to bring a bottle in her purse and have several drinks before he arrived. Usually he was able to stay awhile afterward, but today he drew away from her and began fumbling for his pants.

“I have to go.”

“So soon? You just got here.”

“I have a patient waiting . . .” he said, in the same tone he used with Martha when he wanted to get out of the room. She watched him get dressed, poured herself another drink, then called his name as he walked out the door. He turned back to look at her with an impassive expression.

“Never mind,” she said.

Later, when she went back to the house and resumed her life, a listlessness of spirit would overwhelm her. It wasn't only the fact that she felt a diminished affection on Sigmund's part. But also, the fear of getting caught was beginning to blunt the afterglow of desire.

Sometimes Martha would look at her oddly and say, “Are you all right?” The question would inevitably set off a rush of despair in her gut and she'd scream inside with rage, No! I'm not all right.

•   •   •

S
ometime over the next week, a formal envelope arrived, embossed in gold leaf and addressed to Dr. Freud and Frau. The Freuds were invited by Herr Zelinsky and his wife to the opening of the opera and a dinner party afterward in their splendid apartment in the elite Reichsratsstrasse district.

Minna eyed the invitation with more than passing interest as she and Martha sat down in the parlor and sorted through the mail. Gustav Mahler had just been named director of the Hofoper and was currently the most celebrated figure in Vienna. The opera house itself was recently finished in the grand Imperial style with painted, domed ceilings and Doric columns. And, most important, everyone agreed it had excellent acoustics.

“Oh, it's
Don Giovanni
,” said Minna, her voice rising in excitement.

“At least Sigmund won't be bored. Last year it was
Norma
,
and he fell asleep.”

“What a thrill to watch Mahler.”

“Not for me. He's been
such
a disappointment.”

“Disappointment?”

“That whole distasteful conversion business. Now he's a
Catholic
? If you ask me, it won't help him in the least. He
still
won't be invited to the palace. Once a Jew, always a Jew.”

“He had to convert, you know that, or he'd never have been given the appointment.”

“In any event,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “his mother must be rolling over in her grave.”

“Martha, if you don't care that much about the performance, I'd be happy to go in your place,” Minna ventured, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“You mean accompany Sigmund instead of me?” Martha shot back.

“Only if you didn't want to go,” Minna responded, backtracking.

“What gave you that impression? Of course I want to go. It's
the
event of the season.”

“Well, perhaps I'll just buy a ticket.” Minna said, perversely pushing the issue.

“On opening night? It'll be a fortune. And anyway, who'd watch the children?”

Minna stared at her sister without comment and then walked out of the room before she said something she'd regret. Martha's reaction was troubling. Minna knew for a fact that her sister was not a devotee of the opera. And Martha knew for a fact that Minna loved it. Was this simply a case of her sister being insensitive—a blatant disregard for her feelings? Or was Martha suspicious of Minna's motives? For the hundredth time since she arrived back at the house, she wondered, Did her sister
know
? Were there fire clouds under Martha's irritable demeanor? Possibly not. Especially when she later popped her head into Minna's room and graciously offered to give Minna her opera ticket next time.

“We can take turns,” Martha said, diplomatically. “But you know how I adore the opening.”

Thank God, Minna thought. It's not about Sigmund. It's about the party.

On the night of the event, Martha selected a crimson silk evening gown with velvet epaulets and a gored skirt that looked like a half-opened umbrella, black satin boots, and a French jet bracelet borrowed from their mother. Minna walked in as Martha was gathering up her wool capelet and Empire fan. Sophie was fluttering about, telling her mother she looked like a princess, and Mathilde was her usual critical self.

“Mama, that capelet doesn't match. Take your fur instead,” Mathilde insisted. “And you shouldn't be wearing a gold bracelet with silver buckles. Don't mix your metals.”

“Martha, Sigmund's waiting for you,” Minna interrupted.

“Let him wait. It's the opera. We're not catching a train,” Martha said, unhurriedly pinking her cheeks and taking one last look at her profile.

Sigmund was smoking and pacing in the parlor. He was carefully groomed in a formal white waistcoat, top hat, black cravat, and patent leather shoes, and he kept pulling his watch out of his fob pocket, muttering to himself about the hired carriage waiting outside.

“It's about time. We're half an hour late,” he said, annoyed. “And we still have to pick up the Bernheims, who live in the opposite direction. I don't know why you offered to get them in the first place.”

“
Goodness
. You
could
say something nice about the way I look, Sigmund. I'm wearing your favorite dress. A woman needs a compliment now and then, doesn't she, Minna?”

“Absolutely,” Minna said. “Sigmund, tell Martha how lovely she looks.”

Freud rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation and then stubbed out his cigar. He shot Minna a look of helplessness and resignation.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said, in a tone Minna found to be thoroughly unconvincing. Still, it was apparently enough for his wife.

“Now, Minna,” Martha said, “it's getting late. Don't let Sophie talk you into those bedtime stories. She must go to sleep without all the nonsense. And tell Nanny to change the baby before putting her down. She didn't last time, and it was a mess. Oh, dear, my opera glasses,” she said, rushing out of the room.

Minna walked over to Sigmund and brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder.

“And would you like me to do anything for
you
, Sigmund, while you're out?” Minna whispered. “Perhaps shine your shoes?”

“Stop it. That's not funny.”

“I wasn't trying to be funny.”

It was odd to think that in other circumstances, Minna would be happy for her sister. But right now, she detested her. As if this painful incident were all Martha's fault. Sometimes she couldn't even stand herself.

Minna took Sophie's hand in hers and escorted the tired four-year-old upstairs. Mathilde was playing cards with the boys in the parlor and there were faint cries from the nursery, where Nanny was feeding the baby. Sophie's room was strewn with baskets of toys and knickknacks, and all the furniture from the dollhouse was spread out on the rug like a miniature fire sale. Minna felt a headache coming on, the kind that throbs behind the ears and makes the eyes water. She decided to ignore the mess. She was tired and blue. What did she expect when she came back to this house? That he wouldn't go out with his wife? Here she was, feeling sorry for herself because she was left behind at the ball. But the fact of the matter was, she wasn't Cinderella, she was the evil stepsister.

She changed the child into her stiff white nightgown, washed her face and hands, and tucked her into bed. Then she blew out the candle on the dresser and pulled the covers up to her neck. But as Minna bent over to kiss her good night, Sophie put her soft arms around Minna and pulled her down toward her.

“Don't go,” she whispered.

“But, Sophie dear, I'm so tired. I have to go back to my room.”

“Don't go,” she whispered again, her brow creased with worry. “Can't you sthay with me, Tante Minna? I'm sthcared.”

Minna could feel the child's sweet, warm breath on her cheek. She relit the candle and sat down on the side of the bed. She would often read Sophie stories until she fell asleep. Her favorites were Catherine Sinclair's tales about giants and fairies and elves, especially the fairy Do-nothing. She relit the candle next to the bed.

“I'll tell you a story about a beautiful fairy,” said Minna, “whose cheeks were rouged to the very eyes, her teeth set in gold, and her hair of a most brilliant purple.”

•   •   •

T
he next morning, Martha slept late. Minna heard Sigmund leave for the university at his usual early hour, but Martha didn't stir until after eleven. She came down to the parlor in her dressing gown, nursing her cup of coffee and looking for Minna.

“How was the opera?” Minna asked halfheartedly.

“Well,” Martha said, eager to share the events of the evening, “our seats were right behind the royal boxes, and you wouldn't believe the furs—sable, ermine, chinchilla . . . all paws and heads and tails.
Tout
Vienna was there.”

“How nice.”

“Then the royals made a grand entrance, their entourage sat right in front of us. They never stopped talking, you know, through the entire performance. Sigmund was so annoyed. I had to keep him from saying something. By the way, you remember the Rosenthals, don't you? They brought their daughter, who even in her lace décolletage, looked just like her father, poor thing. I heard she was in love with an Italian but couldn't marry him because he's a Christian. In fact, the father went on a hunger strike until the girl signed a document that she would never see the boy again.”

“And the music?”

“Marvelous. That new tenor from Frankfurt was a sensation—standing ovations at the end of each aria. And, of course, Lilli Lehmann was perfection. She's returning to the Met, I hear. Anyway, I'm simply exhausted. The performance lasted until after midnight, and we didn't get to the Zelinskys until one. Sigi was so hungry by then, he stuffed himself. Everyone thought he hadn't eaten for days.”

Minna strained to keep her face from falling as her sister went on and on, describing the gowns, the opulent furnishings, and how much Sigmund had enjoyed himself. It crossed her mind, briefly, that perhaps Martha was doing this on purpose. And it was working. Minna was totally deflated. But the fact was, if she was to continue this duplicitous arrangement, she was just going to have to swallow her resentment, her pride, and learn to live with the fact that Martha was, and always would be, the wife.

W
here
was
he?

Minna stood by the open window of the pension, breathing in the hot air. September had brought some relief, but today was brutal. She could feel the sweat evaporating on her skin, and her palms were wet and sticky. She had even left the door ajar, hoping a breeze would flow through the room. But nothing helped. She heard that some of the better hotels had electric fans on the ceiling and machines that blew air over a bucket of ice. The rich always managed to stay cool.

When they first returned from Switzerland, Minna sat in her room most nights, awaiting Freud's call like a courtesan, eager for one of their late-night discussions. But in the past month, he had summoned her to his study only once, and Minna found herself alone, just like today, waiting for him. But even worse, the last few weeks when he passed her in the hall, there was just a slight change of expression. It seemed as if he purposely wasn't looking over at her. Perhaps he was just being careful, or was distracted by his work, she thought. She still expected him to seek her out after his long hours in the study, to give her a sign, a look, anything that would bring back the sensation of his touch. But he was oddly absent and sometimes, even with six children and Martha in the house, the place seemed deserted.

•   •   •

M
inna couldn't imagine what was taking him so long to get here. The pension was just a few minutes' walk from the university. She stared at the door a little longer. Then she slowly stood up, gathered her belongings, and walked down the claustrophobic stairway to the lobby. She fumbled in her purse for some kronen. . . . Oh, no. Not enough to pay for the room.

The proprietor's small office was just inside the entrance, and Minna approached the young girl sitting behind the desk. She was wrapped in a shawl, even in this heat, and her head was buried in a magazine.

“I won't be needing the room any longer,” Minna began, her voice strained. “May I send you payment in the morning?”

There was an exasperated sigh.

“We require payment upon checkout,” the girl said, without looking up. It was apparent she had said these exact words many times before.

“I was only here two hours,” Minna said brusquely, placing a few kronen on the desk and walking out the door. Let her get off her rump and try to stop me, she thought. What a little guttersnipe.

She paused on the street for a moment, checking to make sure she had everything, her purse, coat, and hat. Yes, she had all her belongings, thank God, because she certainly didn't want to go back in
there
.

It was now almost rush hour, and she crossed the street and dodged the traffic. The circuitous streets around the train station were unknown to her, filled with factory workers holding lunch boxes, and businessmen in dark suits and hats. A swarm of commuters heading home.

Minna walked on, the cobblestones burning and sticky underfoot, her blouse drenched in sweat. Her skirts and petticoat got heavier and damper. How
could
he have forgotten? Hadn't they arranged this last week? Or was it two weeks before? She couldn't remember. Perhaps she should have reminded him this morning. But when? With Martha in the same room, hovering over him? Lately, it had been so hard to catch him alone. When
was
the last time they had had an actual conversation?

The other morning, she had innocently come upon him in the hall and given him a cheerful good day. He responded, in an irritated tone, that his barber was ill and had sent an inept replacement who shaved him horribly, leaving his Adam's apple all “bristly and cutting me under the nose.” Not one word of affection.

Minna fumed just thinking about it. She walked to the corner and absently stepped off the curb. There was a shout and the sound of wooden carriage wheels grinding against cobblestones.

“
My God, woman!
Watch out!
”

The carriage driver yanked his mares away from her, his curses ringing through the air. Minna leapt back on the curb as the horses streaked by, so close she could touch the sweat streaming down their flanks. Goose bumps covered her arms and neck.

“I didn't even see him,” she said to a woman standing nearby. Minna shook her head, now furious at Freud for almost getting her killed. Then she hurried to the next omnibus stop and waited for the ride. She had just enough change to get home.

She arrived at the house before supper. Even before she reached the study, she heard the sound of deep male voices. The door was open, giving Minna an unobstructed view from the hallway. Sigmund was holding a glass of wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. The bastard. Across from him on the couch, staring out through the semi-dark haze of smoke, sat the young doctor from Berlin, Wilhelm Fliess.

Fliess was dark-haired with narrowed brown eyes and a meticulous mustache. Minna had already decided that she disliked the man and his bizarre theories, and it didn't help that Freud was now posting letters to him almost every day. He had once told her that he saw Fliess as a fellow scientific pioneer, someone willing to risk it all for the sake of discovery. But the fact of the matter was, when one is enamored, one is willing to believe anything.

Minna stood silently in the doorway, waiting for a smile from Freud's lips, a wave, or something resembling an apology. She saw the two men look at each other with affection and felt a pull of disappointment in her stomach. It was dispiriting to watch him give Fliess the same all-encompassing focus he had previously bestowed on her. How could he do this? Perhaps they were in the middle of a serious scientific discussion, and he couldn't get away.

But wait. She watched Freud set down his glass of wine and his cigar. He held the familiar blue vial in his hand. A cocainization of his left nostril. And then his right. He handed the vial to Fliess and looked up, turning his face in her direction. He looked infuriatingly indifferent.

“Minna. My dear friend Wilhelm is visiting,” he said, not noticing the bright anger in her cheeks.

“Apparently,” she said, with a stiff smile.

“Fräulein,” Fliess said, kissing her hand, “so nice to see you again. I was just telling Sigmund of my latest findings. . . .”

“I should like to hear it,” Minna said, sitting down uninvited.

“And I should like to tell you. I know Sigmund values your opinion,” Fliess said. “If you start with the theory that both women
and
men have monthly cycles and that these are intimately connected to planetary movements . . . then, take your birthday, multiply it by a factor of five, add the days of your menstrual cycle and, voilà, a diagnosis and prediction of future health issues.”

Minna thought that this lunatic's numerology made astrology seem like an orthodox science. She nodded as if all this made perfect sense.

“Impressive,” she said, thinking, Yes, impressive
for a quack
. What a pretentious ass, and here was Sigmund fussing all over him.

Fliess stayed for supper and then a late snack. At midnight, he followed Freud back into his study, where they were ensconced until dawn.

The next day, Fliess arrived before noon, and the two men launched, yet again, into feverish discourse, Freud sweeping him into his study as if he were a visiting head of state. He returned the following day, and the days after, arriving early in the morning, loitering in the parlor, trailing the scent of his Maria Mancini cigars and lilac shaving cream, thumbing through newspapers, helping himself to tinned biscuits and candied fruits from the pantry. He'd become a fixture in the household, exchanging little pleasantries with the help. Minna found herself standing behind corners and doors, straining to hear what they were saying, registering a cool expression when she happened to run into them.

They discussed Plato, Dante, Stendhal's musings on passion (even bringing up the indelicate fact that the man dropped dead of syphilis on the streets of Paris).

“‘
Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam.
'
Horace, first book of
Odes
, number four,” recited Fliess at dinner one day, while all the Freud children sat there unnoticed and completely bored.

“‘Life's brief total forbids us cling too long off hope,'” translated Freud, “But don't you feel the earlier parts of the book merit equal adoration?
‘Quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres, sublimi feriam sidera vertice.'
”

Minna had heard enough. She went upstairs and walked to the dresser, where her books were piled up in a messy heap. Ah, there it was, the copy of Homer she had borrowed from Sigmund last month. Childish game, tossing around quotes in Latin. She could toss quotes, if she wanted to. She threw the book on the floor. There! She had tossed quotes.

Oh, dear. She picked up Homer and placed him back on the dresser. It wasn't
his
fault.

•   •   •

A
nd so it went. One day she found Fliess in the parlor, snacking on Sacher torte and holding up his coffee cup to Minna, blithely signaling a refill.

A few days later, she was awakened by a violent downpour. A constant stream of water dripped, dripped, dripped on the floor near her bed, the sound of it amplifying as she placed a lead saucepan under the leak. She opened the wooden shutters, thinking the world looked oppressive—the skies, the trees, the river, all blending together in a dense blur of gray.

She dressed mechanically and walked downstairs to supervise the children's breakfast, getting as far as the parlor. And there was Fliess, sitting like Goldilocks in Freud's chair, reading his newspaper and drinking coffee from a delicate cup and saucer belonging to Martha's “good china,” a set that no one used.

How odd to be jealous of a man. Just looking at Fliess made her sick. His beady little eyes, his Neanderthal forehead, and bushy tangled beard. His eyebrows joined in the middle. And his voice. How annoying and ironically nasal. Physician, heal thyself!

She watched him take a sip of the coffee, sloshing the dark liquid into the saucer, then abstractedly placing the cup directly onto the antique side table. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the cup and wiped off the table with her skirt.

“You'll leave a ring,” she said, her voice tightening. Then she heard a noise behind her and saw Freud standing in the doorway, his eyes dark and remote.

“You can wipe up later,” he said brusquely, not even using her name.

She was about to respond, but his expression had narrowed and hardened, so she plunked the cup back into the wet saucer and walked out of the room without saying a word.

How dare he treat her like a fussy housekeeper. She went back upstairs to nurse her depleted spirits, but a creeping feeling of dread rose from her stomach and filled her head. To her astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes.