Secret Dreams (61 page)

‘it can't,” Herr Doktor answered. But secretly to himself he said: It is, the same, the very same.

After a moment the elder man smiled wryly. “Unless, of course, you're implying the Schanderein girl is sending out her dreams by mental wireless. First you, then me, then perhaps the emperor's cabinet ministers? Do you think you might use your influence with the girl to put in a good word for me concerning certain imperial medical appointments?”

His young friend chuckled slyly “Only on certain terms and conditions. That I am personally entitled to the discovery, the lectures, the tours, the publications, and so forth. Are we agreed?”

The elder man opened his hands in submission. “The world rights are yours….” Then rose as their business was concluded. “The front desk is holding our tickets. I suppose we should claim them.”

“I'm a terrible sailor,” the younger man admitted sheepishly. “Vomit continuously, day and night.”

“Ah, then I'm sure you will make a charming berth companion. How are you as a stuffed shirt? Did you remember to bring your dinner jacket?”

Herr Jung's face turned pale. “My God? I forgot. Do you think I can hire one?”

“You'll have to. Besides, you can't be a genuine stuffed shirt unless you're stuffed into someone else's cummerbund. I've saved my father's for all special occasions. The silk is a little threadbare in the back, but then no gentleman takes off his dinner jacket in public, unless it is to revive a faint woman with a flapping noise. Shall we go in to lunch?”

The hotel restaurant was called Die Konzert. The Concert, In keeping with the tale of the Bremen Town Musicians, the hotel of the same name had decorated the restaurant with small black silhouettes illustrating the famous story. The two-dimensional flats stenciled around the dining room walls in a narrative band that retold the tale in pictures. À tale of poor, aged animals cast out of their homes, farms, and occupations,

First, a fly-bitten jackass sitting on a broken millstone. Then a cat purring sleepily beside some playful mice. À dog limping along on bandy legs after a measly bone. A ruffled rooster with drooping feathers perched on an iron cooking pot.

In the first scene, the robbers were feasting grandly at a table laden with food and drink. Then leaping up in fright as all the animals burst in upon them, each on the shoulders of the next: ass, dog, cat, and rooster crowing away on top. Then a silhouette of the animals around the abandoned table, feasting on the spoils of victory. While a short way off a robber tried to sneak up on them, cudgel in hand. Then the riot of the animals: The cat hissing and scratching like a witch. The dog biting the robber's leg. The ass giving him a kick in the arse. The feather-loose rooster clapping over his head as the lout scampered off. And finally a silhouette of the animals sleeping contentedly in a friendly heap.

Herr Professor was so taken with the silhouettes he spent some time wandering around the restaurant, following the path of the story. But his mind was not on the hopeful tale of the animals' fortunate fellowship in their struggle against incontinent old age —- no, his mind was consumed with the face and bearing of his young colleague. The younger man's look of vague apprehension at the mention of the girl's drawings. The slight turn of guilt over the “countertransference.” And at the words “gifts of love,” the flash of anger of one unjustly accused. Then answering every question with a question, as if, yes, Herr Jung himself had once felt the promptings of his own desires. A host of little signs, but not the hint of the bold, daring denial required to pull off a grand deception.

Had the boy slept with her, or not?

Herr Professor paused at the final silhouette of the Bremen Town Musicians' tale: the animals sleeping together in a heap. Sleeping the earned sleep of the just. The dark-purple circles under young Herr Doktors eyes meant the trouble had not vanished. And the boy was trying to hide it. Saying nothing. Admitting nothing. Unable to choose between maiden and wife. Letting the women and the world think what they wanted. The young man had stumbled down a sloping path, avoided problems at every turn. And yes, the easy way out was steadily killing him. Feeding off his insides.

Damn you, Herr Professor swore. Why didn't you come to me with this? I've lived longer, Seen more. I know more, I could have helped you. We would have searched for a solution….

Several of his colleagues at their long table called Herr Professor away from his dark thoughts to join them so they might begin. The wine was being served with a herring. The herring mustn't wait.

A small package had been placed in the midst of them like a centerpiece, The gift, about the size of a narrow perfume bottle, wrapped in white tissue paper with a black bow at the neck. It had a strangely girlish appearance. “Open it! Open it!” Herr Professor tugged at the ribbon,- the tissue fell away. The gift was an ancient bit of reddish rock. A miniature totem symbol, called a herm — unmistakably a phallus.

Herr Professor roared with mirth. “Why, gentlemen, how very thoughtful!” He picked up the stone, examining it more closely. “For the man who's lost everything, I presume!” Hoots of laughter. “Why, it reminds me of my youth.” A rustle of applause. “Or of my father. Or both. My father's youth!” More laughter.

Now everyone began talking at once.

“Here, pass him around. I want a look.”

“I should get one for a patient.”

“A woman, no doubt.”

“No, a man. Pass the wine.”

“A toast! Master, give us a toast!”

The glasses were filled again as they passed the stone god of manness from hand to hand. Herr Professor rose to give a toast. Clinking his wineglass with a spoon for quiet. The table settled down.

“Thank you for arranging this bon voyage lunch for myself and our newest colleague. I propose we drink to a rational sea crossing and to Clark University of Massachusetts, for their portentous surplus of honorary degrees!”

Everyone said, “Prosit!” and drained his glass.

Herr Professor caught his young friends eye before their glasses were drained. Saying privately across the table, “And may we find our way.” To this, Herr Doktor raised his glass, locked eyes with the elder man, and downed his wine in one long swallow.

The stone of the herm finally came to the younger man. Vaguely, he heard the others telling the history of the thing. How the name itself meant cairn or pillar,- becoming the object of reverence and worship in the center of a village, stuck in the ground but pointing to heaven. The earliest symbol of the god Hermes. How in the womb of the fertile mother stones the erect herm planted the seed of all life…. An odd reluctance came over him to handle the object. It no longer felt like hard dead stone, but warm and pliant, as though flesh and blood. His head buzzed. Why did they talk so loudly around the table?

He looked at the herm and how it seemed somewhat larger in length and breadth, indecently huge like those Japanese drawings. Then he noticed it stealthily growing upward out of his hand. Didn't anyone see? Didn't anyone want it to stop? Any moment he feared it would strike the roof of the dining room.

Then everyone would see. And they'd know.

What he did to the girl.

How he failed her in the end.

“Herr Jung, are you all right?”

“Herr Jung?”

He leaped to his feet. “I'm all right, for God's sake! Can't you see I'm all right!” The herm stone slipped from his grip and fell to the pol-ished wood floor with a horrible crack. The table went silent. Herr Doktor picked up the herm and offered it across the table like a sacrifice. Stammering, “I'm sorry. Terribly sorry.”

Herr Professor's gnarled hands took the two broken pieces of the herm stone in tremulous fingers. “I'm sure it can be mended….” Part of him went far away. A tiny voice said, This must be analyzed. What simple evidence. In the two pieces of a stone phallus, a young man's lust for a girl. Not the gift of love. But a broken promise …

He glanced around the table. To his dismay, the dining room had emptied. Colleagues gone. Waiters gone. Only Herr Doktor, staring coolly at him with knowing eyes. Scornful eyes that said: So you think you can judge me, Father? Well, maybe in front of your band of toads…

But not in
here
.

Herr Doktor touched a finger to his head. In here, it's just you and me. Which one prevails. No truth. No lies. No place to hide …

Night reared up around them. The elder man bolted from the luncheon table into the gaping dark. Vines and tendrils lashed his face. He fought the mounting panic. Don't run! Whom do you fear? A naked stranger in a stranger's dream?

Behind him the leaves crackled in pursuit. The Slayer and his mob. But no matter how hard he tried to run, trees blocked his path. He stumbled on a root and took forever rising to his knees. His leaden feet were stuck in muddy tar. The bloody, wet antler hide dragged him down. He tried to tear the stinking thing away. He ran wildly, blindly, the hide clinging to his head, running for his life.

The rabble caught him at the birthing cave. Their hands ripped him, tearing at his limbs. “I showed him how to cure her!” he howled. “I showed you all the way!” But they snatched the words from his mouth. A cruel blade bit into his belly. He saw his entrails ravel out in lengths. Eager hands plunged into Herr Professor's open cavity.

And god-king Jung held his living guts to the face of the moon.

The elder man came back to the crowded luncheon table. The broken herm lay before him on the white tablecloth. Herr Doktor had apologetically resumed his seat. But the eyes of the younger man stared out through a blank mask, cold and hungry. Ja, Herr Professor thought, he's betrayed his wife. Had the girl. With no intention of taking her forever. Had her like a whore. Even now I can feel his will beating down upon me. Urging me to silence. So he can slit my throat. Steal my work. Make it his. While the life bleeds out my veins and I shrivel into dust… And then a single clear, brutal thought overcame all else. A thought of despair and irrevocable tragedy. My God, this Jung will survive me. Live beyond my years. Watch my death and still keep on. Survive me.

Sur—

The company jumped to their feet. Herr Professor had slipped back in his chair, gripping the tablecloth. His wineglass sluiced in a stream. The broken herm rolled off the edge, this time breaking into a dozen unmendable fragments. Restaurant diners gawked.

Orders shouted. No one listening. “Look out, he's fainted! Check his pulse! Hold his head! Don't let it fall!”

Then the voice of authority. “Here, I'll take him.” And it was Herr Doktor who lifted the stricken man from the chair. Who helped him to an adjoining room. Who set him on a couch. The other fellows of their party hovered about uselessly.

The elder man's eyes fluttered.

“You've just had a faint. Rest here now.” He rose to leave. The old man's hand commanded him to wait.

“Stay!” he croaked.

“Don't try to talk.”

Then, with effort, “I understand. About you and her. You and me. We don't have to fight. There's room enough. Time enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For everything,” he rasped. “Before I
lose
you.”

The younger man sank to his knees, taking the soft, lined monkey's paw of his elder friend. “You'll never lose me. You never will. Let me tell you everything,” he begged softly, “All of it. Confess.”

Herr Professor shut his eyes in weariness. Insisting, “Not necessary … you cured her. After all, Herr Doktor Jung, you
did
cure her.”

“She cured herself.”

The older man sadly shook his head; that wasn't what he meant. He meant a method doesn't cure a man's soul, Only a person can cure another person. Not a method. Methods were for nincompoops and schoolbooks and blind worms groping, with no minds of their own. “Yes, Î know she did,” he found the strength to say. “I know. She took your hand and climbed from the pit. In the end she cured herself. But …” He drifted, lapsing again,

“Who cures us?”

They boarded ship the next morning, setting sail. The trip went splendidly. Herr Doktor threw up across the Atlantic,- and he rented a tuxedo in New York. They had newspaper pictures taken in Worcester, Massachusetts, with Stanley Hall, president of Clark University. Another photo was taken of their group as a memento of their journey, the Master among his disciples: A. A. Brill of New York; Ernest Jones of London, England,- Sandor Ferenczi of Budapest, Hungary,-C. G. Jung of Küsnacht, Switzerland.

Their audience was lively and attentive, even showing flashes of hostility and rejection. But now they were speaking with one voice, drowning out the howls of the mob. They returned across the ocean triumphant. Each man to his home. Where analytic societies were to be formed in each capital. A disciple at every helm.

Fräulein unpacked her drawings. Herr Professor Freud had included a note with them. “Shall we talk about this upon my return?” Shall we? she wondered. She put the pictures away and did not look at them again. What had they to talk about? Could he put a spell on Herr Doktor, making him forget Frau Emma and fall for her instead? Would he marry Fräulein to her prince in a secret place, where they might live together, have children, and grow old as if nothing came before … ?

No, the great man could do none of that. No secret place to go. Not even the dream tale. Nowhere …

She swept the floor of her tiny flat and made the bed. She did the dishes in the sink and washed the tile in the bathroom. When she fell asleep that night she dreamt of the wolf, but he seemed vague and tired. White fuzz had grown around his muzzle, and he did not seem particularly interested in devouring anybody. She awoke to the sound of cart bells in the street. Mother was coming today.