Freud's Mistress (16 page)

T
he next morning, Minna slipped out of the house early and headed for the café at the edge of town. Gusts of icy wind from the night before had quieted down, but the breeze was still strong enough to ruffle the curbside litter and blow her hat off her head. She intended to consult the local newspaper for employment positions, but as she looked around at the barren landscape and sullen little houses, she suspected she'd have to widen her search. Everything here had that bitter aftertaste of being left behind.

When she reached the café, she grabbed the newspaper on her way in and sat at a table in the back. Then she fished in her pocket for some kronen and pulled out a small piece of paper. What was this? The script was unmistakable. It was from him.

Thursday, February 2. 4 o'clock. Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten, Hamburg

That was the day after tomorrow. Impossible, she thought. She considered throwing the note in the rubbish and pretending she never saw it. It would be so easy. It's what she
should
do. But instead, she folded it up, put it back into her pocket, and tried to proceed with her day. I'll deal with it later, she told herself, treating it like an enormous bill that one couldn't possibly afford to pay. But, in truth, Sigmund's message weighed on her body like a brick. When had he put it in her coat? Why hadn't he just told her he'd be in Hamburg? Perhaps he had a conference, although the timing was suspicious.

She ordered a coffee, propped her head on her hands, and tried to concentrate on the ads, circling a few promising ones. Guilt—an exercise in self-indulgence. That's what Sigmund would say. “You don't need to suffer it unless you choose to.” Nonsense. Guilt was not a choice. No one would choose to feel as if her life had deteriorated into a morass of longing and pain. There was no part of her that was unaware of the danger in seeing him again . . . but, in the end, she knew that she would meet him.

•   •   •

O
n Thursday, Minna took a train back to Hamburg and walked a few blocks to a pub located slightly below street level. It was cold, dark, and cavernous, like purgatory, a perfect place to wait. She took off her hat, ordered a coffee, and warmed her hands on the cup.

She pulled a pocket mirror from her handbag and appraised her face. Her eyes were slightly rimmed in red and her lips were dry. She smeared a bit of tinted salve on her lips and then noticed one cheek was more pinked than the other. Thankfully, her mother hadn't noticed the rouge. In her opinion, makeup was only for prostitutes and actresses.

She thought about her mother chattering away this morning, happy because she assumed Minna had all but obtained a prestigious position with the Kassel family, a fact that Minna had grossly exaggerated. What was simply Minna's response to an advertisement in the local newspaper, had now, thanks to her duplicity, become a certainty. Well, she was positive the Kassels would at least ask for her credentials when they received her letter of inquiry.

“You know the Kassel family
is
one of the oldest in Frankfurt . . . and well known here as well. How did you say they'd heard about you? The baroness? She must have offered quite a ringing endorsement for them to arrange to see you so soon.”

Minna was deep in thought when the waiter asked her if she would like another coffee.

“No, thank you . . . but I will have a whiskey,” she said, with a strained smile.

The waiter hesitated a moment—this was an attractive, seemingly refined woman, drinking alone in the middle of the day. Not his usual customer. He set down a shot glass beside her coffee cup and filled it to the top, then leaned against the back of the bar and watched her drain the glass. She felt the long, slow slide of the liquor flow through her system.

“Another?” he asked, in a tone that Minna didn't quite like.

“No, thank you,” she said, motioning for the check. Then she paid the bill and left.

The wind from the sea had started up again; it smelled of salt and brine and whipped her coat open as she walked down the street. She considered her route and then cut through the St. Pauli neighborhood, the global capital of louche, its Reeperbahn one of Europe's most notorious red-light districts. She and Martha would always walk well away from it when they were girls, warned by Emmeline that it was a sordid place where seamen came to spend their kronen. But it was the most direct route to the hotel, so what the hell? And, besides, in the daylight, Grosse Freiheit's bars and cabarets were boarded up, the Teutonic whores and their clientele hungover or dead asleep. No danger for her here.

She passed several bars, then avoided a pile of debris, and crossed over to a more refined area where the town burghers had recently undertaken a beautification project. By the time she reached the hotel, it was past three. She had managed to stall for nearly three hours.

She hesitated for a moment in front of the heavy iron door to the fashionable hotel, then pulled it open and walked in. For a few moments, the glare from the sun was intense and blinding, the way it is just before it gives up and sinks into the dusk. And then she saw him. He was standing in the lobby with his back toward her, silhouetted in the fading light.

It was extraordinary, she thought, how familiar he was to her now. His hair, his stance, the way he held his head . . . there was something distinctive about him, even from behind. He turned to her.

“I wasn't sure you'd come.”

“You knew I would,” she said, putting her gloved hand in his.

•   •   •

I
t was not yet dark, an ungodly time for a man and woman to be in bed. She had entered a new world, a secret world, she thought, where you don't go to the place you're going, and you disappear once you get there. And, when you return, you pretend that nothing happened. Anonymity is everything. You can't risk direct looks, simple exchanges are often transparent, and the mundane is transformed into the hypnotic. There is mutual agreement about what is safe and what is not, a certain modicum of polite behavior upon meeting, and then that wash of relief as you finally fall together behind closed doors and ignite into flames.

They stood next to each other in the back of the wood-paneled elevator, nerves tingling, staring straight ahead at the wrought-iron door, pretending that they weren't together. The old elevator operator glanced back.

“Floor, sir?”

“Seven, please.”

“And you, Fräulein?”

“Seven,” she said, not looking at Freud.

The man didn't blink as he closed the door and pushed the lever sideways. She heard the cranking of the gears as she saw the elegant lobby fall away beneath her. Sigmund had checked in earlier. It was all so carefully planned and beautifully executed. Pitch perfect. And here they were. Two strangers in an elevator.

As soon as they were alone in the room, he pressed himself against her, and a wave of desire hit her as he pulled off her coat and then her blouse. She could see by his expression he felt the same way.

“Have you missed me?” he asked.

“What's wrong with you? How can you ask me that?”

One would have to be made of stone, she thought, to turn away from these feelings. She felt almost inhuman, wicked and exhilarated. It was a delicious depravity.

Afterward, he leaned across her body, opened the bedside table drawer, and took out a pack of cigarettes. For the first time, she noticed a champagne bottle in a silver ice bucket and two glasses on the dresser.

“Here, my love,” he said tenderly. “I brought these for you.”

She took a cigarette from the box, sat up in bed, and leaned her head against the headboard. He lit it for her. She inhaled once or twice, then rolled out of bed, snubbed it out on the windowsill, and reached for her clothes.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “I have the whole evening.”

“I have to get back. Mother will worry.”

“Pity. Let her wait.”

“She'll wonder where I am.”

“Only if it inconveniences her supper. Let's talk.”

“Are you going to tell me how modern we are, how deliciously unrespectable? Or are you going to try to cure me of ‘us'?”

“Impossible. There is no cure,” he said, kissing her, tasting the smoke on her mouth. “Come back to bed.”

Later, before she left him, she glanced around the room—the white towels like puddles on the bathroom floor, the sheets askew, empty crystal flutes by the bed. She thought of tangled arms and legs, wet and slick. The light slipped through the draped window, like a secret message under the door. He called her to him. She bent over and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He pulled a strand of her hair back from her face and stared at her, silent, thoughtful.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I'm wondering when I can see you again.”

“Don't spoil it.”

“Aren't you thinking the same thing?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I'm counting the hours. Is that what you want to hear?” she said.

“I want to hear the truth.”

“The truth is that it's hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless.”

B
efore she boarded the train home, Minna stopped at the Apotheke near the hotel. The ritual of prophylactic douches after sexual intercourse had not been foremost on her mind, chiefly because after their first encounter, she had resolutely decided never to see him again. Not that she couldn't have conceived the first time. What was she thinking? She wasn't. But now she must be smart and take precautions like any married woman or prostitute on the block. The safest thing, of course, would have been to jump out of bed and perform the ritual right there in the hotel bathroom. But for whatever reason, she didn't have the potion or the apparatus. She entered the small establishment, passing walls of apothecary cabinets with neatly labeled drawers. She was matter-of-fact in her tone with the chemist, and so was he as he handed her a uterine syringe and a premixed solution of water and carbolic acid.

Before she even greeted her mother, she rushed upstairs to the bathroom and performed the necessary procedure. Then she hid the syringe in her valise and later stuffed it in the dustbin. She would not need it again.

“So? Did you get the position?” Emmeline asked.

“I think so,” Minna answered.

“Well, they certainly took their time with the interview. You've been gone for hours.”

Minna spent the better part of the evening plagued by a foreboding she feared might be the end of her. And she spent the better part of the night wide awake, staring into the darkness. At one point she got up and walked into the bathroom. I am a monster, Minna thought as she gazed at her cold, hard reflection in the mirror. She couldn't stop thinking about the sex. Being with this man yet again was like plunging into a pool of quicksilver. Deadly poison and yet a godsend.

She should have been embarrassed by her ardor. She should have been more demure. She had clung to his body for hours, their faces glistening like glass. Right before she left, she confessed that her encounter with him had been shockingly thrilling. He told her that these drives were instinctive and basic, for women as well as for men, and sexual satisfaction was the key to emotional happiness.

So why wasn't she happy? Somehow she felt they had touched each other everywhere and nowhere.

Shortly after she finally fell asleep, she was up again, agitated, edgy, listening to the clock ticking on her mantel, a restless neighbor's dog howling pitifully down the street, and, every hour on the hour, the faint, mournful echoes of the church bells of St. Michaelis. If Minna were Catholic, she would go to confession, gain absolution, and go on with her life. Why did that sound more appealing than doing penance in front of her old rabbi in one of the three daily prayer services at her mother's synagogue? Perhaps the Catholics knew what they were doing when they invented the confessional booth that shielded one's secrets from judgmental eyes. At one point, she got up and drank a glass of water, but her mouth was still dry. She was chilled and then inexplicably hot and fretful. How could something so basic and peaceful as sleep be such torture?

She had read of women who openly turned away from the confines of Victorian conduct, women who talked of the pleasures of eros, women now hidden behind burning cheeks and migraine headaches. But who would be willing to stand in the fire to feed this hungry beast?

Still, if she were to throw herself on the mercy of the court, forced to take an oath of honesty, she would have to admit that it was not without regret that she left him there without any hint of future assignations. But there was no other choice.

Luckily, the next day, a message arrived from the Kassel sisters, offering her a provisional position as a lady's companion at their home, depending upon their mutual satisfaction and compatibility.

When Minna finally bid her mother good-bye, she felt an unexpected tug of sadness. There was little show of emotion on both sides, and she knew, as she always did, that her mother was relieved to get back to her solitary life. This was a staunch and upright woman who had been hit by a series of bitter losses and who could never forget decades of major and minor slights from neighbors, relatives, close friends, and even her own daughters. Somehow she always forgave Martha, but not Minna.

Being home reminded Minna that as a young woman she had chosen a different life for herself, but it never seemed to work out the way she had envisioned. Shadowing her wherever she went was the issue of what to do next, never being settled, never getting anything quite right. Leaving her mother's house should mean that she would be happier someplace else. But the reality was, she was leaving for a life of servitude and self-denial. A life that was considered refined, yet for her, a misfortune. Misery in opulent surroundings.

•   •   •

T
he house of Kassel was an old-line family in Frankfurt, and the spinster sisters, Bella and Louisa, were the end of the dynasty. They lived in an elegant, neoclassic manor in the Sachsenhausen district, with three floors, four reception rooms, eight bedrooms, and four baths. It was a handsome, white-painted structure with rectangular multipaned windows capped with elaborate decorative moldings. The overall impression of the structure was of simplicity, proportion, and balance—a philosophy the sisters had discarded long ago. Everything about the place was tasteless but exuberant.

Minna's accommodations were on the top floor, overlooking the hedges and formal back gardens. After her luggage was deposited on the landing, she was summoned to a reception room, where she found herself in the middle of an overstuffed feminine nest, crowded with a hodgepodge of ornate furnishings. The room was old, grand, and freezing. The walls were a startling ruby red, the windows draped with fringed swags layered over heavy side panels. And she had never seen so much bric-a-brac in one room—photographs, watercolors, statuettes, books, vases, two Turkish helmets used as flowerpots, rococo-gilded mirrors, and a profusion of jade and rose quartz figurines. In addition, most of the artwork consisted of badly rendered imitations of past masters, the kind of things found in pawnshops.

Decor such as this was not uncommon, Minna thought. Her prior employer, the baroness, was the victim of a similar, barely inhabitable craze. In fact, to Minna's mind, many people of wealth blithely bastardized whatever jumble of styles they fancied in an homage to the nobility of the past.

Minna found the two sisters propped up by fringed pillows on the burled walnut sofa. Louisa, the oldest, was about four foot ten with a pale, severe face and a nervous twitch. She placed a cold, limp hand in Minna's as she looked at her with nearsighted deprecation.

“Sit down, Fräulein,” she said, motioning to a chair in the corner. No hint of a smile.

Minna reluctantly shrugged out of her coat, but kept it over her shoulders as she sat down next to a cinquecento side table, her knees trembling from the cold. Don't these women believe in heat? she thought. The woman examined Minna over the top of her spectacles as she lectured her about expectations and conduct (continually referring to herself as “we,” meaning herself and her sister) and admonished her that under no circumstances would they tolerate mediums, communists, vegetarians, or vulgar Venetians. And, oh, yes. No alcoholic beverages were permitted by the staff, enforcement carried out by daily inspections.

The younger sister, Bella, who was heavily made up, had inherited the same sharp nose and chin, but in contrast to her birdlike sister, was doughy and overweight. In addition, Minna found that she had a habit of repeating whatever her sister said, as if it had just occurred to her, or, alternatively, finishing her sentences. Bella let Louisa conduct the initial interview without raising her eyes from her needlework. The needles crossed and crossed, clicked and clicked, up and down, again and again. Thank God, at some point, she stopped the infernal clatter and joined in the conversation.

“Sunday lunch we receive our guests.”

“Respected officials and bankers.”

“One should never associate with people below one's rank.”

“We detest social climbers and charitable women.”

“They tend to be so cloying.”

“We have card games on alternate days.”

“And we both sing and play the piano.”

“Also on alternate days.”

“Fridays, we have our parlor games.”

“Usually with our most faithful and genial friend, Julian.”

“
Cher, trop cher
Julian.”

After listening to their silly discourse for over an hour, Minna still had no idea what her duties entailed. But she was told to go to her room, settle in, and begin work in the morning. She assumed she was hired, and that the sisters had looked at the list of references she had sent them, which had included the baroness's name. Fortunately, however, they did not ask to see the baroness's actual
letter of reference, which, of course, was nonexistent.

Minna climbed the stairs to her room, changed out of her simple gray traveling outfit, and put on her robe. She felt unadorned and thoroughly plain. When she glanced at her reflection, she noticed that her hair was weasel brown, her skin dull and lifeless. It was almost as if she had made it her mission to disappear from herself and create a different Minna in a different world, a moral, proper world where people believed in honor, self-denial, and fidelity.

She lay in bed, facing yet another restless night. Even in this fortress of a house, she could hear leaves rustle under the onslaught of heavy winds. Thunder rolled in the distance and she felt that familiar pang of melancholy. Another home to settle into, another set of rules and perverse restrictions. The job had nothing to recommend it, but she hoped that her discomfort and dismay would subside with time. After all, she had managed to escape her mother's house and find a place to stay while she tried to decide what to do with her life.

And what was that exactly?

Another blast of wind hit the roof. Minna prayed she could keep her mind tranquil until morning. She would
not
see him again.

She finally nodded off and was plagued by disturbing dreams. She was abandoned, locked in a vacant house, and no one noticed she was missing. She awoke at five a.m. with a filthy cold, the wind still howling outside, and now she was agonizing over the fact that she had managed to betray the only person who cared about her. She sat up and pushed away such monumental thoughts. It was far easier to complain about physical ailments, and her back did ache and her head throbbed. She got dressed, went down to the kitchen to make some tea, and stood in front of the enormous blackened hearth, which had not yet been lit. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and wondered if there were rules about this, but she was so cold she didn't care. She lit the fire before the scullery maid arrived and sat there warming herself, awaiting the sisters' instructions. As the hours passed, she looked around at cabinets brimming with dishes and serving platters and glasses of all sizes and shapes. She noticed copper pots hung from the ceiling and an entire wall of spices, which infused the air with exotic smells from India, China, and other far-off lands. These women must entertain quite a bit, she thought. But who in the world would want to come here?

She waited there, dozing off and on, until eleven, when the sisters rang for her. She went up to the parlor to find them on the sofa, preparing to go upstairs for a nap. She soon discovered that sleeping was the sisters' foremost pastime and most constant complaint. Daily discussions would revolve around the lack of sleep the night before, how many hours they
did
manage to sleep, and at what time they would go to their rooms during the day to “reflect,” which meant a nap. Minna was instructed to dispense pills, medical prescriptions, and pepsin, as well as figure out how much infusion from the pharmacy bag was just the right amount for a satisfactory night's sleep. The sisters would talk about sleep from morning to well into the night, and they were always suffering from a state of “inertia,” an affliction they attributed to lack of sleep rather than their unwillingness to leave the house. Throughout the day, Louisa would talk softly to herself in an undertone, even as she was nodding off, usually on the parlor sofa. Bella would soon follow, her needlework a clump of mangled yarn in her lap.

Minna found that her daily duties were nothing unusual—getting the sisters up in the morning, and running errands in the afternoon while the sisters were resting. They never accompanied her anywhere, fearing it would tire them. This proved fortuitous, for some days she could slip away for a short time, go to a local pub, and drink a beer or two before she had to return.

On Friday, as she arrived home from an errand, Louisa informed her that a letter had arrived in the morning post and the maid had taken it up to her room. The moment she saw the envelope, she knew it wasn't from him.

Vienna, February 22, 1896

My dearest Minna,

I can't tell you how shocked and disappointed I was when I heard you left Mother's house last week and took a position in Frankfurt. I received her postcard yesterday, which informed me of your new address, and, I must say, you might have told me of your plans, especially since the children and I have missed you so much and we were expecting you to return within the month.

Sophie was particularly sad to hear you're not coming home. She has reverted to her old sleep patterns and is distraught much of the night. Sigmund seems to think you're intent on earning an income and that you possibly felt you were a burden on our household. But I can assure you, from my perspective, it is quite the opposite.

We all belong together. Please reconsider your decision, and if you must, make your stay in Frankfurt a temporary affair. I can only beg you so much, my dear sister, and then hope you will decide in our favor.

It occurred to me that Mother may have influenced you to take this position with the Kassel sisters, and that it was under her advice that you agreed to do so. If that's the case, then I can only remind you that, as Sigmund says, she often pays little attention to our happiness. Although he can be rather severe with her, as you well know.