Vienna Secrets (16 page)

40

“F
URTHERMORE,” SAID
P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD
, reading from his manuscript, “it is clear that the behavior of a child who indulges in thumb-sucking is determined by a search for some pleasure that has already been experienced and is now remembered. In the simplest case he proceeds to find this satisfaction by sucking rhythmically at some part of the skin or mucous membrane. It is also easy to guess the occasion on which the child had his first experiences of the pleasure that he is now striving to renew.” Freud paused to draw on his cigar. “It was the child’s first and most vital activity, his sucking at his mother’s breast, or at substitutes for it, that must have familiarized him with this pleasure. The child’s lips, in our view, behave like an erotogenic zone, and no doubt stimulation by the warm flow of milk is the cause of the pleasurable sensation.” Again Freud paused to draw on his cigar. He turned back a few pages to check something and then continued. “If the erotogenic significance of the labial region persists, then these same children when they grow up will have a powerful motive for drinking.” Freud pushed the cigar back between his lips, and his pout shrunk to form a tense annulus.

“And smoking,” Liebermann ventured.

“Of course—didn’t I just say that?”

“You said, ‘a powerful motive for drinking.’”

“And smoking.”
The professor was insistent. “A telling failure to apprehend, don’t you think? You, a smoker, are resisting the deeper significance of your habit.”

Freud drew lustily on his cigar, producing a volcanic eruption of billowing cloud. Liebermann was fairly sure that it was Freud who had not finished his intended sentence (demonstrating resistances of his own) rather than he, Liebermann, who had unwittingly blocked the words from his own mind. However, Liebermann did not challenge Freud’s interpretation but simply bowed his head in deference to the great man’s perspicacity. Freud, pleased with both his observation and the compliance of his pupil, continued to read from his new work. On finishing the chapter, the two men discussed autoeroticism before turning to the lighter subject of the summer program at the opera, which had just been announced.

Most of the medical men in Freud’s circle were aware that their mentor was not particularly musical, a conspicuous deficiency in a city where even the cab drivers could whistle whole arias from memory. Therefore, Liebermann was not surprised to hear Freud express an opinion concerning Mozart’s
The Magic Flute
that Liebermann found so lacking in judgment as to be almost offensive.

“I went to see it last year. Director Mahler was conducting…,” said Freud, lighting yet another cigar. “It left me feeling rather disappointed. Some of the tunes are nice enough, but the whole thing rather drags, without any real
individual
melodies. I found the action ridiculous, the libretto insane, and it is simply not to be compared with
Don Giovanni.”

“Indeed, they are quite different works—and must be considered accordingly; however, I believe
The Magic Flute
to be the more intriguing work, being closer in construction to a dream, and therefore more deserving of study and interpretation.”

“A dream? How so?”

“With respect, Professor, the
insane
libretto—as you so call it—is like the disconnected elements that compose the
manifest content
of a dream. It consists of symbols and distortions that disguise an underlying and perfectly coherent
latent content
, and it is the study of this latent content that permits us to understand the
true
subject matter of the opera—namely, the resolution of conflict arising between masculine and feminine principles. It is also supposed to contain—in coded form—much of the secret lore of the Freemasons.”

Freud suddenly became extremely interested. He was always fascinated by riddles and conundrums. Liebermann explained the symbolic elements of
The Magic Flute
, and the old man was obviously very impressed. He was particularly attentive when Liebermann gave an account of how Masonic purification rituals had been incorporated into the libretto to serve various dramatic purposes. It was clear from Freud’s responses that he knew a great deal more about secret societies than Liebermann had expected. Indeed, the professor was knowledgeable not only about the Masons but about many similar groups. They were all, according to Freud, part of an occult tradition greatly influenced by the writings of Hermes Trismegistus, an Egyptian priest and a contemporary of Moses.

The young doctor looked at Freud’s desktop, which was crowded with his collection of ancient statuettes and figurines. Among them Liebermann recognized Isis and Osiris, several Sphinxes, and a terracotta woman with a fan, which he had become curiously fond of. They were all steeped in a layer of cigar smoke that rolled over the edge of the desk and cascaded gently down to the floor like a slow-motion waterfall.

“Of course,” said Freud, “there is some debate over the existence of Hermes Trismegistus. Some scholars believe that the famous
Corpus Hermeticum
was in fact the work of later authors; however, one cannot be certain. Other facts would contradict this assertion. I believe, for example, that Trismegistus is mentioned in the holy book of the Muslims, where he appears in the person of Idris.”

The professor kissed his cigar and expelled the smoke through his nostrils.

“I wonder,” said Liebermann, “does your interest in antiquities, mythology, and old systems of thought extend to the kabbalah?”

Freud turned his gaze directly on his disciple. His expression was difficult to read, but contained within it the slightest suggestion of suspicion and unease.

“Did you ever see Jellinek talk?” asked Freud.

Liebermann looked puzzled.

“No,” Freud continued. “Of course not. You’re too young. Adolf Jellinek. He was a preacher, here in Vienna, and very popular too. He gave some talks that I was lucky enough to attend ten or perhaps even fifteen years ago. He had translated some of the medieval kabbalists into German. It was all very interesting.”

“Then you know something about it? The kabbalah?”

“Yes.” The syllable dipped in the middle and was produced with evident reluctance.

“May I?” Liebermann gestured toward some notepaper. Freud handed him a sheet. The young doctor took a pencil from his pocket and proceeded to sketch an arrangement of interconnected circles. It was the design that he had seen on the attic floor of the Alois Gasse Temple.

“Do you know what this is?” Liebermann handed the illustration to Freud.

The professor stubbed his cigar out and contemplated the image.

“Yes. It is called the Tree of Life. It is a diagram of how the universe was created and describes the dispersal of primal energies. It encapsulates the kabbalistic worldview.”

Freud rose from his desk and approached a small chest next to the stove. He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. When he returned, he was carrying several books. He piled them on the desk and invited Liebermann to examine them. One of the volumes was extremely old and was bound in crumbling leather. Freud opened it and carefully turned the fragile pages until he came to an illustration of a bearded man in medieval dress, sitting on a chair in a cell. The man’s right hand grasped the lowest strut of the Tree of Life.

“What is this book?” asked Liebermann.

“A Latin translation of
The Gates of Light—
a very influential work. It was originally written by Joseph Gikatilla in the thirteenth century. The other books are German translations by Adolf Jellinek and his associates. Except this one here, which is a French translation of
The Book of Splendour
.”

Liebermann was surprised that Freud had so many volumes of Jewish mysticism in his possession. The old man had always been scathing about religion and was famously ambivalent about his own racial identity. Indeed, he had once said to Liebermann that he was concerned that so many of his followers were Jewish.
I don’t want psychoanalysis to turn into a national affair
, he had said.

Only moments earlier the idea that Freud might be a clandestine kabbalist, poring over arcane holy books in the dead of night, would have seemed absurd. Yet the evidence suggested otherwise.

“Are you, then…,” said Liebermann hesitantly, “a believer in…”

“No, no,” said Freud, shaking his head and waving his hand. “I abandoned the illusory consolation of faith many years ago. I no longer need to defend myself against unpalatable truths—the insignificance of humankind and the inevitability of my own demise. However, I have found a close reading of these books to be very instructive. In
The Book of Splendour
, for example, I first encountered the notion that the mind can be understood using the same exegetical techniques employed to study scripture. Kabbalistic writings also contain some extremely interesting accounts of human sexuality and the interpretation of dreams….”

Freud smiled, but he was clearly a little embarrassed. He seemed to be confessing that the inspiration for psychoanalysis had come from reading works of Jewish mysticism. Immediately, Liebermann understood why Freud was so ambivalent about Jews and Judaism, and why he kept his kabbalistic books locked in a chest out of view.

Liebermann rested a finger on the drawing of the Tree of Life. Once again, the zaddik’s words returned to haunt him:
Perhaps if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean
.

The zaddik’s scolding no longer sounded ridiculous, and Liebermann found himself wondering how Freud would react if he asked to borrow his Latin translation of
The Gates of Light
.

41

L
IEBERMANN AND HIS FATHER
, Mendel, were sitting in the Imperial. The pianist was playing Chopin’s
Mazurka Number One in F sharp minor;
however, his abrupt changes of tempo and volume made the piece sound like cheap café music. This was entirely intentional, as the pianist had learned that the patrons of the Imperial preferred their Chopin this way.

“Do you remember Blomberg?” said Mendel.

“The gentleman I met at the lodge?”

“Yes. He spoke to Rothenstein about the new department store. I would never have done such a thing myself. It was disrespectful, really. I mean… a man like Rothenstein!” Mendel shook his head and took a mouthful of
apfelstrudel
. “Rothenstein wasn’t interested, of course, but he said that he knew a man who would be, and he put Blomberg in touch with Marek Bohm, another gentleman of considerable means and an associate of the banker. Well, to cut a long story short, it looks like the capital can be raised. Blomberg is going to go ahead with his plan for a second department store.” Mendel slurped his coffee and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m definitely going to go in with him,” he continued. “Blomberg’s a decent enough fellow, and his other store is doing very well indeed. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. What did you think of him? Blomberg?”

“I didn’t really speak to him for very long.”

Mendel frowned. “Even so, you must have formed an impression?”

“He seemed very energetic.”

“Oh, he’s hardworking, that’s for sure.”

“And agreeable.”

“If you have to work with someone over a long period of time, character becomes important, let me tell you. I remember, many years ago—before you were born, in fact—I tried to set up some dyeing works with a man named Plischke, and every meeting we had was like a funeral. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore. What’s the matter with your
mohnstrudel?
You’ve hardly touched it!”

“Nothing—it’s very good.” To prove the point, Liebermann sliced a large chunk off of the pastry and put it into his mouth. “Delicious.”

Mendel shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ve decided to go to Prague. I’m going to visit some of the factories and have some meetings: Doubek, Krakowski—some of the shop owners. I also intend to see your uncle Alexander.” At the mention of his younger brother’s name, Mendel grimaced and emitted a low grumbling sound. “He’s always been good at finding us new associates out there, but when it comes to overseeing the day-to-day running of the business, he can be quite careless. He never double-checks his figures and doesn’t see Slavik as often as he should. I’ve got to make sure he understands the situation. The books
must
add up. We can’t have someone like Herr Bohm raising doubts about our competence.”

Uncle Alexander had been a distant and exotic presence throughout Liebermann’s life. He used to stay for weekends in Vienna when Liebermann was a child, but these rare visitations had become even less frequent as Liebermann had grown up. By the time Liebermann had reached adolescence, Uncle Alexander’s brief sojourns had stopped altogether. This was probably because his uncle and his father didn’t get on. They were very different people—opposites, in fact. Mendel was resolute, ambitious, determined, whereas Alexander was languid, easygoing, and rather too fond of the bachelor’s cheery existence to take the family business very seriously. This difference of outlook, Liebermann supposed, must have been the cause of many arguments. Liebermann remembered a handsome well-dressed man, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. He had always been very fond of Alexander and guiltily recalled how, when very small, he had wished that his uncle could take the place of his father.

“Why don’t you come along?” said Mendel, swallowing his last piece of
apfelstrudel
. He brushed his beard to make sure that no errant crumbs had found tenancy among his wiry curls.

“To Prague?”

Mention of Prague had made Liebermann feel uneasy. He remembered the zaddik:
Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray…
. It felt as if some strange power were attempting to draw him to the Bohemian capital, the city of his ancestors. It was a feeling that he—as a rational man—found distinctly uncomfortable.

“Yes,” said Mendel. “You might learn something… about negotiating. You never know. It might come in useful one day.”

Mendel still hoped that his son would take over the family textile business. It was a futile hope, but one that he could not relinquish in spite of his son’s obvious lack of interest.

“I can’t, Father. My patients, the hospital…”

Mendel sighed. “I thought you’d say that.” The old man pushed his plate forward and beckoned a waiter. “The bill, please?”

Mendel knew as well as his son that there was nothing else to say. They would leave the Imperial and go their separate ways.