PROFESSOR FREUD—enveloped in a haze of billowing cigar smoke— began his third consecutive joke: “An elderly Jew was traveling on the slow train from Moscow to Minsk, and at one of the stops on the way he bought a large salt herring. At the same stop a Russian boy got on the train and started to tease him: ‘You Jews,’ he said, ‘you have a reputation for being clever. How come, eh? How come you are all so clever?’ The old man looked up from his herring and said, ‘Well, since you are such a well-mannered young man, and have asked me so politely, I'll tell you our secret, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.’ The boy suddenly became more serious and swore on his mother's life that he wouldn't tell a soul. ‘We Jews,’ said the old man, ‘are so clever because we eat the head of the salt herring.’ The boy was impressed and said, ‘In which case, I intend to get clever right away. You still have the head of the herring you've just eaten. Would you sell it to me?’ The old Jew was reluctant, but eventually gave in. All right, all right,’ he said. You can have it for a ruble.’ The boy couldn't wait to get started and paid. When he was almost finished eating he shouted, ‘Wait a minute… I saw you buy the whole herring for just ten kopecks—and I paid you ten times more for the head!’ The old Jew smiled and said, You see, it's beginning to work already’ “
The professor leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the joke's effect on his young disciple: a counterfeit grimace and the ignition of a bright light in Liebermann's eyes.
“Last year, you said you were thinking about writing a book on jokes,” said Liebermann. “Is that still your intention?”
“In actual fact,” said Freud, “I've been tinkering with the joke book for some time—but progress has been slow. I've been simultaneously engaged on another project: a collection of essays on sexuality, which, I believe, may prove to be of much greater significance. Even so, I keep finding myself returning to the joke book.” He paused and puffed on his dying cigar. “Yes, there is much to be learned from a close examination of jokes. Psychoanalysis has demonstrated— beyond doubt—that we should not underestimate small indications. It is by close observation of phenomena that have hitherto been supposed trivial, such as dreams, blunders—and yes, jokes—that we are afforded our greatest insights.”
The professor assumed a more serious expression: “The other day, I read something in the
Liebermann recognized that this same reasoning could be applied to Freud himself. Such a clear understanding of the dark underpinnings of humor strongly suggested to him that Freud (a Jewish man who had been collecting Jewish jokes for many years—many of which were anti-Semitic) must be ambivalent about his own racial origins. Such ambivalence was not uncommon among assimilated Jews. Indeed, Liebermann reflected, his own feelings were plainly mixed. He was often embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse, or the Yiddisher pleadings of an impecunious pedlar.
Liebermann noticed that Freud's attention had been captured by the ancient statuettes on his desk, in particular by a small female figure of pale orange clay. She was standing with her weight on her right leg, her head turned to the side, and a mantle was drawn over her loose gown. In her left hand she held a fan, and her hair was drawn back and tied into a bun beneath a conical sun hat.
Freud suddenly looked up. His expression had softened and he had a look that Liebermann had only ever seen on the face of a proud parent—a moist-eyed muted pride.
“Greek,” said Freud. “Hellenistic Period—believed to be from Tanagra, 330-250 B.C.“
Although Liebermann did not usually share Freud's love of ancient artifacts, being a great enthusiast for all things modern, he did see considerable aesthetic virtue in this particular figure: its poise, its natural and unaffected elegance.
“Charming,” said Liebermann. “Quite charming.”
Freud broke out of his reverie and offered Liebermann another cigar. The young doctor declined and, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, raised the book that he had been patiently nursing on his lap.
“Have you ever seen one of these?”
He handed the volume to Freud, who, looking rather puzzled, replied, “No.… What is it?”
“A klecksography book,” said Liebermann. “It's a kind of game, for children.”
Freud flicked it open and examined the symmetrical patterns.
“The inkblots,” Liebermann continued, “are usually accompanied by verses, which serve to guide the imagination—the idea being to look at the inkblot until what is being described appears. Such books are based on an original by Justinus Kerner—a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg. It occurred to me that this principle might be used to discover the contents of the unconscious. If inkblots are presented without any verses, then whatever the viewer claims to see must reflect—to some extent—a projection from his own mind. After all, there is nothing really there.”
Freud hummed and said, “Interesting.… It is such a simple task that defenses might be relaxed, resulting in the inadvertent escape of repressed material.” He lifted the delightful figurine from her place between a terra-cotta Sphinx and a bronze Egyptian deity and began to stroke the inanimate object as if it were a pet. “Repressed material that might subsequently be subject to a psychoanalytic interpretation.”
“Indeed,” said Liebermann, enlivened by the positive response of his mentor. “If an observer were to see two wrestling men in an inkblot, rather than an exotic flower, this might indicate the presence of an underlying hostile impulse—not unlike the latent aggression you have identified in jokes. The procedure, however, is not without precedent. I undertook some research at the university library and discovered that Binet has already recommended the use of inkblots to study what he calls involuntary imagination. So I cannot lay claim to having discovered anything original.”
“When walking in the Alps,” Freud responded dreamily, “I have often lain down and observed the passage of clouds—and in their vague whiteness found the outlines of castles and fantastic creatures. One supposes that from time immemorial mankind has been prone to the imaginative interpretation of natural phenomena—clouds, rock formations, puddles.” His voice suddenly became more determined: “Your discovery—if not wholly original—is still of value. For it demonstrates again the value of the psychoanalytic sensibility. Even in the most trivial phenomena, we can find buried treasure.”
Freud turned the page of the book and covered the caption with his hand. Liebermann felt it would be impolite to ask the Professor what he could see, yet, after only a few moments, his curiosity was satisfied.
“How interesting,” mumbled Freud. “How very intriguing. I see two herring heads.”
“You see?” said Liebermann, unable to resist. “It's beginning to work already.”
The professor slowly raised his head. At first, his expression was alarmingly severe, his penetrating eyes showing no signs of amusement. Then, quite suddenly, his face was illuminated by a broad grin.
“Very good,” he said, chuckling. “Very good.” He pushed the cigar box toward Liebermann. “Now, I absolutely insist!”
19
WOLF WAS SEATED ON a low three-legged stool, trying to concentrate on the book that Professor Gartner had given him. Again, he read the passage that had stuck in his mind:
Snjezana's room was on the first floor of the inn at Aufkirchen. It was a sorry little place with damp walls, dirty curtains, a rickety bed, and a threadbare screen. Snjezana helped the landlord by day, but in the evenings she read romantic novels, smoked pungent cigar ettes, and occasionally received visitors—mostly men from the village or boys from the military school. The rear door of the inn was never locked, and her availability was signaled by a paraffin lamp in her window.
Above her washstand was a photograph of Stari Grad, a Dalmatian town on the island of Hvar. When drunk on schnapps, Snjezana would become melancholic and gaze through her streaming tears at the old seaport. Those
