'To the Grubers'.'
'Yes. I walked. But the address wasn't their house,' she replied. 'It wasn't a residence at all. I couldn't find out anything. I'm not even sure what kind of place it was. A concert hall, maybe. Could you help me?'
Younger accompanied her back to the address to translate. It proved to be a music school. A secretary, kind enough to look in the school records, found that a student by the name of Hans Gruber had attended the school — or at least applied to it — in 1914. She gave them a new address, which, they learned from their cab driver, was in the Hutteldorf district, almost two hours away by horse-drawn, although the trip would be faster and cheaper by train. Colette declared that she would go by herself tomorrow.
'Don't be silly. I'll come with you,' said Younger.
That evening, Martha Freud, her sister Minna, and the Freuds' maid Paula all fawned over Luc, pronouncing him the most adorable schmдchtige Kerlchen in the world. Martha apologized repeatedly for the meagerness of the dinner fare, which in fact was the opposite of meager, but was extremely simple, as if the Freuds were country farmers.
'The awful war,' said Martha.
'At least the right side won,' declared Freud.
Martha asked how her husband could say such a thing when they had lost everything.
'We didn't lose everything, my dear,' said Freud chidingly.
'Only our life's savings,' replied Martha. 'We had it all in state bonds. The safest possible investment — everyone said so. There were pictures of Emperor Franz Josef on every one.'
'And now they are worth face value,' said Freud.
'They're worth nothing!' said Martha.
'Just what I said, my dear,' answered Freud. 'But our sons are unhurt, and our daughters are happy. True, we don't have Martin home yet, but he's better off where he is. As a prisoner, he's fed every day, while Vienna is starving. My patients pay me in goat's milk and hen's eggs — which has at least kept food on our table. But our movement, Younger, is rich. We received a bequest — a million crowns — from a Hungarian patient. When the money is released, we're going to build free clinics in Berlin and Hungary. Budapest will be our new center. Your old friend Ferenczi has just been appointed professor of psychology there.'
After finishing his meal, Luc was permitted to leave the table. He sat in a corner, absorbed in one of Freud's books.
'Why don't you let the boy stay here a night or two?' Freud asked Colette. 'I can't have proper sessions with him, but if he were under my roof, I could at least observe him.'
Younger found himself inwardly favoring Freud's plan, but not for psychiatric reasons. If the boy stayed with the Freuds, that would leave the two of them — Colette and Younger — alone in the hotel.
'You could stay too, Miss Rousseau,' Freud continued. 'Our nest is empty. Anna is away visiting her sister in Berlin. You could stay in her room.'
Younger spent the night by himself.
Colette was supposed to call at the hotel after breakfast the next morning. She did call after breakfast — but by then it was also after lunch.
'Martha and Minna took Luc to an amusement park,' she said, as if that fact explained the several hours she had been unaccounted for. 'He's so powerful — Dr Freud. Those eyes. He sees everything.'
'I know where you've been,' replied Younger. 'The Hutteldorf.'
'Yes. There was a train station near the Freuds'. I didn't want to trouble you. But-' she raised her eyebrows importuningly.
'You need to go back,' said Younger.
'Could you help me just one more time?' she asked, smiling her prettiest smile. 'I found the building where I think he used to live, but I couldn't understand anyone. I don't think the Grubers live there anymore, but maybe someone can tell us where they've gone. The train is quite fast.'
'Where are his things?' Younger asked her as they rode the metropolitan rail to the Hutteldorf. Vienna's winter had evidently been long and cold: although it was nearly spring, not a tree was yet in bud.
'Things?' answered Colette.
'Your soldier's belongings. Which you were going to return to his family. Did you forget them?'
'Of course not,' she said. 'I told you — I don't think the Grubers live where we're going. Why did you hide it from me — that you were married?'
'I didn't.'
'You never told me.'
'You never asked.'
'Yes I did,' replied Colette. 'You said you didn't believe in marriage.'
'Which was true.'
She looked out the window. 'You tell me nothing. It's just like lying. It is lying.'
'Not speaking isn't lying,' he said.
'It is when it tricks someone. I'd rather you lied. At least if you lied, I'd know you cared what I thought.'
They sat in silence as the train rumbled along the banks of the brown, unstirred Danube. Younger watched her profile. He wondered why or how he saw vulnerability in her, when none showed anywhere on her face or figure. 'I do care,' he said.
'You don't.'
It was a principle with Younger not to say a word more about himself, his past, his thoughts, than he had to — at least not to women. They always asked him to; he never did. Evidently he was losing his principles. 'It was November of 1909,' he said. 'Her name was Nora. Would you like to hear about it?'
'If you don't mind telling me.'
'She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever met,' he continued, 'to that point. Totally different from you. Blonde. So fragile you thought she might break in your hands. Self-destructive too. I guess I liked that. We had a good six months. In my experience, that's not too bad — a good six months. But there were danger signs even then. I remember taking her shopping for wedding gowns. She got it into her head that the mannequin modeling dresses for us — a girl of about sixteen — was mocking her. I made the mistake of asking Nora what the girl had done. She accused me of defending her. I made the further mistake of laughing. That fight lasted two days. But things really began in earnest after the wedding, when she found some notebooks of mine. Psychoanalytic notebooks; case summaries. My women patients tended to — well — they usually began acting as if they were in love with me, which is exactly what's supposed to happen in psychoanalysis. You can ask Freud if you don't believe me.'
'Of course I believe you,' said Colette.
'The notebooks recorded what happened during each hour of analysis: what my patients said to me, my own inner reactions to them, and so forth.'
'And so forth?'
'Yes.'
'You — you liked your patients? And you said so in your notebooks?'
'One of them. Her name was Rachel.'
'Rachel. Was she pretty?'
'Her figure was like yours,' Younger replied. 'So yes, she was pretty.'
'Did she want to sleep with you?'
'She certainly did,' he said.
'You mean you did to her what you tried to do to me — and she let you.'
Younger only looked at Colette.
'I don't blame you,' she said. 'A pretty girl coming to your office every day and lying down on a couch and telling you her secrets? If I were a man, I would have found that — appealing.'
'Many analysts sleep with their patients. Freud doesn't do it. I didn't either.'
'You did with Nora,' said Colette.
'Not before I'd married her. And she wasn't my patient — not really.'
'I see. You didn't do anything with Rachel; you only said in your notebook that you were attracted to her. So you didn't understand why your wife was upset with you.'
'That's right,' said Younger.
