Deadly Communion

‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.’

‘Do you remember the title of the fairy story? What did Frau Middleton call it?’

‘I think she called it Jack and the Beanstalk.’

‘So the defining image of the story is …’

‘The beanstalk?’

‘That is correct.’

Erstweiler looked perplexed.

‘You think it means something? The beanstalk?’

‘I do.’

‘Well — perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.’

‘Think of it as an object with features — some of which are shared with other things.’

Erstweiler made some grumbling noises and then said: ‘A beanstalk is long … and it grows.’

‘Excellent. Remember also that you described the beanstalk rising up.’

‘You think that’s significant?’

‘Very much so. Come now, Herr Erstweiler, apply yourself. What is long and rises up? What grows and stands erect?’

Erstweiler’s eyes opened wide.

‘Herr doctor — am I understanding you correctly? Are you implying …’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you implying that the beanstalk in my dream represents the male reproductive organ?’

‘I am indeed. Your dream is — fundamentally — a sexual dream. It is about sexual longing and a forbidden wish fulfilled.’

‘Herr doctor, this is ludicrous!’ Erstweiler sneered. ‘My dream is a recollection of a story told to me when I was a child. A story for children! How on earth could it be sexual?’

‘The unconscious often finds expression by appropriating innocent material. Some memories — particularly if they are disturbing — are only permitted to enter awareness during sleep after donning a disguise. The more innocent the disguise, the more likely it is that the memories will find expression in a dream. Now, let us remind ourselves of the narrative: the boy — whose part you took in the dream — climbs up the beanstalk and discovers a castle on a cloud. In the castle is a goose who lays golden eggs, which belongs to an ogre. The boy steals the goose, but is pursued. On reaching the ground, the boy chops down the beanstalk and the ogre falls to his death.’

‘Herr doctor,’ said Erstweiler. ‘I am finding this conversation somewhat confusing …’

Liebermann ignored his patient’s objection.

‘We must delay consideration of the cloud for a short while and consider next the castle. Enclosed spaces — such as boxes, cases, chests, rooms, houses — and large buildings — are often symbolic of the uterus.’

‘Herr doctor, I asked you to convince me of my own insanity. But you seem determined to accomplish the very opposite. I find myself doubting your mental stability.’

‘A fact,’ Liebermann continued with blithe indifference, ‘which is underscored by the presence of the goose, whose golden eggs signal fertility.’

‘Herr doctor …’ Erstweiler’s fingers gripped his hospital gown.

‘Let us proceed,’ Liebermann pressed on, ‘to the proprietor of the castle. In my opinion, the ogre conflates two real individuals. Your father, whose ogre-like behaviour once caused you so much distress on top of the Stephansdom — a location, please note, that brought you close to the clouds. And Bozidar Kolinsky — who, like your father, was a brute.’

‘Bozidar Kolinsky,’ whispered Erstweiler. His grip tightened and the blood drained from his knuckles.

‘Indeed.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and watched the beads of perspiration forming on Erstweiler’s forehead. ‘In your dream, the ogre owned the goose. Now, consider this, Herr Erstweiler: over whom did Bozidar Kolinsky have an exclusive right of possession, by legal contract and in the sight of God?’

‘Frau Milena.’

‘Ergo …’

‘Frau Milena is the goose?’

‘And not just any goose — but a goose capable of laying golden eggs. I recall you saying that Herr Kolinsky was a miser …’

‘Herr doctor.’ Erstweiler swallowed. ‘I don’t feel well. My heart.’ He rested his palm on his chest. ‘I can feel it racing. Please, Herr doctor.’

‘We are almost finished.’ Liebermann touched his patient’s shoulder. ‘I hope that I have succeeded in persuading you that your dream was not as innocent as it first seems and that the characters therein correspond with real persons. But what of the story? Does the narrative itself correspond with actual events?’

‘My heart!’

‘Again, in my opinion, this is almost certainly the case, and I would propose the following: you fell in love with Frau Milena — and grew to hate her husband, Bozidar Kolinsky. It was unfair, wasn’t it? That an uncouth, brutish man should be married to someone so young and beautiful. Frau Milena seduced you — and together you hatched a plan. You would kill Bozidar Kolinsky, Frau Milena would inherit his property, take his miser’s horde, and you would both be able to—’

‘No, no, no …’ Erstweiler sat bolt upright and looked at the door. ‘Stop this! He’s coming — I can feel it.’

‘The boy in the English fairy story killed the ogre with an axe. He chopped the beanstalk down — an image which also conveniently suggests castration — just as you, presumably, chopped down Bozidar Kolinsky. It would not have been difficult if he was drunk. And I must suppose you did so with great vigour, drawing on a store of anger and resentment formerly reserved for your father. Each blow was an assertion of your new-found potency.’

Erstweiler called out: ‘No, no … please, Herr doctor. Do something.’

‘When it was dark, you dragged Bozidar Kolinsky down to the basement and hacked his body into little pieces. There are many places in Simmering where one can easily dispose of small packages: factory incinerators, the Neustadter canal …’

Erstweiler screamed: a loud, tormented wail.

Rheinhardt appeared in the doorway.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, dear God!’ cried Erstweiler. ‘I told you he was real … Can’t you see him? I am finished … finished!’

Erstweiler clutched his chest, his eyes rolled, and he fell back onto the rest bed. His arm stuck out at an awkward angle.

‘Good God, Max,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

Liebermann rose from his chair and lifted Erstweiler’s wrist.

‘No one has ever died of hallucinations, Oskar. There is no need to worry. His heart is racing, but he is in no great danger.’

‘What happened?’

‘Exactly what I thought would happen. I confronted him with the truth, and his psyche divided. His mind was not robust enough to survive the trauma of killing a man in cold blood: memories of that dreadful murderous night could not be integrated with earlier memories and were subsequently projected onto a hallucinatory alter ego — his doppelganger.’

‘He cannot remember what he did?’

‘The memories of that night exist in his unconscious; however, whenever Erstweiler is reminded of his crime the anxiety and guilt become intolerable, and the memories are disowned — externalised.’

‘Will he remember now — when he wakes?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see; however, he has just had a pitiless and uncompromising encounter with the truth and there is a good chance that his defences have been shattered.’

Erstweiler groaned. He turned his head to the side and a thin plumb line of clear saliva dropped from the corner of his mouth.

‘What I don’t understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘is why his accomplice ran off, leaving her house behind and