The Death Instinct

'I love train stations. Whenever I go to a new city, I wander around the station for hours. It makes me feel at home. Grand Central Terminal is like a second home to me.'

'Great. When was your first premonition?'

'You'll do something about the Popes?'

'I'll do what I can.'

'The end of July, I think. I know it was before the East-West matches. It was right after I decided not to go to Washington. You must know I'm an adviser to Mr Wilson?'

'That would be President Wilson, I'm guessing.'

'In 1916, I advised Mr Wilson that if he didn't stop the war, many would die. That's how I got to be a Secret Service agent. He wished to meet with me, but his aides wouldn't permit it. Doubtless he regrets that decision profoundly today.'

'Sure he does. So who do you think was behind the bombing, Fischer? Who did it?'

'Anarchists, of course. Bolsheviks.'

'Are you positive?'

'Absolutely.'

'How do you know?'

'I read it in the papers.'

A nurse interrupted them, to take Mr Fischer back to his room.

Their train slipped with a satisfied shriek into Vienna's Westbahnhof on a mid-October evening. The Austrian trains, once the pride of an empire, were shells of their former selves. They ran on half rations of coal — the other half having been sold off by corrupt officials and needy conductors. Chandeliers and decorated paneling had been ripped away, evidently by thieves.

A single cab was waiting outside the station under a bright half- moon — an elegant two-horse carriage. Although Younger sat next to Colette, she kept her distance, facing away from him and looking out at Vienna. Luc sat across from them, one suitcase under his legs and another beside him. It was a lovely, old-world night. In the distance, over the roofs of handsome buildings, the electric lights of the Riesenrad the giant Ferris wheel of the Prater, Vienna's famous amusement park — described a high slow arc in the air. The wind carried strains of a faraway waltz and merry laughter.

'Vienna is gay,' said Colette — wistfully, Younger thought.

Colette had spoken in French. The coachman answered in the same language: 'Yes, we are gay, Mademoiselle. It is our nature. Even during the war we were gay. And unlike the last time you were here, we are no longer eating our dogs.'

The driver presented his card to them. He was the very same nobleman — Oktavian Ferdinand Graf Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau — who had taken them to their hotel on their first stay in Vienna. But on his card, the words Graf and von, indications of his illustrious birth, had been crossed out.

'Titles of nobility have been abolished,' he explained. 'We're not allowed them even on our cards. Yes, things are improving. Things are certainly improving.'

They heard a far-off keening behind them, followed by a thunderous crash.

'What was that?' asked Colette, starting almost out of her seat.

'It's nothing, Mademoiselle,' replied the coachman. 'It comes from the Wienerwald, the Vienna woods, the loveliest woods in the world. They are chopping down its trees.'

'At this hour?' said Younger. 'Who?'

'Everyone, Monsieur. It's illegal, but people have no choice. There is no more coal to burn. Only wood. They go at night to avoid arrest. When winter comes, many will have no heat at all. You've come from Paris?'

'New York,' said Younger.

'Is Monsieur American?'

Younger allowed that he was.

'I beg your pardon; I thought you were French. Then you must accept this ride with my compliments. Austria owes you its deepest thanks.'

Younger was surprised at this offer and said so.

'A defeated country does not ordinarily express gratitude toward its foe?' asked the coachman. 'It's our children I'm thanking you for. Your relief packages are still their chief source of food. Do you know Mr Stockton — your charge d'affaires? I drove him to the station last month. He had just received a letter from the Chief Justice of our Supreme Court, asking if the judges could have a relief package too.'

'What will happen,' asked Colette, 'to the children if they have no heat this winter?'

'They'll die, I imagine, many of them. Here we are — 19 Berggasse. I hope Dr Freud is well.'

Younger, letting himself out and extending his hand to Colette, raised an eyebrow at their exceedingly knowledgeable coachman.

'When foreigners visit the Berggasse,' explained the driver, 'there can be only one reason.'

Younger asked if he would be so kind as to wait for them while they called on the Freuds. Oktavian said he would be most willing.

It was Freud's wife's sister, Minna Bernays, who answered the door to the second-floor apartment. Although they were expected, Miss Bernays wouldn't let them in, explaining that Dr Freud and his wife, Martha, had retired early. She was asking if they could come back tomorrow when a deep male voice intervened, declaring his retirement to be much exaggerated.

Their greetings were cordial. Much was made of Luc being a full head taller. 'Well, Minna,' observed Freud, 'Martha was mistaken, as I predicted she would be.' To Younger and Colette, he explained: 'My wife was certain the two of you would be married before the year was out.'

'The year's not over yet,' said Younger.

'She meant 1919,' Freud replied drily.

'Then tell her there is still hope for 1920,' said Younger.

'I've given you no reason to hope, Stratham,' Colette rebuked him. 'Not for any year.'

Younger, stung, resolved to make light of it: 'In that case I'll schedule the wedding for midnight December thirty-first,' he said, 'which doesn't belong to any year.'

Colette turned to Minna Bernays and said, 'He's hopeless.'

'First she chides you for hoping,' Freud replied to Younger, 'then for being hopeless. Women — what do they want?'

Sigmund Freud looked his age, sunk deep in an armchair in his study. A furrow knit his white brows into a scowl. His usually frenetic chow, Jofi, curled sympathetically at the master's feet. They had talked of the Wall Street bombing, the kidnapping, and the collapse of the finances of the psychoanalytic association. Freud's son Martin had finally been released from prison. 'His first act of freedom,' Freud said, 'was to relinquish it. He got married.'

Colette thanked Freud for agreeing to treat her brother.

'I haven't agreed to treat him,' answered Freud. 'I wrote you, Fraulein, stipulating my one condition. You didn't answer.'

Colette made no reply.

'I'm too old and too busy for half measures,' said Freud. 'I take very few new patients now; I only have time to train others to do so. Every new hour I take on is an hour lost for my own work. Psychoanalysis, Miss Rousseau, is not accomplished in a few days. You must be prepared to stay in Vienna for a very substantial period.'

'But I — have no means, no work,' said Colette.

'That's your concern,' answered Freud, his sharpness surprising Younger. 'If I'm to treat your brother, I must have your word that you will remain in Vienna this time as long as it takes.'

'I'm sorry,' said Colette. 'I don't know.'

Freud rose slowly, went to the window, opened it. A fresh night breeze tousled his white hair. From the little courtyard below, where Count Oktavian's carriage waited, came the stamping and neighing of horses. Freud took a deep breath. 'So,' he said, his back to Younger and Colette. 'Have you ever dreamt, Fraulein, of a child being beaten?'

'I beg your pardon?' said Colette.

'Have you?'

Colette hesitated. 'How did you know that?'

'Sometimes without knowing who is doing the beating?'

'Yes,' said Colette.

'It is a surprisingly common dream in women who feel they should be punished for something,' said Freud. 'Well, it's clear you didn't come to Vienna specifically to have your brother see me. It follows you have some other business. Based on your remark to Younger in the foyer, I can only conclude that you are here to find and marry your fiancй, the one who was in jail the last time you were here. That would explain your uncertainty about whether or how long you will be in Vienna. You don't know where he lives now — perhaps not in Austria at all — is that it?'