The Death Instinct

That night, after Freud had retired and Colette and Luc were installed in one of the children's old bedrooms and the apartment fell silent, Younger smoked a cigarette on the veranda. He had felt claustrophobic inside; on the little balcony overlooking the courtyard, he felt claustrophobic outside as well. A door opened within; Younger imagined it might be Colette, coming to join him.

'No — it's only me,' said Freud's voice behind him. The older man stepped out onto the veranda. 'So what do you think of my death instinct?'

'I'm for it,' said Younger.

Freud smiled. 'You're still at war, my boy. You never demobilized. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have foreseen you as the instinctual kind. You were more — repressed.'

'I read somewhere that repression is unhealthy. A world-famous psychologist has proven it.'

'Whose ideas you don't accept.'

'Ten years ago,' said Younger, reflecting, 'I saw your ideas as moral anarchy. Exploding all propriety. But you were right. I guess I don't believe in morality anymore.'

'Ah yes, that's what my critics say: Freud the libertine, Freud the amoral.' He inhaled the night air — a deep breath of age and judgment. 'It's true, I'm no believer in Sunday school morality. Love thy neighbor as thyself is an absurd principle: quite impossible, unless one has a very unusual neighbor. But when it comes to a sense of justice, I believe I can measure myself with the best men I've known. All my life I've tried to be honorable — not to harm, not to take advantage — even though I know perfectly well that by doing so I've made myself an anvil for others' brutality, their disloyalty, their ambition.'

'Why then?' asked Younger. 'Why do you do it?'

'I could give you a plausible psychological explanation,' said Freud. 'But the truth is I have no idea. Why I — and for that matter my children — have to be thoroughly decent human beings is beyond my comprehension. It is merely a fact. An anchor.'

There was a slight pause before Younger said: 'You think I need an anchor?'

'No. You have one already.'

'You mean a sense of justice?'

'I meant love,' said Freud. 'Which is why this bombing of yours worries me.'

'The Wall Street bombing?'

'Yes. It may be a harbinger of something new. Not its violence — that's to be expected. I was reading the other day a description of one of those happy quarters of the earth where primitive societies flourish in peace and contentment, knowing no aggression. I didn't believe a word of it. Where there are men, there will be violence. Fortunately, the death instinct almost never operates alone. Our two instincts are nearly always obliged to work together — which gives sexuality its violent character, but also tempers the death drive. That's what makes your bombing so troubling.'

'Because it was unalloyed?'

'Exactly,' said Freud. 'The death instinct unbound. Freed from the life instincts, freed from the ideals by which the ego assesses its actions — conscience. Perhaps the war has unleashed it, or perhaps an ideology. Men have always worshipped death. There are death gods in every ancient religion. Goddesses as well, some of them quite beautiful, like Atropos with her shears, cutting life's threads — which is further evidence, by the way, of man's attraction to death. They haven't caught the perpetrators, have they?'

'Of the bombing?' asked Younger. 'Not yet.'

'Perhaps because they're dead.'

It took Younger a moment before he understood: 'You think they killed themselves in the blast — deliberately.'

'Maybe they did, maybe they didn't,' said Freud. 'Maybe they'll give others the idea. But yes, that's what worries me.'

Early the next morning, while Freud was out for his daily constitutional, Oktavian Kinsky called. 'I've come to offer you my services, Mademoiselle,' he said to Colette in the Freuds' sitting room. 'I heard what happened outside the Hotel Bristol last night. I thought I might find you here, and I also thought you might want discreet transportation to the railway station.'

'You're very kind, Count Oktavian,' said Colette. 'I don't know how to thank you.'

'Not at all, Mademoiselle,' he replied. 'A nobleman's first duty is not to the police, but to the beautiful woman the police are pursuing.'

'Especially the nobleman who reported the woman to the police in the first place,' said Younger.

'Stratham,' Colette rebuked Younger. 'Why would you say that?'

Oktavian was abashed. 'I'm afraid he's right.'

'They found your business cards,' said Younger.

'That's just it,' replied Oktavian abjectly. 'Several of my cards were discovered near the scene of your — your misadventure. The Czech authorities wired the Vienna police, who put me in a cell as if I'd committed a crime. They said a man named Hans Gruber had been killed in Prague. They asked me if I knew him. What was I to do? Naturally I explained that you, Miss Rousseau, had journeyed to Braunau in romantic pursuit of Herr Gruber, and that Dr Younger had driven to Braunau in romantic pursuit of you, together with your brother, in a motorcycle I'd rented for him. I'm sure the police have everything wrong, as they always do. I told them that neither of you could possibly have been involved in a killing. I'm so sorry; it's all my fault.'

'No,' said Colette, 'it's our fault the police came for you.'

'Did you tell them,' asked Younger, 'that we were acquainted with the Freuds?'

'Certainly not,' said Oktavian. 'One doesn't reveal confidences to the police. By the way, where is my motorcycle, if you don't mind? I understand you arrived at the hotel last night by taxi. Did you leave the motorcycle at the station?'

'The police didn't tell you?' asked Younger.

'Tell me what?'

Younger beckoned to Luc. 'Count Kinsky wants to know where his motorcycle is,' Younger said to the boy.

Luc pulled from a pocket a small round mirror with a piece of snapped metal at one end. Oktavian took the offering with blinking eyes. From his other pocket, Luc produced a bent wheel spoke.

'Oh, dear,' said Oktavian.

'Enjoyed it immensely,' said Younger. 'Agile little vehicle.'

'Oh, dear,' Oktavian repeated, swallowing drily. 'Well, they say debtor's prison is not nearly so unpleasant as it used to be.'

'Wait — there's one more item,' said Younger, withdrawing from his jacket a bank draft, which he made out to Oktavian Kinsky.

Oktavian stared at the draft. 'This isn't enough for a motorcycle, Doctor,' he said. 'It's enough for a motorcycle and three new automobiles.'

'I know,' said Younger. 'And still not enough to repay you.'

There was nothing to pack. Their belongings were all at the hotel and therefore irretrievable. In the courtyard, they were saying goodbye to Minna when Freud returned from his morning walk, accompanied by his wife, Martha.

'You're going already?' Freud asked Younger and Colette.

'Yes,' replied Younger. 'Oktavian is taking us to the station. Every moment we stay, we put you in danger.'

'Mrs Freud and I have been discussing it, Miss Rousseau,' said Freud. 'Let the boy remain behind. With us.'

'I couldn't,' said Colette.

'Why not? It would be a boon to Martha. We haven't had a child in the house for a long time.'

'But I couldn't,' repeated Colette.

'It might make your escape easier,' interjected Oktavian. 'The police are looking for a couple with a little boy. They're sure to be keeping watch at the railway stations.'

'I've never been away from Luc,' said Colette.

'Never?' repeated Freud. 'You left him to go to Braunau just the other day. With no assurance you would ever return.'

Colette frowned. 'There was only one thing in the world I would have done that for. And now I-'