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 Gärtner had given him. Again, he read the passage that had stuck in his mind: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”
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 who were familiar with Snjezana's habits would, at this juncture, immediately deposit a sum of money under her pillow and leave—because Snjezana's pining was usually followed by a violent eruption of anger during which she would curse all “Germans” and suddenly strike out. Her painted nails were long and sank into flesh with the efficiency of razor blades.
Only a moral interpretation of phenomena…
From below, Wolf could hear the sound of an accordion and raised voices, the hysterical shriek of the barmaid, and raucous laughter. The smell of Snjezana's room was making him feel slightly sick: her overpowering, cloying perfume failed to cover the reek of stale tobacco and the fishy odor that seeped into the atmosphere when she became aroused. He lit one of his own cigarettes—and hoped that its fragrance would neutralize the room's nauseating miasma.
Drexler appeared from behind the screen. He was bare-chested, and was fumbling with the belt of his trousers.
“Your turn,” he said.
Wolf closed the book and shook his head.
“No.… I think not. Let's go.”
“What?”
“I don't feel like it.”
The sound of tired bedsprings, relieved of weight, produced a sequence of loud cracking sounds followed by a tremulous hum. Snjezana stepped out from the other side of the screen. She was wearing a long, richly embroidered peasant skirt, and her hair was wrapped up in a black head scarf. Wolf glanced nonchalantly at her breasts—her erect nipples, her coffee-colored areolae.
“You said the two of you.” Her voice was accusatory. “That's what you said.”
“Don't worry, Snjezana,” said Wolf. “You'll get paid.”
“For two?”
Wolf sighed. “Yes. For two.”
Snjezana sneered—and affected a mocking singsong voice.
“What's the matter with poor Wolf—not feeling well?” She pushed out her lower lip and made circles on her stomach with the palm of her hand. “Is he missing his mutti? Does he want her to kiss it and make it better?”
Drexler laughed.
“Be quiet, Drexler—don't encourage her.” Wolf tossed some silver coins onto the floor. “I'll see you outside.”