The Death Instinct

'Of course,' answered Freud, 'but I'm talking about what's in the unconscious. Shell shock defies my theories because there's no pleasure in it. That's what I wanted to tell you.'

Younger reflected: 'No sexuality?'

'I said you'd be glad to hear it. I don't enjoy acknowledging error, but when the facts don't fit one's theories, one has no choice. The war neurotics behave like masochists — constantly conjuring up their own worst nightmares — except without any corresponding gain in sexual satisfaction. Perhaps they're trying to relieve their fear. Or more likely to find a way to control it. If so, their strategy fails. I suspect there's something else. I sense it in Miss Rousseau's brother. I don't know what it is yet. Pity he doesn't speak. Something dark, almost uncanny. I can't see it, but I can hear it. I hear its voice.'

Jimmy Littlemore bottomed his whiskey glass, but there was nothing; in it. He tried to pour himself another; there was nothing left in the bottle either. Daylight had just begun to show in the windowpanes. 'Okay,' he said slowly 'What happened next?'

'That's all. I left the next day. Went to India.'

'India?'

'Stayed there almost a year.'

Littlemore looked at him: 'Stuck on her, huh?'

Younger didn't answer. India had repelled him — and fascinated him. He kept planning to leave, but stayed on for month after sweltering month, wondering at the snake-headed men of Benares, at the filth of the Ganges where natives washed themselves after bathing their family's corpses, at the harmony of the great palaces and tombs. He knew he remained only because nothing in India reminded him of Colette, whereas in Europe or America everything would have. Eventually, however, Indian girls began reminding him of Colette too.

'Guess it's time to switch to coffee,' said Littlemore. He went to the stove and, with his good arm, set up a percolator. 'What happened to the Miss?'

'She wrote to me. There was a letter waiting when I got back to London. She'd sent it last Christmas. Apparently she'd left Vienna without even going to the prison to see her soldier fiancй. She'd had a conversation with Freud and changed her mind. She returned to Paris, worked at the Radium Institute for six months, and then the Sorbonne finally took her. She was finishing her degree. She asked if I might come down to visit.'

'What did you write back?'

'I didn't write back.'

'Sharp move,' said Littlemore.

Neither spoke.

'Did you ever get to a point with a girl,' asked Younger, 'where you couldn't close your eyes without seeing her? Day and night — awake, asleep? Where you couldn't think of anything without also thinking of her?'

'Nope.'

'I don't advise it,' said Younger.

'Why didn't you write to her?'

'If I were an opium addict, what would you suggest I do — give in to the craving or resist it?'

'Opium's bad for you.'

'So is she.'

'Then what?'

'I came back to America. Last July.'

'But how'd she get here?'

'I recommended her for a position at Yale. A radiochemist named Boltwood was looking for an assistant. She was the best-qualified candidate.'

'You've got to be kidding.'

'She was. By far.'

'Come on — what are you waiting for?' asked Littlemore. 'When are you going to propose?

The kettle began to rattle.

'What is it with you husbands?' asked Younger. 'You think every man wants to be in your condition. I got stuck on the girl. Now I'm unstuck.'

'You said yourself you wanted to marry her. When you were in Vienna.'

'I was wrong. She's too young. She believes in God.'

'I believe in God.'

'Well, I don't want to marry you either.'

'You're just sore because she lied to you about Hans.'

'I'm sore because I wanted her and never had her,' said Younger. 'Freud was right — I do mistreat women. Once I have them, I don't want them anymore. I use them up. I can't stand the sight of them after three months, and I toss them aside. She's better off with Hans. Much better.'

'She doesn't want Hans. She changed her mind.'

'And she'll change it again,' said Younger. He finished off his glass and spoke more quietly: 'You think she's forgotten him — the man she was engaged to? That's not how women work. I'll tell you what's going to happen. She'll go looking for him. Count on it. Sooner or later, she'll realize she needs to see her Hans again — just once — just to be sure.'

Stirrings came from down the hall, then footsteps. The men glanced at each other. Colette entered the room, squinting, wearing a nightgown too large for her, borrowed from Littlemore's wife. Only youth is beautiful at six in the morning; Colette, despite a confusion of hair, was beautiful. Both men rose.

'Morning, Miss,' said Littlemore. 'Coffee?'

'Yes, please — oh, I'll do it; sit down, you two invalids,' she answered. Bursts of hot water were sputtering in the glass button on the coffee pot's lid. Rubbing her eyes, Colette saw the empty whiskey bottle on the table. 'Isn't that illegal here?'

'You can drink it at home,' said Littlemore; 'you just can't buy it or sell it. Great policy. A lot of folks are making spirits in their bathtubs.

Say, I never complimented you, Miss, on that trick you pulled last night — getting them to steal your radium so we could trace you.'

'Thank you, Jimmy,' said Colette. 'I was lucky.'

'She did that on purpose?' asked Younger.

'Sure,' said Littlemore. 'Kind of obvious, Doc. How many times did the kidnappers go to the Miss's hotel room?'

'I don't know — twice?' asked Younger.

'Twice,' agreed Littlemore. 'The first time, they took Luc. They already had him when you called, remember? But when we got there, Drobac was in the hallway with his pockets stuffed, and the ash next to the Miss's case was still warm. In other words, he went back a second time, and that's when he took the elements. So why didn't he take them the first time if they were worth all that dough? Because he didn't know about them. How'd he find out about them? The Miss must have told him. The only question was whether she let it slip by accident or on purpose. Given how smart the Miss is, I had to figure on purpose.'

Younger nodded. 'I'm impressed — doubly impressed.'

'I have to go back, Stratham,' said Colette.

'To the hotel?' asked Younger.

'To Europe.' Colette unplugged the percolator. She poured coffee.

Littlemore looked at Younger.

'You can't — you're in charge of Boltwood's laboratory,' said Younger. 'Don't judge America because of what happened yesterday. It's safe here.'

'It's not that,' she answered. 'I received a letter. From Austria. It was in the mail that Jimmy's friend Spanky brought back from the hotel.'

'Stanky, Miss,' said Littlemore. 'Not Spanky.'

Younger said nothing.

'Who was the letter from?' asked Littlemore.

'From a policeman who helped me once when I was in Vienna,' she replied. 'Hans is getting out of jail, Stratham. In just a few weeks. I have to go back.'

Part 2 Chapter Eight

The morning after the attack, a hundred thousand people gathered on Wall Street.

They came unbidden, drawn by the afterimages of devastation, the lingering proximity of death. Some were gawkers from out of town. Others had employment in the financial district. But most drifted in like wanderers, with no articulate aim, moved by a need they could not have explained, as if being there might somehow supply a void they felt without knowing they felt it.

As a result, the Constitution Day celebration was the largest the country had ever known. Workmen laboring all night erected a wooden platform in front of George Washington's bronze statue. Bunting had been hung in red, white, and blue, festooned with American flags. With a fully armed company of solders still guarding the Treasury Building, the impression created was halfway between a holiday and a siege.