Freud's Mistress by Karen Mack

could be caused by, say, fear, death, or abandonment?”
    â€œMy reasoning is perfectly clear. . . .”
    â€œWell, it might be confusing. . . .” she said, her words coming out with less force than she had planned. “For example, your patient, the twelve-year-old boy who wouldn’t eat . . . that’s very clear, he’d been molested. Certainly that cause and effect is easy. But others are more difficult. . . .”
    â€œDifficult but not different.”
    â€œSo there are no exceptions?” she asked.
    â€œNone that are noteworthy,” he said, leaning in closer to her. “Some might say I have a doctrinaire stance.”
    â€œSome might.”
    â€œAnd they would be . . . ?” he asked, playfully.
    â€œUnduly harsh, my dear . . .” she answered, flushing.
    â€œThat would be the correct answer.”
    â€œI thought so,” she said, smiling, as she turned to leave.
    â€œJust a moment,” he said, staring at her curiously. She was expecting one additional point to bolster his argument, but instead he asked her whether she was available later that evening. She raised her eyebrows in momentary surprise and then remembered that this evening, as every Saturday evening after his lecture, Freud played in a regular tarock game with three of his colleagues from the hospital. But in an unusual turn of events, he said, one of his partners had taken ill at the last moment and sent his regrets. Evidently, it wasn’t just an annoying cough, but a full-blown bronchial infection.
    â€œActually, my dear, it was Martha’s idea. She reminded me how clever you were with cards, and might it not be easier to let you fill in.”
    Minna remembered the card games in the café when they were all students.
    â€œThat was so long ago. . . .”
    â€œBut I recall you annihilating us one time.”
    â€œJust once?”
    â€œAll right. More than once.”
    And so it was decided. Freud returned to a circle of waiting students and Minna headed home.
    A few weeks before, she had been in utter turmoil, leading a solitary life with stolen pleasures. She had worked at so many houses, developing furtive habits of hiding food or gin, reading purloined books, and putting up with domestics who were constantly nipping at her heels. Now she was free, living with family. As she crossed the Ringstrasse, she felt a surge of optimism. If not a permanent solution, this was a welcome, much-needed hiatus.

8
    T he card game was always the same—almost a ritual. At precisely seven o’clock, Dr. Eduard Silverstein rang the bell and was ushered into the parlor, where he clapped a fraternal arm around Freud’s shoulder and then headed straight toward the refreshment table. He could always be relied on to make himself at home in the cozy, domesticated room, and indeed he did, helping himself to a large Sacher torte on a silver tray, spilling the crumbs on the carpet.
    â€œAnd how are you, Sigmund?” he asked as he sank deeply into an armchair, stretched out his legs, and produced a slightly squashed, pale brown Maria Mancini cigar from his waistcoat. He stared at it in admiration, as if it were a woman.
    â€œIt’s the genteel, slender body that I love,” he said, with a handsome smile, not waiting for his host’s reply. Then he lit up and inhaled with exaggerated pleasure.
    â€œAh . . . moody, but pliable . . .” he added, flipping through one of Freud’s newspapers.
    Freud nodded with good humor at his only bachelor colleague, but professed loyalty to his stout, homely Trabuco. “It’s less flighty,” he volleyed, “less temperamental . . . with an even, reliable draw. You can keep the Marias of the world. . . . too much bother.”
    Dr. Ivan Skekel arrived next, removing his weather-beaten tweed coat and making the usual excuses