Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

‘Yes. That is why I introduced the notion in my chapter on “Typical Dreams”. It is remarkable how frequently the same themes emerge: for example, death of the parent who is of the same sex as the dreamer. Such dreams are very common among children aged approximately three years and over. They reveal — I believe — a wish to eliminate a rival. In Sophocles’ drama, King Oedipus kills his father and marries his mother. The Greek myth seizes on a compulsion which everyone recognises because he has felt traces of it in himself. Every member of the audience was once a budding Oedipus in phantasy, and this dream-fulfilment played out in reality causes everyone to recoil in horror, with the full measure of repression which separates his infantile from his current state. Oedipus’ destiny moves us only because it might very easily have been ours — the oracle has laid the same curse upon us before our birth as it has upon him.’

‘Are you suggesting that, ultimately, there is no escape from neurotic illness?’

‘Allow me to clarify.’ Freud drew on his cigar again and stared through the dissipating cloud with penetrating eyes. ‘I am not suggesting that this general phenomenon of childhood is the cause of the neuroses. But rather it is the failure to resolve these issues of love and hate which can be pathogenic: if prohibited desire and rage linger in the adult unconscious, then mental equilibrium will be disturbed.’

Freud caressed one of the statuettes on his desk: a little bronze Venus admiring herself in a mirror. A diadem circled her head and her legs were covered by a hanging garment. Her shoulders were narrow, her torso long, and her breasts pert.

‘Most mothers would be horrified,’ Freud continued, ‘if they were made aware that their affectionate gestures were rousing a child’s sexual instinct and preparing it for its later intensity. A mother will regard what she does as innocent — carefully avoiding excitation of the child’s genitals; however, we now know that sexual instinct is not only aroused by direct excitation. What we call affection will unfailingly show its effects one day on the genital zones as well. Be that as it may, an enlightened mother — conversant with psychoanalysis — should never reproach herself. She is only fulfilling her task in teaching the child to love. After all, he is meant to grow up into a strong and capable person with vigorous sexual needs and to accomplish during his life all the things that human beings are urged to do by their instincts.’

Liebermann changed position and as he did so Freud pushed the cigar box towards him. The young doctor declined.

‘This Sophocles syndrome.. .’ said Liebermann tentatively. ‘When unresolved, does it always produce neurotic disturbances? Or do you think it might also be associated with more severe forms of mental illness, for example dementia praecox?’

‘It is impossible — as yet — to say.’

‘And how is the syndrome resolved?’

‘The process of resolution must require the detachment of sexual impulses from the mother and the forgetting of jealousy for the father. But how this is achieved and by what mechanism I cannot say. The dissolution of this syndrome presents us with complex problems, and our burgeoning science has yet to furnish us with a comprehensive answer.’

Liebermann smiled inwardly. The professor had exhibited a peculiarity of speech with which he, Liebermann, was now very familiar. Whenever Freud could not explain something he tended to blame psychoanalysis for the deficiency — never himself.

On his way home Liebermann thought deeply about his conversation with Professor Freud. Had he ever hated his father as a rival? Hate was too strong a word. No, he had never hated his father; however, he had to admit that their relationship had never been entirely satisfactory. He had always been a little uneasy in his father’s presence and this subtle underlying tension — which had no obvious cause — had persisted, taking different forms, throughout his entire life. Did this underlying tension have an Oedipal origin? Although Liebermann was prepared to accept Freud’s theory — at least provisionally — with respect to his father, he just couldn’t do the same with respect to his mother. He had never loved his mother in that way!

Suddenly, he was disturbed by a realisation that the converse might be true. His mother adored him, of that there could be little doubt …

The dramatis personae abruptly changed position, discovering — in the process of reconfiguration — a new way in which their emotions could be triangulated.

An uneasy question rose up into Liebermann’s mind.

What if his father, Mendel, secretly hated him for stealing his wife’s love? What if his father had an unresolved Cronos syndrome and, like the mighty Titan, wanted to kill his usurping child? If such a desire was lurking in his unconscious, was it any wonder that they had never been entirely comfortable in each others’ company?

A carriage passed and the curtain was drawn aside by a gloved hand. Liebermann glimpsed the face of a stunning young woman who was wearing a tiara. The vision of her beauty rescued him from the quagmire of his own self-inquiry.

He had never intended to consider the personal relevance of Freud’s theory. He had only wished to discuss the Sophocles syndrome with Freud for one reason. Liebermann had sensed that within the tortured family dynamics of the Greek drama was the key to understanding Norbert Erstweiler.

The carriage followed the Ringstrasse around the western edge of the Innere Stadt before turning into Rennweg and heading south towards Simmering. Rheinhardt opened his bag and handed Liebermann an envelope. The young doctor tipped the contents out onto his lap.

‘She was discovered in the gardens of the Belvedere Palace,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘in the early hours of Monday morning.’

Liebermann studied the first photograph: a long shot of a woman lying in the middle of a sunken lawn.

‘Who found her?’

‘The head gardener. He was out early collecting slugs and snails.’ Liebermann sifted through the photographs until he came across a close-up of the woman’s face. ‘She was stabbed with a hatpin,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘just like Frauleins Zeiler and Babel. In the relative isolation of the Belvedere gardens the fiend was once again emboldened to use his preferred technique. Remarkably, when Haussmann arrived he was able to identify the body.’

‘They were acquainted?’ said Liebermann, surprised.

‘No,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘He had seen her performing at Ronacher’s. She’s a variety singer. Cacilie Roster.’

Liebermann noticed the beauty spot under her eye and the dimple on her chin. He imagined the sound of her laughter — loud and life-affirming.

‘Haussmann and I went to interview the theatre manager, who suggested that Fraulein Roster was an inveterate flirt. He also directed us to one of her haunts, Loiberger’ s, a coffee house patronised mostly by actors and poets and which is situated a short distance from the theatre. Herr Loiberger remembered serving Fraulein Roster on Sunday night. She was in the company of a gentleman with black hair and blue eyes. It must have been Griesser.’

‘Did Herr Loiberger smell anything on the gentleman’s clothes?’

‘No.’ Liebermann slipped the photographs back into the envelope and handed it back to Rheinhardt. ‘Professor Mathias,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘with Miss Lydgate’s assistance made an interesting discovery. He found a black hair on Roster’s body. Under the microscope, it proved to be a blond hair that had been dyed. Of course, we don’t know that it belongs to Griesser …’