A Curable Romantic Read Online Free PDF

smaller and the floorboards above our heads ceased their creaking, I could only assume the household had turned in for the night and that we were the only ones still awake in the building. Detachable cuffs and collars littered the tabletop. Cigars burned unattended at our wrists. I had no idea what time it was: the nicotine, the alcohol, the late hour had blunted my senses. Dr. Rosenberg drowsed between turns. The whole thing seemed like a dream and, indeed, at one point, Dr. Rie spoke so quietly to Dr. Freud, in intonations that were so intimate that although I was sitting no more than three feet from either man, I felt I was listening to a foreign language.
    “You’ve seen … ?” Dr. Rie asked Dr. Freud gently, raising his eyebrows.
    Dr. Freud lowered his cards and squinted at Dr. Rie.
    “… our friend?” Dr. Rie completed his thought.
    “Oh, you mean … ?”
    “The Fräulein,” he confirmed.
    “Oh, yes, that.” Dr. Freud nodded. “Sad, a sad case.”
    “Pity.”
    “Indeed.”
    “And you saw her …”
    Dr. Freud shook his head. “At the theater.”
    “When?”
    “Oh.”
    “The other … ?”
    “Evening, yes.”
    Dr. Rie emptied his chest of air. “All the Ninth District must have …”
    “Must have been in attendance, quite so.” Dr. Freud coughed. “And the mother as well.”
    The two shared a warm and liquid laugh. “Ho,” said Dr. Rie, more softly still.
    Dr. Freud drew upon his cigar. “Barely got away with my life !” Beneath its eagle’s lid, his brown eye suddenly turned on me. Caught out eavesdropping, I pretended to arrange my cards, immersing myself in the fantastical images printed on each: the Fool, the Magus, the Lovers, the Wheel. Reassured that he was speaking privately, Dr. Freud continued, in a murmur, to Dr. Rie: “In any case, she’s agreed to see me again, and I met with her for the week. The mother …”
    “Coerced her?”
    “Only in part, no, only in …”
    “And can you …”
    “Help her?”
    Dr. Freud studied his cards.
    “I remind you, Sigmund: ‘Primum non nocere.’ ”
    “Yes, and so I thought I’d have my …”
    “Not Berlin!”
    A low tone moved inside Dr. Freud’s throat.
    “Is that wise?” Dr. Rie said.
    “We’ve discussed this before, Oskar.”
    “And I’ve expressed my concerns to you before.”
    “Your dislike of Wilhelm is …”
    “Entirely personal? Admittedly. Nonetheless.”
    “Enough.”
    Dr. Rie sighed. “Well, at least I’ve said my piece.”
    (I’d understood not one word the two men spoke to each other. However, everything I needed to know about the Fräulein, I realized later, was hidden in their words, concealed as though in plain sight, though I was too foolish to know it at the time.)
    Dr. Freud busied himself with the cards, the scorebook, the abacus. He looked at me again, but this time I was too hypnotized by fatigue tolook away. “Oi-yoi-yoi,” he said, stretching. He spat something into his kerchief. “It’s early. It’s late.” He rubbed his face. He took his pulse and stood. “Well,” he said.
    “Am-um-uh-er-whaz?” Dr. Rosenberg muttered, flustered, waking.
    “Time to go, Ludwig.” Dr. Rie tapped him on the wrist. “Come on, old man. You’ve lost a fortune.”
    Dr. Rosenberg blinked into the room with a fearful uncertainty, squinting against the lamplight. “I … I was on Devil’s Island,” he said. “We all were!”
    “No, no, you only dreamt it.”
    “Yes? And?” Dr. Freud said.
    “Not good.” Dr. Rosenberg gave him a frank look. “Not good at all.”
    Dr. Rosenberg pushed back his chair. Each man gathered his cuffs and his collar and stuffed them into the pockets of his coat. At the top of the stairs, the brothers-in-law exchanged fraternal kisses with their host. I stepped aside to wrap my scarf about my neck. It was then that Dr. Freud turned towards me and took my hand.
    “Tonight was impossible, I’m afraid.”
    “The Fräulein?” I asked, peering into his face, hoping