The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs (4 page)

‘You may close your eyes, if you wish,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘Some analysands prefer to do that, although there is always the danger of sleep if you do.’

Von Igelfeld found himself wondering if Unterholzer closed his eyes during analysis, or whether he gazed up at Dr Hubertoffel’s ceiling and plotted. Indeed, it was quite possible that the idea of attacking
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
had been conceived on this very couch – oh hateful, hateful thought!

‘You will have heard of free association,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘I find it a useful tool in the discovery of what is troubling a patient. Then, on the basis of this knowledge, I know what I should look out for during the process of analysis. The mind, you see, is full of dark furniture.’

Von Igelfeld gave a start. Dark furniture? Was his own mind full of such a thing? Perhaps it was unwise to undertake analysis, even for the purpose of equipping himself to deal with Unterholzer. If the furniture of the mind was dark, then perhaps it would be best to leave it where it was – in the shadows.

‘So,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘
The sea
.’

‘The sea?’ asked von Igelfeld.

‘Yes. I say
the sea
and you tell me what comes into your mind.’

‘The sea,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘No,’ said Dr Hubertoffel, patiently. ‘I said
the sea
. You tell me what you envisaged.’

‘I thought of the sea,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That’s why I replied the sea when you said the sea.’

Dr Hubertoffel tapped his pencil on the edge of his notebook. ‘You must think of something else,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too literal. I’ll try again.
Father
.’

‘Whiskers,’ said von Igelfeld.

‘Good,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘That’s a very good reply. Your father had whiskers, I take it.’

‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But other boys’ fathers had them.’

‘
Oedipus
,’ went on Dr Hubertoffel.

‘Mother. No, uncle.’

The psychoanalyst nodded. ‘Excellent. Now:
Scissors.
’

‘The Suck-a-Thumb Man,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You’ll remember him from
The Struwelpeter
. He’s the man who came to cut off the thumbs of the children who sucked them. I was very frightened of him.’

‘And still are, perhaps?’ ventured Dr Hubertoffel. ‘The shades of the nursery are apt to linger. But let us move on.
Id
.’

‘Darkness. Inner me.’

‘Excellent.
Sausage
.’

‘Dog.’

‘
Dog?
’

‘Sausage.’

‘
Sausage dog
.’

‘When I was a boy,’ said von Igelfeld, a little later, ‘we used to live in Austria, where my grandfather had an estate near Graz. I lived there from the age of six until I was fifteen. Then I was sent to a military academy in Germany. I was very sad to leave Austria and I remember leaning out of the window to catch a last glimpse of my parents and my Uncle Oedipus as they stood on the platform waving to the train. I saw my father raise his hand and then lower it to place it on my mother’s shoulder as if to comfort her.’

‘Or possibly to reassert ownership,’ interjected Dr Hubertoffel.

‘My mother turned away and walked back towards our car and I put my head back in the carriage. I was only fifteen, you see, and I had never been away from home. Now I was on my way to the military academy and had no idea of what to expect. I had read
Young Törless
, of course, and I feared that this was what I was in for. So I sat in my seat and stared dumbly out of the window.

‘When I arrived at the school, I was shown to my place in the dormitory. There were forty other boys, all living in the same long room, all engaged in various initiation rituals, whipping one another with wet towels or exchanging blood-brotherhood vows. Several were cutting into one another’s hands with blades, in order to mingle blood.

‘I was at a loss. There seemed something strange about the dormitory. There were forty boys, but only twenty beds. We had to share, you see.

‘I turned to the boy with whom I had been detailed to share. He was sitting at the end of the bed, gazing glumly at his boots.

‘I asked him if he had a nurse at home, and he said that he had just left her. She was a girl called Hysteria, who came from a Bavarian farm, but who was a very good nurse. They had only one bed in the nursery, and he had shared with her. Now he had to share with me, and he was desolate.’

Dr Hubertoffel was listening avidly. ‘This is extremely interesting material,’ he said, scribbling furiously. ‘I am fascinated by this. It is all very pathological.’

Von Igelfeld closed his eyes. It was easier to make up stories with one’s eyes closed, he found.

‘I survived that first night, although the sobbing of my bed companion largely prevented me from getting any sleep. Then, the next morning, after we had all been forced to take a cold shower, which we shared, our lessons began. The school was very interested in the Franco-Prussian War and devoted many lessons to it. Apart from that, we were taught very little.’

‘And were the masters cruel?’ asked Dr Hubertoffel.

‘Immensely cruel,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘They used to take great pleasure in devising fresh tortures for the boys, and some of the boys simply could not stand it. Those were the ones who ran away. Sometimes they were returned, and punished all the more. Sometimes they got away and we never heard of them again. I longed to be one of them. But I did not have the courage to leave and, besides, one of the larger boys had cut the soles off my boots to affix to his. I could not have got very far with boots without soles. But there was another reason, too. I was protecting a boy who was being ruthlessly bullied. I had rescued him from his tormentors, but now he relied on me to look after him. If I deserted him, it would be like throwing him to the wolves.’

‘Tell me about this boy,’ said Dr Hubertoffel.

‘He was called Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer. At least, I think that was his name.’

Von Igelfeld could see that what he had just said had had a marked effect on Dr Hubertoffel.

‘Unterholzer?’ asked the doctor. ‘You protected this . . . this Unterholzer?’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘He was a very unhappy boy. He had been sent to the military academy by his parents, who hoped that the discipline of such a place would cure him of his dreadful lies. But it did not work, and he continued to be unable to tell truth from falsehood. The other boys did not like this – we had this strict code of honour, you see – and they responded by bullying him. I was the only one to defend him.’

Dr Hubertoffel stared at von Igelfeld.

‘So he lied all the time?’ he said, eventually.

‘Everything he said was untrue,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And I suspect it is just the same today. Such people do not really change, do they?’

Dr Hubertoffel thought for a moment. ‘Usually not,’ he said, gravely. ‘Such behaviour indicates a fundamental personality disorder and there is very little we can do about that. Even psychoanalysis is of little help.’

‘That’s very sad,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It must be a great disappointment to you to have patients of that sort.’ Adding hurriedly: ‘That is, if you do have any like that.’

He left the consulting room shortly afterwards, feeling immensely pleased with himself. He was sure that he had completely derailed Unterholzer’s analysis; Dr Hubertoffel had become virtually silent after he had mentioned Unterholzer. He was probably seething with anger that Unterholzer had misled him during the analysis; to sit there and write down all the lies – just as a judge has to do in court – must be a difficult experience.

He walked out into the street. It was a fine evening and he had decided to walk home. Analysis was extraordinary, he reflected. He had gone in feeling somewhat gloomy and had come out feeling quite optimistic. He looked up at the cloudless evening sky and smiled with satisfaction. Unterholzer’s little plans would be spiked now; Dr Hubertoffel may have given him the confidence to launch an attack on
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
, but where would that confidence be once he had lost the support of the psychoanalyst?

He walked past a bookshop window and glanced in. There was a display of new academic titles.
The Economy of the Sudanese
Uplands
– extremely dull, he thought.
The Upanishads Reviewed
– more promising. Then:
Truth: a Philosophical Defence.

He paused. Truth. He was on the side of truth, and always had been: it would need no defending while he was around. And was not the motto of the von Igelfelds
Truth Always?
His gaze shifted from the book to his own reflection in the glass of the window, and at that moment an awful pang of guilt shook him. He was looking at the face of a liar!

Von Igelfeld stood stock still. He had done a terrible, dreadful thing. He had walked into the consulting rooms of that poor Freudian and had told him a whole pack of lies. There never was a military academy. He had never had an Uncle Oedipus. It was all nonsense, of the sort that these misguided Freudians like to hear. And as for the accusations against Unterholzer – even if Unterholzer had behaved appallingly in criticising his hypothesis, that was no excuse for him, a von Igelfeld, to stoop to that level. He remembered his scorn for Unterholzer when Unterholzer had claimed to be von Unterholzer. Now he, a real von, was behaving just as badly.

He stood stock still for a moment, consumed by misery. Then, his head lowered in shame, he continued his walk home, his mind a turmoil. Should he rush back and apologise to Dr Hubertoffel? Should he write him a letter and try to explain? Whatever he did, he would look ridiculous.

He paused. His route had taken him past a small Catholic church, set back from the street. And there on the notice board was a sign which read:
Sinned? Confessions are heard in this House of God
from 6 pm to 8 pm each Wednesday and Saturday evening
.
Inside, there
is one who listens
. And today, von Igelfeld recalled, was Wednesday, and it was undoubtedly evening.

The inside of the church was half-lit. A woman was kneeling at the altar rail of a small side-chapel, but apart from her the church seemed deserted. Von Igelfeld went forward hesitantly, glancing at the pictures that hung on one wall. The Virgin herself looked down on him, a smile of compassion on her lips. And there was Saint Francis, his hands extended towards the birds, and another saint whom he did not recognise, a finger raised in silent admonition, as if of von Igelfeld himself.

He spotted the confessional and moved towards it. He was not a Catholic – the von Igelfelds had always been Lutheran – but he was familiar with the procedure. You went in and sat on a small bench and spoke to the priest behind the grille. It did not matter whether you were a member of the Church; the priest was there for all manner and conditions of men – mendacious philologists not excepted.

He moved the curtain aside and slipped into the box. There was indeed a small grille and a sound behind it, a rustling of a cassock perhaps, told him that the priest was in.

‘Good evening,’ whispered von Igelfeld.

‘Hello,’ said a disembodied voice from behind the grille. ‘How are you this evening?’

‘Not very well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘In fact, I am feeling very bad about a terrible thing that I have done.’

The priest was silent for a moment, as if digesting the information. Then he spoke: ‘Terrible? How terrible, my son? Have you killed a man?’

Von Igelfeld gasped. ‘Oh no! Nothing that bad.’

‘Well then,’ said the priest. ‘Most other things can be undone, can’t they? Tell me what this terrible thing is.’

Von Igelfeld drew a deep breath. ‘I lied,’ he said.

‘Lied?’ said the priest. ‘Lied to the police? To your wife?’

‘To a psychoanalyst,’ said von Igelfeld.

There was a strange sound from behind the grille, a sound which was rather difficult to interpret, but which sounded rather like disapproval.

‘That is
very
bad,’ said the priest. ‘Psychoanalysts are there to help us. If we lie to them, then we are lying to ourselves. It is a terrible thing.’