The Final Testament by Peter Blauner Page A

The famous couch was against a wall, covered by velvet pillows and a Persian blanket with byzantine designs as rich and complex as the dreams of the patients who used to lie upon it. Just behind the head was the green tub-like chair where he would sit sideways, out of the patient’s sight, taking notes. On the walls were some of the pictures from back home: the carved mountainside temple of Abu Simbel, the depiction of Oedipus interrogating the sphinx, the photographs of certain dear friends. The mantles, bookshelves, and even his desktop were engulfed by pieces from his massive collection of Egyptian antiquities—Osiris, Isis, and figurine of the warrior goddess—but a special place of honor was accorded to the small statue of the Greek goddess Athena, whose calm thoughtful expression reminded him of his beloved daughter Anna.
    Even among these familiar possessions, he had spent too many hours lately depressed and lost to himself in this room. But now, as he took his first puff, he became the master of his mood once more, magisterial and wise, the heady aroma in his nostrils, and blue smoke going down into his lungs summoning memories of better days. Yes, sometimes, a cigar was not just a cigar.
    â€œFather, what are you doing?” Anna was in the doorway.
    â€œLet me be.”
    She came toward him, with her hand out. His beloved daughter. Gaunt, too wise for her own good, and still unmarried at forty-three. He worried for her, especially the degree of repression revealed by his own analysis of her. But she was his joy and hope for the future. The last and most capable of his six children. Her keen and incisive mind was the most like his own, and he strongly believed that one day she would become an estimable psychoanalyst in her own right. When it was time to flee Austria, she had handled the most troublesome details. More important, she was the only person he trusted to help him put the prosthesis into his aching mouth every day and to continue his life’s work after he was gone.
    â€œWhere did you get that from anyway?” She reached for the cigar.
    â€œThat annoying Mr. Dali who came to visit the other day,” the doctor confessed. “His paintings leave me cold. But the cigars he brought are superb so far.”
    â€œIf you’re smoking one of them now, you must be even more insane than he is. You’re a doctor who doesn’t listen to his own physician. Aren’t you sick enough?”
    â€œYes, I’m sufficiently sick. But if you want me to live longer, let me finish this cigar.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.” She plucked it from between his withered fingers. “They’ll cut the rest of your jaw out if you keep doing this.”
    â€œBetter to cut off the whole head and be done with it.” He muttered between clenched teeth.
    â€œAnyway, you have a visitor.”
    â€œIs there an appointment?”
    With the dislocation and lack of sleep these days, his grasp of his schedule wasn’t what it once was.
    â€œNo. And I’m not at all sure you should see him.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œAnton Sauerwald.”
    He’d been sitting in his desk chair with its stark totem-like back, with one leg slung over an arm. At once, he came to attention.
    â€œSauerwald from Vienna?”
    â€œThe same.”
    He watched her sweetly protuberant eyes and slightly lopsided mouth for a hint of a smile.
    â€œHe’s downstairs right now.”
    The doctor stroked the white beard that had become more of a chore to trim lately. “What does he want?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t tell me.” Her words came out in an uncharacteristic rush. “He insisted he must speak to you in private. He says it’s a matter of great concern. I’m surprised they even let him in the country.”
    â€œSome of the English still think appeasement is possible,” the doctor muttered. “They don’t know enough about aggressive