DR. STERN

 

 

In a cold bar, just outside Vienna, I noticed Freud and his companions laughing over a meal. We were en route home from a conference in Salzburg, and his group was decidedly different to mine. I was travelling with two young students on their first expedition, whereas he was surrounded by a crowd of Vienna's brightest. “Take Jürgen, for instance” Freud drew his listeners in, “Before he came to me, his erections were sporadic at best. The only time he could rely on them was at half seven on the morning train - which, one might suggest, is not the ideal setting in which to engage in a healthy sexual life.” A burst of laughter greeted the climax of the anecdote. I examined the distinct personality of each laugh, from the meekest to the most brash. Together they created a spectrum. This is how I came to study the psychology of laughter. By measuring each of the hearty chuckles in his group, I was able to estimate the levels of self-confidence necessary to gain the perfect laugh. Too hearty a laugh betrayed dreadful insecurity, whereas too timid betrayed the same. I made a plan to stand naked in the bathroom that evening and spend an hour practicing my own laugh. I felt the confidence projected by a well-practiced laugh would be a key part of my breaking into Vienna's notoriously closed medical scene. My biomedical projects had thus far been hampered by a rather shy approach to publicity.

 

Cantering home on my steed, I came across a child playing on the side of the road. His posture was that of a soldier – upright, firm. I asked him what he was doing outside at such an hour. He stuck out his tongue and said “I could ask you the same question.” Such truculence! Without another word, and protecting my backside from potential assault by covering it with one hand, I hopped back onto my horse and sped off for Vienna. The child's words stayed with me all week. Where had he learned to speak to his elders like that? When I was a child we were terrified of speaking out, lest we be sent to the basement. If only everybody could be so self-assured, I mused, perhaps we would then have a solution to human insecurity.

 

Later in the week I visited Freud's apartment. He chuckled when I told him of the child. “That child will have sexual problems later in life.” he said sagely. Upon hearing his easy mastery of human neurosis, I felt underconfident in presenting my thesis on laughter. Instead we shared stories of the Salzburg conference. His tales usually involved large groups of people drinking wine, whereas mine inevitably began with a solitary stroll. I grew impatient with his bragging, and resolved that if I could solve the insecurity problem I would find a reverse serum in order to make Freud the most insecure person alive. The bastard was still laughing when I left.

 

I decided to create a human who would not only have the perfect laugh, but would also be devoid of shyness. In those days science was far more open to cross-field experimentation, and thus I called in my rather creaky knowledge of chemistry. To start, I brewed a large beaker of serotonin, to which I added plants which were designed to aid development of what I considered the most important traits for the modern world. First among these was the ability to sniff out oil. Within three months my experiment reached its second phase – a human child had developed inside the beaker. I retrieved the child and decided to name him. If the experiment was to be truly successful, I reasoned, he should have a human life. A name, manners, a childhood. The child took my surname, and I gifted him the first name Georg. Georg Stern, but I and the neighbours took to calling him Kind Stern – or in English, “Child Star”.

 

By the following winter Georg had begun to race around the apartment. He climbed up the curtains, put his hand through the letterbox when the postman visited, clung to the legs of the neighbours. His words came earlier, faster, thicker, and were full of obscenities that I hadn't taught him. His language acquisition capabilities were simply remarkable. I invited Freud to come see this small miracle, but he declined on account of a dinner arrangement. Without faltering, I called my old classmate Raab, and carried Georg on horseback to Raab's countryside house. My old friend took an intense interest. He read Georg a page from the dictionary which Georg recited immediately back to him in its entirety. “Amazing,” said Raab, “And tell me about his ability to sniff out oil.” I laughed and said, “Yes, his oil will bring all the ladies to the yard.” Afterwards, Raab and I strolled around his back garden. We tended to the flowers and trimmed the ivy growing up the back wall. He's a wonderful chap. Quiet, soft-spoken, intensely interested in nature and in other people. Without too much effort he got me to talk about my childhood – it was remarkable the effect Raab had on people.

 

While Freud's career spread like a virus and Raab's grew steadily and strongly, I was left struggling to be heard at all. Biochemistry and breeding superchildren just weren't on the agenda in those days! Meanwhile Georg had grown into a healthy teen. Unfortunately, this period of good health only lasted until his first sexual experience. Once he crossed this threshold he proved unstoppable, just as he had been with his language acquisition. His previous need for human contact transformed into a constant, boring wail. Almost every night he sat in the pub with his friends, where he mercilessly abused anybody who took the focus away from him. All of those dictionary pages were long forgotten, and all he talked about now were bongs and boning – with an incredibly detailed knowledge, mind you. I decided to wash my hands of him for a while, having by now improved my confident laugh.

 

Raab and I had begun taking walks in the local park. He often joined me at conferences, sometimes my only defender amongst a crowd sceptical of genetic engineering. More than once I was visited by a curious psychiatrist who had taken an interest in curing human insecurity. Raab sent a pupil of his my way. “Georg is fascinating,” said the student, “Would you mind if I asked him a few questions?” Georg's grunt of approval came from the next room - as usual he stepped on my own attempts to respond. He strutted into the kitchen and instantly dominated the proceedings. “The old quack's been keeping me here for years,” he said, “I'd gladly answer your questions if you'd get me an apartment of my own. Hell, I'll kneel down and blow you. That is, if you're not too impotent - like the old man here.” The student promised to discuss the matter with Raab. Several weeks later, Georg had moved into Raab's empty city apartment.

 

Although I found Raab to be a lovely fellow, I felt troubled that I was never invited to his social events. Periodically I'd hear about a dinner party or a seance, yet I never received an invitation. Was I a social leper or something? Maybe it had to do with a breakdown I'd had one day during college, during which I accused everyone of hating me. No matter. He kept me at a distance. But at least he visited. We had wonderful discussions. Freud, on the other hand, had barely exchanged an unnecessary word with me since graduation. He was the big man now. Ooh, big man mister Freud. I browsed my wine cellar one evening and picked a gorgeous red for my weekly stroll with Raab. We would sit in the park and lap up moonlight and wine for as long as we could before repairing in drowsiness to our respective apartments.

 

I visited Georg. His apartment was a mess. Beer bottles, slabs of uncured meat, dirty linen, and other assorted marks of a chaotic life lay strewn across the floor. Upon being poked awake he said “Get out, granddad.” I noticed a beautiful woman beside him. Jealousy seared through me and I poked her with a brush, saying “Get back to your parents! My son is no good!” To my surprise, she took me seriously and quickly left. Georg put a hand on my shoulder and told me to sit down. “No,” I shouted, “Get dressed and show some respect.” In a display of either respect or perhaps a subtle form of contempt, he did as I asked. Then, he said “I want you to deliver me food and pocket money at the beginning of each week. Otherwise I'll kill myself.” Needless to say I was shocked at the ultimatum. “Would you do such a thing?” I asked. He merely nodded and looked out the window pensively.

 

Raab and I took to alternating weeks, because my work schedule made weekly visits impossible. My research in the following years regrettably took the form of research papers based on theory rather than evidence. Pinning Georg down proved too much of a challenge – it became easier to guess at what he might do in a given situation and then write about it as if it had happened. Besides, I was convinced that Freud had been using this method for most of his career. My ability to lie grew. Within two and a half years I had achieved minor credibility in the new field of genetic engineering. An award was surely not far off, I thought.

 

At age sixteen Georg decided to move back in with me. At first we argued constantly. For a long time it was challenging. One day we heard from Raab's student. He'd become Head of the Department of Genetic Engineering at Trinity College Dublin - largely as a result of his research on Georg. Upon hearing the news, Georg kicked off. No surprises there. His ego was out of control, and I began to think I'd made a grave mistake in my original theorem. I returned to the lab.

 

My scientific education had gifted me with the ability to sift through my research notes and pinpoint my past errors of judgment, but my notes on Georg remained impenetrable. Where had I gone wrong? There was something off, but what? Furthermore, how could I fix it? He'd impregnated seventeen women in the last two years and I was becoming worried about the future of human ego. I remained in my room most of the time in order to avoid his emotional abuse. “You're not to speak to me like that.” I said to him sternly one day, to which he replied “Why not? Will it make your erectile dysfunction even worse? Will you have to go groveling to Freud for a fix?” He was becoming a total cunt.

 

There was a conference at the Albert-Ludwig University of Freiburg, where a prominent philosopher was speaking about the ethical implications of eugenics. I secured a short guest-spot ahead of his talk. It was a great chance to present my findings on Georg, but it was important that I finished on an optimistic note. I claimed that the real answer to the insecurity problem was to focus on reducing inhibition rather than inflating ego. However, despite my optimism, the crowd were bored by my idea. They wanted to fund something more exciting, something that could capture the imagination of the public. In other words, they wanted to make science sexy again. I brought out my idea of crafting a man with a whistle so profound and beautiful that it would distract all attention from how physically ugly he was. A smartarse pointed out that I could just craft a good-looking man instead. I didn't have the heart to engage in the debate, and retired to my chamber instead.

 

Georg's behaviour had become problematic. There were young mothers at our door every other month, accusing him of infecting their children with some sort of madness. Raab and I decided to work together to solve the ego trouble. “Raab,” I said, “I'm so glad you're with me on this.” He put his rough hands on my shoulders and said “Always.” We hatched a plan to capture Georg and cage him – I'd made one as a contingency option when he was a toddler, but I'd never yet needed it. One evening we placed three bottles of expensive red wine at the back of the cage and waited. Shortly before midnight we heard the basement window creak open, and saw Georg's mischievous silhouette creeping in. He stopped for a moment, sniffing the air as he did when sniffing for oil. His senses must have been attuned to wine at this stage, because he leapt immediately for the cage - tumbling into the back of it and ripping open the wine bottles with his dirty paw-like hands. As he glugged, I pressed the switch and the cage locked down. “Aha!” shouted Raab, jumping out from the shadows and pointing aggressively at Georg. “Now listen up, Georg!” I was so impressed at this display of dominance that I made a mental note to masturbate over it in bed later. Georg looked at us with sad eyes. “Go ahead,” he said, “Kill me now.”

 

Raab and I took turns to interview Georg on the nuances of his psyche. It was only now that I understood the crippling depression from which Georg had been suffering. His inflated ego had not - as I'd imagined – allowed him to ingratiate himself with people. Rather his inability to treat people as equals and relate to their insecurities had rendered him incapable of forming bonds with his peers. From this a terrible loneliness had developed. “Are your children an attempt to find companionship?” Raab asked Georg one autumn morning. Georg shrugged, but the answer was clear. The three of us drank wine together at the weekends. I found that Georg and I had quite a lot in common underneath it all. Even Raab found that he felt comfortable discussing his loneliness with us. “I like your idea for the whistling man, Stern!” he patted my back one day. “I'd like a whistle like that – it would distract attention from this awful mole on my chin!” He laughed, and we spent the remainder of the evening taking turns on the piano and telling stories from our youth.

 

Eventually we conceded that a trip to Freud's apartment might be beneficial. “Raab! Joinkle! How lovely to see you both!” he said, referring to me by a nickname I had earned in our first year of college, when I had brought a baby pig to class in order to impress a woman. “My name's not Joinkle, it's Stern,” I said, “And we're here to listen to what you have to say about curing depression.” Freud took us to his office, puffing on his pipe in silence as he considered our problem. “The talking cure,” he finally said, “is the most effective cure. If you sit with Georg – you and Raab can alternate – and listen to his troubles, I believe that you will restore his sexual prowess to him.” I quickly pointed out that his sexual prowess was fine. “Depression, I mean, sorry.” said Freud.

 

I had to admit that the simplicity of Freud's theory was wonderful. I later found out that he'd stolen it from some poor German, but by god did he steal it with style. He chose to join us in our attempt to cure Georg. The three of us took it in shifts. Two hours each - with time for naps in-between. One afternoon he accused Freud of being a “Smelly old virgin”, and Freud simply sat there and took it. “Let it out,” he said, “Tell me of your seething resentment.” Such mastery of the form! Within a year Georg's depression had lifted, and we began to let him out of the cage at weekends.

 

The neighbours began to visit and sit with Georg, chatting over tea. He tried his hardest to treat them as equals and very quickly I noticed the signs of friendship amongst them. Shared jokes (incomprehensible to me), pointless letters containing stick figures and obscure phrases sent across the hall, trips to the coffee houses. It was a joy to behold. I gave him work as a full-time lab assistant, so that he could put his insights to good use - we could work together to improve human confidence. “Your progress is remarkable!” I said one day, but stopped short when I noticed that the compliment caused Georg to march around the room talking in the third person about his achievements.

 

Very quickly he gained a job at the Department of Genetic Engineering in Heidelberg, and set off to become a researcher and lecturer. I remained in Vienna and returned to more humdrum experiments, on which I now regularly co-operated with Raab. The apartment was peaceful. I could rest easy for the first time in two decades. Raab and I took to strolling in the parks, reciting poetry and chatting up the local tramps for insights into the human condition. Running into Freud and his companions one day as they were feeding the pigeons, we unleashed our perfectly practiced laughs. “Haha!” laughed I. “Hahaha!” laughed Raab. We noticed a distinct tic of inferiority amongst Freud's group – namely, their closed-mouth smiles. We felt satisfied that we had intimidated them.

 

After two years of building my reputation in Vienna's medical scene, I received a telegram from Heidelberg. Georg was dead. He'd presented his findings on human ego at a conference, and they'd been so astounding that he'd received a standing ovation. The applause went to his head. As a result of this he went on an alcohol-fueled bender which ended up with him dead in a forest. We held a small funeral in Vienna, and the matter was quickly written up by a local journalist. It was a sad affair overall, but the demands of medical life meant that I couldn't dwell for too long. Each winter I revisited his burial place in central Vienna and offered a few small words. When Freud eventually joined him in the next world, I was called upon to speak. I sang a local song, and Raab joined in. Everybody at the funeral was soon singing together. It was a strange moment of union, the likes of which I've never since experienced.

 

It was only many years later that I began to receive visits from Georg's children. One of them had become a successful novelist and spent his days tending to his own family in Paris. Another had worked on a few of the early talkies. I felt that although these young men and women appeared on the outside to be successful and functional, the same problems that hounded Georg must have been hot on their tails as well. I sent their families Christmas cards annually, but on the whole I tried to distance myself from their lives. Once was truly more than enough.