A dialogue that never happened

 
“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
Sigmund Freud
“If you can’t please everyone with your actions and your art, please only a few. To please many is evil.”
Gustav Klimt

 
Gustav opened his eyes. He was standing alone on a road that, at one end, stretched across a field and disappeared beyond the gray horizon, and at the other end led to the shore of a strange lake.
Taking the first step, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back and froze for a moment. Then he slowly headed towards the shore – to the place where a pier made of planks, standing on long piles, was visible, and a hunched figure (in a gray suit and a straw hat) could be seen.
“Thank God, someone!” Gustav thought, and he trudged over to the stranger sitting on the pier. But the closer he got, the more familiar the figure of the stranger sitting on a small chair with a fishing rod in his hands became. And when he came very close, Gustav’s surprise seemed to know no bounds. In the hunched figure, he suddenly recognized the well;known psychiatrist throughout Vienna, Dr. Sigmund Freud.
“And how did you end up here, Doctor?!”
“Did you ask something?” Freud turned sharply. He was probably also a bit taken aback when he saw the portly, bearded man in a robe – the artist Gustav Klimt, known throughout Vienna, the creator of portraits of “golden women”.
“I’ve been here for a long time!” Freud put the fishing rod aside. “And I’ve been waiting for you, my dear.” Next to the doctor, who was dressed in a worn three;piece suit and a straw hat, stood an empty bucket for fish and a jar with earthworms. But the absurdity of the situation lay in the fact that, despite its enormous size, the body of water (which, in theory, should have begun after the pier) contained no water. And the dirty, dark bottom—with dried;up algae and the skeletons of decomposed fish—gaped with a soul;wrenching emptiness. Here and there, one could see gray stones and remnants of strange metal pipes, which had apparently been dumped into the lake back in the days when a metallurgical plant was operating nearby (now located in the haze, on the opposite shore – and, judging by the brick chimneys and the black, empty windows, it had long since ceased any activity).
The entire landscape looked, to put it mildly, strange. And the miasmas filling the air spoke of the complete ruin and neglect of this place.
“I’d like to introduce myself,” the intrusive man in the strange robe said again. “This is Gustav Klimt, a brilliant Austrian artist. And, as you may recall, your fellow countryman and neighbor in Vienna.”
“Former neighbor,” Freud corrected the man discontentedly.
It became clear that he was offended by the remark about his genius, since he considered all contemporary artists after Leonardo and Michelangelo to be devoid of true talent… No one and nothing could shake such an opinion.
“I know who you are. And I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Since we won’t be able to get out of this… Hmm…”
The old man faltered, apparently searching for a more appropriate word.
“Yes. That’s right: ‘former neighbor.’ Considering the situation we find ourselves in,” the artist corrected himself readily. “But could you, doctor, explain exactly what situation we’re in at the moment? And what is the name of this place?”
And the gentleman who had introduced himself as Klimt gestured around him, as if trying to find an explanation for all the squalor that surrounded them.
“Don’t you have any idea yourself?” the doctor asked with a smirk.
“Oh, no! I don’t even have any guesses,” the artist lamented. “To be honest, I’ve never been in such a vile environment in my life!”
“Yeah… And now you are,” the doctor chuckled again. He took a large cigar out of the side pocket of his suit. Then he slowly sniffed it (like a dog sniffing a piece of smoked sausage, savoring the moment before swallowing the treat). With his other hand, he took a match out of another pocket and began to light his treasure, inhaling the sweetish cigar smoke. And then, tilting his head back, he began to slowly exhale smoke in rings, savoring every minute of this simple act.
“That’s what a truly good cigar means,” he finally summed up, smiling. “Especially one made from Cuban tobacco! One of life’s greatest joys… Not counting, of course, beautiful women…” Freud took another puff and closed his eyes, holding the smoke inside his lungs.
“Doctor, doctor,” the artist babbled. “Don’t you have another one? A good cigar would calm me down a bit right now!”
“Maybe you’d like some Viennese champagne as well?” the doctor said mockingly. “And have me send you back to the workshop?”
Then he began to savor the moments, inhaling again and exhaling the sweet smoke… The intrusive artist was distracting him from such a pleasant activity!
“But there’s a whole box of cigars peeking out of your pocket!” the artist protested.
“So what of it? This isn’t meant for you. And it’s unclear how much longer we’ll have to wait in line here. So something deeply pleasant should make the wait more bearable. I hope you understand?
Freud, lifting the brim of his straw hat, looked up at the artist.
“You’d better take a look around and, like an artist, get to know the tones surrounding you. I hope that way the time will fly by faster. Don’t get hung up on your ‘cigar issue.’”
Klimt didn’t respond.
The doctor waited for a moment and continued slowly.
“Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious: where are you, what’s wrong with you? There’s still no answer! Perhaps there never will be: judging by the surroundings around us, you’re completely devoid of any critical attitude towards yourself... Do you feel those strange smells? Not just the usual stench, but…”