Penicillin (Part 3)

Sigmund Freud sprinted back to his clinic, his face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted erratically, and cold sweat poured from every pore.

Me? I despise and look down on my own father? That's impossible!

Freud's father had always been a kind but quiet man. Consequently, he had been utterly powerless against the tide of antisemitism sweeping through Austria.

That boy... we barely exchanged a few words, yet he saw right through me.

The moment he burst into his clinic, Freud slammed the door shut, snatched a fountain pen, and pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him. He began to recall, word for word, everything the boy had said to him.

Father passed away last winter. And how did I react?

Freud began to retrace his own past. The most vivid memory flashed in his mind. His father had been taking a walk in the park. A young Christian man had snatched his father's traditional Jewish cap—a ridiculous-looking thing—and trampled it into the mud, hurling unspeakable insults.

"You filthy Talmudic rat!"

"Convert already, you Christ-killing, sewer-dwelling Jew!"

The young Freud had wept so bitterly he cried himself to sleep for three days and nights. Yet, his father had merely patted his head with a gentle, passive smile.

"It is only a hat, my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠boy. Just a hat. Can we not simply pick it up and wash it?"

Starting from that memory, Freud systematically unraveled his childhood recollections and dreams.

“My dear, you will grow up to be a great man,” his mother had always said. And his father, who had never paid him much attention. He wrote it all down.

“A man destined for greatness does not cry. Do you understand, Sigmund?” And then...

For the first time in thirty years, Freud wept.

"Mother... Father... *sob*..."

Treated as a perverted, pseudo-scientific quack by his peers, Freud had slowly allowed self-righteousness and authoritarianism to take root in his heart.

Hmph. Fools, all of them. I am the one who is right.

But now, his victim mentality, inferiority complex, hypocrisy, dogmatism, fragile self-esteem, and obsession with social validation—all of it washed away. Returning to the state of a ten-year-old child, Freud purged the poison that had festered within his soul.

That night, weeping until dawn, Freud refined his theories. He polished every single concept Stahl had introduced to him—terms he had never heard before in his life.

The Oedipus complex, the oral, anal, and phallic stages, libido, infantile regression...

Staying awake for nearly three days and nights, Freud poured his soul onto the pages. He succeeded in drafting the manuscript for The Interpretation of Dreams.

The blueprint of Freudian psychoanalysis had been completed—nearly a decade ahead of its original timeline.

By the way, I don't suppose he'll ever come back, will he?

Thinking back, I regretted treating him so harshly. He seemed like a total quack, but he was still a doctor and a researcher, wasn't he?

It would have been great to learn biology from Uncle Freud and brew some Penicillin together. If I could do that, I wouldn't even have to attend that dreadful Gymnasium. A young genius scientist who invented antibiotics? Why on earth would I need a Gymnasium diploma?

I could smash open the university gates, slap the dean across the face, and get admitted on the spot. Actually, I wouldn't even need to go to university. I would have already achieved my primary goal of becoming famous.

Argh! My Penicillin! My ammonia! My nitrogen fertilizer!

But what was the point of tearing my hair out in regret? That ship had sailed long ago. The agonizing reality that I had to return to the Gymnasium once the weekend ended weighed heavily on my chest.

Just then.

"Dr. Freud? What brings you here? Today isn't a scheduled clinic day."

"Your boy is remarkably brilliant. I am not here for a consultation, but simply because I wished to converse with him."

When I first met Freud, his face had been twisted in a scowl, looking as if he harbored a grudge against the entire world. Granted, he still looked like a stubborn, cantankerous old man, but his expression was noticeably more relaxed. Huh?

"Ah, the young genius, Marcus. Have you been well?"

I wondered what had gotten into him, so I decided to poke the bear.

"Mr. Urologist? Are you feeling sick somewhere?"

"A urologist. What an amusing description."

If this were the Freud I had read about in history books, he would have immediately taken the bait, scowled, and argued back to the death. Of course, I did notice a slight twitch of annoyance. He flinched and lowered the cigar he had been suckling on like a baby's pacifier. Even so, he maintained his composure as best as he could. But seriously, why was this guy back?

Well, let's stick to the original plan for now.

"Professor, would you perhaps be willing to be my tutor...?"

"A tutor? How about becoming my partner instead?"

"In that case... could I perhaps culture some bacteria?"

"Why not? When would you like to start?"

...? It was that easy? I was utterly bewildered. The last time I saw him, his face had contorted like a demon's, and he had fled the house as if he couldn't stand the sight of me. Now, he was acting as if he'd been brainwashed by some hypnosis app.

But who cares? I've finally cleared the first hurdle!

I boldly stated my objective.

"You wish to conduct biological research?"

"Yes. I want to discover an antibiotic."

"Is such a thing truly possible...? A mold that selectively kills bacteria?"

"Just watch, Professor. The research I'm about to conduct will change the world."

"Hmm. I do not know if it is possible, but very well. I have the basic laboratory equipment, so acquiring a few additional items should not be an issue."

As for being treated like a lunatic, Freud—a psychiatrist himself—graciously stepped in to reassure my parents.

"Your son is not insane."

"Then what is he...?"

"An eccentric, perhaps. I do not know what inspired his line of thought, but his research is entirely legitimate."

"Culturing mold to kill bacteria isn't crazy?"

"Scientists have always been a peculiar breed."

Of course, Freud himself was widely regarded by the public as a lunatic obsessed with phalluses. My parents were successfully persuaded, likely reasoning that “culturing mold is still better than researching the male genitalia that frequently pop up in dreams.”

The Gymnasium ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠issue, however... remained a tough nut to crack.

"Father, about the Gymnasium..."

"No!"

"But the Gymnasium..."

"Aaaargh!"

There was no other way. Now that I had secured a tutor, it was time to pull the trigger!

I summoned a report I had once posted online in my past life. Hmm, if I only write this much, they might not expel me. Let's spice it up.

I proudly submitted my masterpiece during German composition class. Of course, there were side effects. I had pulled this stunt to avoid getting beaten at the Gymnasium, but it felt as though I had received all the beatings I would have endured over my entire school career in a single, concentrated dose.

But hey, what could they do? I was expelled.

"Father, I think I'm about to be expelled from the Gymnasium."

At these shocking words from his son, who could barely stand after being thoroughly thrashed, my father froze in utter disbelief.

"W-What did you say?"

"Honestly, you said so yourself, Father. You said the Gymnasium is an archaic educational system, a rotten institution that must be the first to be reformed in this empire."

"Y-You...!"

"I agreed with you one hundred percent. That's why I wrote down your thoughts in my essay without filtering a single word! And because of that, I'm getting expelled. Pretty clever, right? I'm just letting you know in advance so you won't be too surprised. Besides, even without a Gymnasium diploma, your son is a genius chem—*urk!*"

Lately, physical punishment from my father had become a frequent occurrence. Actually, could I even call this "punishment"? It was a full-force punch delivered straight to my face, devoid of even a single drop of educational intent.

"F-Father...!"

"You ungrateful brat! Arghhhhh!"

He then collapsed onto the floor and began to wail.

"No! My dream of the Gymnasium! My dream of university! Nooooo!"

My father's academic inferiority ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠complex was far more severe than I had ever imagined.

"Dear! Have you lost your mind?!"

"I must go see the principal! Right this instant!"

"We aren't struggling for money! We can just hire a tutor!"

"It... It has to be the Gymnasium! If I get down on my knees and beg, surely they will show mercy..."

"Dear! What on earth will your writer and professor friends think of you if you do that?!"

Tasting the bitter medicine of 21st-century adolescent rebellion, my father spent the next three days and nights groaning in bed.

He only calmed down after a local newspaper published an article criticizing the school system.

I apologize on a moral level, Father. But don't worry, I'll make sure you live in luxury once I invent Penicillin~

Professor Freud was incredibly busy, split between tutoring me and writing his book. He desperately wished he could clone himself.

In academic circles, Freud was treated more like a charlatan fortune-teller than a legitimate scholar. Because of this, I had assumed my father would despise him for his notoriety. Surprisingly, however, the two of them got along like a house on fire.

"I understand your plight completely, Professor Freud," my father would say. "After all, the Übermensch—the overman—is destined to be rejected and misunderstood by his era. Just like Galileo Galilei."

"One day, academia will recognize my efforts. Haha, indeed, my theories are advancing by leaps and bounds every day, thanks to your son."

In my father's eyes, Freud possessed unimaginably radical ideas. He wasn't entirely wrong. His bizarre dream interpretations—like claiming any hole in a dream symbolized a womb—would be rejected not just by modern academia in the 21st century, but even by local shamans.

But my father absolutely adored these "seemingly radical" hipster ideologies. It made him feel as though Freud were a grand philosopher fighting against the prejudices of the age, marching toward ultimate truth.

Furthermore, Professor Freud diligently attended my father's socialist salons. Eventually, my father reached a point where he would believe Freud even if he claimed water flowed uphill. (In truth, Freud's actual theories weren't far off from claiming water flowed uphill.)

When Professor Freud proposed to not only tutor me but also conduct research alongside me, my father, absolutely over the moon, gave his enthusiastic consent.

Of course, I wasn't freeloading off the professor. I made sure to unpack my own bundle of philosophical knowledge for him. While summarizing his future research achievements, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I also fed him plenty of "clickbait" theories that he would absolutely devour.

"Currently, homosexuality is classified as a mental illness, but it wasn't so in ancient Athens. Let's look at the reverse. Right now, dueling is considered a culture of chivalry in Austria, but in America, anyone who challenges someone to a duel is treated as a lunatic in need of psychiatric help."

"...Oh? But symptoms like hallucinations and delusions do exist. It is merely the method of interpreting them that changes."

Shall I introduce him to Michel Foucault's Madness and Civilization, a cutting-edge 21st-century theory? If Karl Marx was the godfather of 20th-century leftists, then Michel Foucault was undoubtedly the godfather of 21st-century leftists.

"Then consider this: what if the very definition of mental illness is determined by society? If homosexuality were not labeled a mental illness, would those individuals exhibit any pathological symptoms at all?"

"Indeed, your understanding of homosexuality is remarkably profound. Deep within your unconscious, there must be a desire to accept the phall—"

"Are you seriously still on about that?!"

Freud was still Freud, after all. Of course he hadn't changed. As if a leopard could ever change its spots!