NOBLE SAVAGE

The doctor put down his snuffbox, and peered up from his
notes. "I have the feeling that we are at a turning point," he
said.
Dr. Deusch, round-faced and bald-headed, looked like a
psychiatrist. He was one of the last living examples of that
special breed of Vienese gentlemen who spoke Italian, French,
German, and English fluently; he had also spent years studying
classical Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. He had learned physics with
the fathers of quantum mechanics, and had studied medicine with
the fathers of modern psychiatry. He played the violin
beautifully, preferring the emotional suites of Hayden to the
tightly woven, mathematical perfection of Bach.
He was married once1 his wife had died of pneumonia. He had,
since her death, been involved with a succession of mistresses,
many of whom were prudentially culled from among his students at
the medical school where he lectured on the neurological effects
of trauma resulting from marriage.
If Hermann Deusch had not been a doctor, he would have been
a diplomat, a Shakesperean actor, or a connoisseur of fine wines
and brandies. The image of an other era, he still clicked his
heels together upon meeting, or departing from, a colleague, or
any other socially high-ranking professional.
Nancy layed back on the comfortable reclining sofa, and
closed her eyes.
"How many doctors have you seen before me?"
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