Vienna Blood

81

Professor Foch took the volume from the shelf and examined the spine: The Relationship Between the Nose and the Female Sexual Organs by Wilhelm Fliess. It was utter nonsense-everything that one might expect from an associate of Freud. The only sensible thing in the entire book was the finding that labor pains could be ameliorated by the application of cocaine to the nose. But as for the rest… mystical nonsense and gobbledygook! There were indeed certain similarities between nasal and genital mucosae, but the edifice that Fliess had constructed on such flimsy foundations was far too ambitious-too expansive, too grandiose. It would soon be consigned to the midden heap of otorhinolaryngology-and rightly so.

Professor Foch's mood suddenly darkened.

Fliess was based in Berlin.

This did not bode well.

Were his ideas accepted there?

Fliess had proposed that the nasal membranes and bones were of etiological significance with respect to a range of medical conditions: migraine headaches; pains in the abdomen, arms, and legs; angina pectoris; asthma; indigestion-and disturbances of sexuality. The last condition, of course, was of considerable interest to that reprobate Freud. Indeed, he had defended Fliess's opus when it had been criticized by members of the faculty. But then again, what was one to expect? That was how they worked, these Jews. They stuck together… polluting the discipline with their sexual preoccupations, filth, and nonsense.

Professor Foch tossed the book into his packing case, where it landed on three huge yellow Kaposi atlases on syphilis and diseases of the skin.

Berlin.

That it should come to this.

Damn them all.

He had been summoned to the dean's office on Thursday afternoon-for an informal, friendly discussion on a professional matter.

Your article in the Zeitung… The obsequious lickspittle hypocrite had shifted in his chair as if he were sitting on a hot plate. You have made it very difficult for us. Very difficult indeed… He had wrung his hands, sighed, and equivocated. But in the end he had arrived at the nub. Your intention was to reach a wide audience and, my dear fellow, you certainly succeeded. It was read by one of His Majesty's advisers… The word displeasure was repeated with some frequency thereafter.

He had not been dismissed-as such. But rather, he had been permitted an opportunity to make a discreet exit.

A friend of mine, Lehmann-perhaps you've heard of him? Wrote a fine paper on the vestibular system a few years back. The dean had smiled unctuously. Well, as luck would have it, he's looking to fill a post at the General Hospital-a specialist in nasal surgery, no less. Of course, I would be more than happy to provide you with a glowing reference.

There had been little point in protesting. If it were true-and the signal of disapproval had been issued from the Hofburg itself-then his career in Vienna was over. Even his most trusted colleagues would begin to avoid him. Their gazes would not meet his. Invitations would be declined. There would be whispering in the corridors. He had seen it happen to others.

Damn them all.

He looked up at his print of The Wounded Man. He found the image curiously uplifting. The black mood lifted a little.

Berlin.

It might not be so bad. Things in Vienna had gone too far-and his shabby treatment by the faculty of medicine was just another symptom of its decline into a quagmire of decadence and depravity. It would take not one but a hundred-no, a thousand-Primal Fires to purify this doomed city. Perhaps in Berlin they would appreciate a man like him-a man with good honest German values.