In my village, second time around

Very few doctors pay close enough attention to fingernails. Medically they are a treasure of trove of information, especially of past medical history. I think your great author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the medical doctor who delighted the world with his detective fiction, must have understood this. His character, Sherlock Holmes, deduced many important things from a woman's fingernails.

I grew up in the village of Duelmen, in Westphalia, on the train line to Frankfurt. Our German trains are marvelous. They run on time. They are clean, reliable, comfortable, and every train comes equipped with a 'Zugbegleiter,' a small card that shows all of the stops with the arrival and departure times, and at each stop the lines to which a traveller can transfer, and at what time those trains depart. Reading a Zugbegleiter, you see, one can follow lines and tracks in many directions, and easily return to the main route, like an excellent conversation, do you see?

Much of Duelmen is owned by the Herzog, the Count, you would say, although today it is his daughter the Countess von Croy. The village was a tiny paradise for me. The Count reconstituted a nearly extinct Chinese breed of horses from the thirteen hundreds and pastured them on village land as a wild herd. In winter the Count's men put hay out for them, but they hardly touch it. To them the hay is just dead grass. They prefer the soft bark of new tree branches. The Count's men allow the horses to roam freely, and keep track of where they are. The horses are the feature of our village. The village inn is called "The Inn of the Wild Horses," and the best restaurant is named after them too. In the spring, the yearling colts are auctioned off. They make excellent pets. The most prized are those that have a black dorsal stripe, because those have the ancient gene. In the photograph above you can see the dorsal on the noble horse on the left. The animal next to it is a yearling. Germany has no other horses of this breed, and indeed no other wild horses. Some say we are just not a "wild" country.

It is a wonderful thing to be noticed, is it not? All of us went to the same high school in the village, and the Count asked the teachers every year who the best students graduating students were. My name was mentioned, so I came to the Count's attention and was invited to his table. My mother rehearsed me well in proper manners and protocol before the event. I understood I must never turn my back on the Count. The first time I answered him I should address him as your Excellency, the second time as Excellency, and after that, if there was another occasion, my Lord, or Lord, would suffice--in German we say 'mein Herr' when addressing any gentleman politely.

Two days before that occasion, I was asked to visit the office of our town doctor. The nurse showed me into his library right away. "I'm told you have an aptitude for chemistry," he began.

"Thank you, Herr Doctor," I answered, wondering what this was all about.

"That is good, but I am more concerned with logic," he continued, "and your mathematics and philosophy teachers say you are conversant with that subject as well."

I said that it was kind of them to say so. He pulled a photograph from his desk drawer. "Tell me what you notice, what you see," he demanded.

It was a photograph of a hand. "The nails of the fingers are white," I said. "That is not usual."

"No, indeed it is not," he replied. "If I tell you that the white color can be caused by renal failure or cirrhosis, what would you say?"

"I would say that this person may have suffered from one of these maladies. I think the pink part of the nail must grow much more slowly than edge of the nail, so I would suppose that this disease must have been active in the person for some time."

"And if the man swore that he did not use alcohol?"

I thought about this for a moment. "I do not know, but I have heard that there are causes other than excessive drinking for cirrhosis of the liver, and certainly there can be different reasons for renal failure, not only alcohol."

I thought I caught the doctor trying to stop a broad smile. "When you work, do you wish to live in Duelmen?" he asked casually.

"That would be my hope," I said, "and to own one of the Count's wild ponies." This time there was no mistaking the broad smile, and he dismissed me, leaving me to wondered what had just happened.

The Count's table left nothing to be desired. We began with a light asparagus soup, served with a rich cream, and accompanied by juice of the Johannis berry. There followed a cucumber salad, then the main course, cutlets of wild boar from the mountains, seasoned with pine nuts, and a delicate potato soup. Coffee, a mocha that the Count favored, came with a slice of the famous Viennese Sacher Torte, an exceptionally rich chocolate cake made famous by the Hotel Sacher, and of course whipped cream.

While my classmates conversed over small glasses of Italian 'vino santo,' showing the Count's cosmopolitan tastes, I was taken aside to a small room with a fireplace and two ample chairs facing each other. I was soon joined by the Count himself. I rose and addressed him as "Your Excellency." He motioned for me to sit, and said that there was no need for formalities since this was to be a private conversation between the two of us.

"The Doctor is a member of my cabinet, and I am pleased with his account of the conversation you had." I think I blushed, but did not interrupt. "He is getting on in years, and he and I both want there to be an excellent replacement for him." I fidgeted on my chair. I am sure the Count noticed. "Our doctor recommends the medical school in Dublin. You would finish your studies quickly there. I would pay for your program and lodging, and you would return here in the summer to work as our doctor's apprentice. He has a special knowledge of diagnosis, as rare as the lineage of our horses, and I want his successor to be well versed in it. What do you say?"

My mother raised no fools. "I am greatly honored, Excellency!"

"Good," he said, "Then it is settled. See that you have a passport. You start with Doctor tomorrow morning."

In this way I undertook two forms of medical education--the standard practice taught in the University of Dublin, and the special understandings of my town's Doctor. He taught me to begin each patient interview in the same way. I learned to say "Indulge me," and I took the patient's fingernails in my hand, reading them for signs of their history and of current conditions. I rapidly learned that the fingernails were the surest guide to a correct diagnosis.

Of course I mentioned not a word of this while studying in Ireland. That time passed quickly, filled with study, much of it memory work, strict and accurate, critical for knowledge of treatment of ailments I could diagnose. I found those studies hard work but not difficult, and each month I looked forward to returning to Germany. There were bright girls, attractive girls, but all of them Catholics, not willing to give the time of day to a Protestant boy like myself.

Graduation came, I returned to my Duelmen, and I was eased into the practice, working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, while my mentor worked Tuesdays and Thursdays. My work went well. The townspeople were used to being asked to "Indulge me," and had a great respect for what I had learned from our doctor.

One day, when my mentor happened to be in the office with me, a traveller came into the practice, a German, but from away north. I looked at his white nails with alarm and asked if he had suffered either cirrhosis or renal failure. He was insensed. "Are you calling me a drinker?" he shouted. "I came in because of a digestive complaint!" My mentor looked on with alarm.

"There are multiple causes for those ailments," I tried to explain, "and if you have one of them you need treatment."

"I am not a drinker, and the medical board will hear of this!" he stormed out.

The doctor and I looked at each other in disbelief and alarm. In a few minutes the phone rang, and we were summoned to meet one of the Count's officials. He listened to our story, then ushered us in to meet with the Count himself. "Is this man an alcoholic?" the Count asked.

"Your Excellency I do not know. I examined his nails and asked about two conditions. That is all."

"Doctor?" he turned to my mentor.

"He is right, Your Excellency," the doctor explained. "The nails suggest those conditions, and," he added, "I smelled alcohol on his breath."

The Count was a man of many resources. He thanked us and dismissed us. Two weeks later the engagement between Baron Roderick of Bremen and the Count's daughter was cancelled. He thanked us for saving her from a great mistake. But my trouble was not over.

I was called up before the medical board for unorthodox, abnormal procedures. The head of the board was rigid and severe. "The practice of medicine is normative," he said emphatically. "There is no room for wild theories based on finger nails. You should have followed the diagnostic procedures you learned in Dublin. Instead you are basing your decisions on quackery and homespun ideas."

The Count arranged for legal representation and the Doctor supported me, as did a professor from Virginia, but all to no avail. My license was suspended for two years. I fell into a depression. The Doctor tried to comfort me. The Count acted practically. He had many friends, and he found me a position in an advisory council in Bonn on workplace safety for the two years. He said he was very sorry and he supplemented my income to compensate for what I lost by not practicing medicine.

The arrangements were generous but to me it was a kind of exile from my beloved Duelmen. The council was bureaucratic, my contribution was useful but not essential, and I missed my village and the people in it.

At one point a weekend retreat was arranged with a sister council in England. We hosted them in the charming town of Sankt Augustin, a few miles from our office, in the North Westphalia district. The hotel was on a golf course, with a proper set of conference rooms, and resort-level accomodations. My fluency in English was a big asset. The English were not so good at speaking German.

The first evening we ate dinner with our own teams. The second night we paired off with counterparts. My dining companion was a financial consultant, a smart brunette about my age. She was very intelligent, and more empathetic than other financial advisors I had met. I learned that she ran her own company, and that European financial services were handled mainly through England and that was the source of her business.

She asked to hear my story and, helped by her warm demeanor, I told her what I had been keeping inside, what had happened to me. After I had spilled the contents of my heart, I wondered what her reaction would be. She said, "Do you mean you can do accurate diagnoses from fingernails? Can you show me with mine?" She pulled a small bottle of nail polish remover from her purse and wiped away the aubergine color that suits brunettes so very well.

Charmed, I said, "Indulge me," and I took her warm hands in mine. Was I flirting? I had not done that since having my license suspended. Rapidly I listed the childhood diseases she had experienced: red measles, whooping cough, a vitamin K deficiency, and, I asked, "Are you a type-2 diabetic?"

She was amazed. She said "it is a sin that you are not practicing medicine."

"The board didn't think so," I replied, "by the way your nails suggest to me that you are single." Yes, I admitted to myself, clearly I was flirting.

"Oh that is not medical," she teased.

"No, but you can't blame me for hoping," I persisted.

"Well maybe I am, but what about you?" she rejoined. "Do you have a blonde bombshell hidden away in Bremen?"

"Blonde is over-rated," I chimed in. "Brunettes rule in all of the best movies and television series."

"Is that so?" she asked. "Name one!"

"Ah the pressure to name a series," I said, tapping my fingers. "I know, Diana Riggs of The Avengers."

"Oh you would come up with the smartest, sexiest one..."

"I most certainly did not," I protested, "You are smarter and more attractive than Diana Riggs..."

"Oh be careful, Bonn boy," she wagged her finger, or you will be in trouble."

Unabashed, I continued, "What if I want to be in trouble?"

"Well, if you can calm your testosterone, would you join me to live in London?"

I considered for a moment, then shook my head, "No."

"Well then, that is your answer. My financial services company has to be based in London. Still, that fingernail foretelling is really something. Let's step out on the golf course for a couple of minutes."

I did not need to be asked twice. Once outside she planted a wet kiss on my lips with a light touch of her tongue. "Hmmn, kiss compatibility," she mused. "Shame about the geographical impediment. Thank you for a delightful evening!" And she went back inside.

How to explain... I have been kissed several times, but hers was the best. I think that covers it. Still she was right. I wanted to get back to my village with its quaintness and its horses. She was necessarily a London girl.

Work in Bonn went on. I counted the months, then weeks to the reinstatement of my medical license. Then came the Brexit referendum. One side effect of Britain's leaving the EU would be that Europe's financial services would no longer be located in London; at least that is what the news said. I mused on the 'better than Diana Riggs' brunette, and decided that our encounter had just been light, and of the moment.

With just three weeks left until my reinstatement, I received a letter from Duelmen. The stationery left no doubt that it was from the Countess. I opened the envelope. The first page was an official proclamation in a professional hand. It named me the village doctor, also the personal physician of the countess, and as such, a member of her cabinet. She had signed that letter with the letter A.

The next page was a short note in her hand. "I remain very grateful for the immense service you performed for me in exposing that man. It is my wish that now take up your position in our village, and in my cabinet. Having heard from my father how grateful he was for your actions, and how sorry for the hardship you have endured these past two years, I have arranged for you to have the use of a house and some land from the property I own in Duelmen, and, since it is time of the auction of my yearlings, I have selected the one for you that is in the enclosed photograph. Our doctor wishes to retire and will hear of no one other than you replacing him. The sooner you come the greater will be the pleasure of myself and the inhabitants of our village."

I looked at the photo. He was a beautiful colt. I express-mailed my grateful acceptance, then started to wonder what it would be like to return. Could I just take up my former life? Would I be too afraid to look at fingernails? Would the place be the same? Could it be the same if I was not the same? Boccaccio wrote that "a mouth that has been kissed does not lose its adventure, in fact it is renewed like the moon." Verdi put that line in one of his operas. But what about a place?

I gave a week's notice at my workplace. I packed some things and gave away others. I said my good byes. I nervously pondered my return. I took the train to my little town in Westphalia. I was met at the station by the Countess's officials. They drove to my property. In the field was a beautiful horse with a black dorsal. My heart swelled. I entered the house, put down my bags, and she was there.

"My company can't be in London post-Brexit so we've gone virtual. I like your house. I like your horse. Here are my nails. I'm indulging you!"

My heart leapt and my head whirled. I took her hands in mine and she kissed me with passion and persuasion, much much more than the first time!" My wild horse neighed.