His hair is longer than it was in his former life, the life he left behind like a snake shedding its skin. A yellow bandanna wraps around his forehead, and reflective dark glasses cover his eyes, giving him the look of a ski bum trying too hard to hide middle age. Married and divorced three times, he has found serenity in his latest relationship, with an Italian woman named Monica, who runs a small grocery store. It is she who has taken the picture of him after a day in the mountains of northwestern Italy, just outside the storybook ski resort of Courmayeur. There is a thin smile across Mark Weinberger’s face on this sunny day in 2009. The smile suggests contentment—a contentment distant from the driven, fanatical years he spent marketing himself as “TheNoseDoctor” in a small midwestern town, his local celebrity buoyed by a first-rate pedigree that includes the University of Pennsylvania, U.C.L.A. medical school, and a prestigious fellowship. There is something wry about that little smile in the mountains, something smug and self-congratulatory. Or maybe it is just that he looks so relaxed, at ease, not a care in the world. He has done it. He has…