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PARTISAN REVIEW
intended, and calmly, free of worry, fully savoring the trip, the island
paradise, and-why not?-happiness.
The absences of his family members-"a pharmacist doesn't have
friends, or at least 1 can't picture having any," he said-also gave him
an existential jolt every time.
"If
1 could formulate a moral or lifelong
imperative for myself," he said, "it would be this: Comport yourself in
such a way that the relatives who happen to be absent at any given
moment-relatives in the broadest sense--can always stay far away
without you, in a good state of mind, unperturbed!"
THE PHARMACIST even had a specialty. He was an expert-to the extent
it's even possible with such an infinitely varied subject-on mushrooms.
Many pharmacies, at least European ones, post charts in the window
at the beginning of summer, with pictures of the edible and especially the
poisonous varieties, sometimes even set up three-dimensional models,
carefully arranged in real moss. But when an inexperienced gatherer
comes in from the woods and fields with the real mushroom he's found
and asks for information, most pharmacists just shake their heads with–
out a word, or perhaps tap the earthy things lightly from a distance–
please, no sand on the glass counter-and almost invariably issue
unfavorable oracular judgments: poisonous, or at least highly suspicious.
But the Taxham pharmacist knew at a glance, or at first touch, or at
the latest from sniffing or nibbling, what people had brought him (he
could identify several almost indistinguishable varieties by the different
worms, snails, earwigs, or spiders on or inside them). And above all, he
showed enthusiasm for every mushroom placed before him, even when
just a few gills of one, stuck to a child's hand and then thoughtlessly
popped in the mouth, could do very bad things, even when the mush–
room in question stank and oozed in all directions like a three-week-old
carcass.
"I
often wonder whether it wasn't my passion for mushrooms that
drove my wife and me apart," he said. "Especially in the fall, when 1
came home in the evening, all my coat and suit pockets would be stuffed
with them, and then the refrigerator, too, and the pantry, and even the
cellar, where mushrooms keep best, with their aroma. Day after day she
had to eat my mushrooms-there are far more edible kinds than people
think-and well into the winter. Of course, after a while 1 stopped bring–
ing them into the house, but then 1 hid them from her in the garden–
how could 1 throwaway mushrooms, these splendid gifts of
nature?-and out there they glowed and gave off their unmistakable
