are mushrooms everywhere. Pints, quarts. You can’t imagine how much fun it is. Did you ever eat pickled wild mushrooms? They’re a real delicacy. There’s a woman here who’s a dab hand at pickling. Though for pickling, tricholomas are the best. And they’d be right in season if you came for a visit. Please let me know. Come try the pickled ones at least. I talked with her, she’ll pickle some for you if you come.
Where the graves are, that struck me. I picked up the phone impulsively to call him and say, I’m on my way. But I put it down again at once. And almost every day from then on I did the same thing. I’d pick up the phone and put it down again, telling myself I’d call the next day. Though each time something seemed to whisper to me that if I didn’t do it now I never would. But still I’d put it off till the next day. One time I actually dialed his number, waited till the second ring, then hung up. Another time I even heard his voice:
“Hello? Hello? Goddammit, someone’s having trouble getting through again. The hell with these telephones!”
I could barely keep from saying, it’s me, Mr. Robert. Then one time I had the day off. I poured myself a glass of brandy and drank it. Then a second, a third. Mr. Robert? It’s me. I’m coming. There was a moment of silence, I thought he must just be taken aback. Then I heard a kind of sigh:
“Finally. What made you decide?”
“I couldn’t resist those pickled mushrooms, Mr. Robert. I’ve never had pickled mushrooms.”
“I just wish you’d have let me know sooner. I don’t know if the woman’ll have enough time to do the pickling. I mean, she has to pick them first. I don’t even know if there are any tricholomas this time of year.”
“Don’t worry about that. I was only joking. Sooner or later I had to make up my mind, and I did.”
“I’m glad. I understand. I’ve been inviting you all these years.”
Yet I didn’t hear in his voice that he was as pleased as I might have expected from all those letters of his, especially the last one.
I arrived at his home towards evening on the Saturday. Because you don’t know where the place is, he said over the phone. You wouldn’t be able to find it on your own. So Sunday morning we set off together for the lake.
“This is a nice car. Must have cost a pretty penny. Me, I drive a baby Fiat, as you see.” His little Fiat was parked outside the building. “I just had the bodywork all redone. It was rusting away. And I work like a dog. All day long in the store. I don’t even break for lunch. In this country you can never earn any real money. Even selling souvenirs.” Then, when we got into my car: “I see you have a stereo as well. You’ve got all sorts of things.” He was so taken with the car that it brought on a whole litany of gripes. In fact, he forgot to give me directions for the lake. It was only when we were already in the woods, on the last stretch, that he suddenly snapped out of it:
“How do you know the way?”
“From your letters, Mr. Robert. And the map.”
“You must have looked at an ordinance map, the lake isn’t on the regular road maps. Good thing too.” A note of doubt sounded in his voice: “From my letters? I don’t recall describing the way.”
“All these years, there were so many letters, Mr. Robert. You can’t remember everything. Me, I tried to learn something from each one of them. It just goesto show how carefully I read them. All the more because for a long time now I’ve wanted to come visit.”
“It’s true, I wrote endless letters.” He relaxed a little. “You didn’t always reply. You’d write back once to every two or three of my letters. And usually only a few lines. Or just a postcard, thanks, greetings, best wishes. I often used to think you weren’t interested. That it got on your nerves. Though after all …” I could tell he was upset. So I jumped in:
“The thing is, Mr. Robert, I hate writing letters. I’d much
Where the graves are, that struck me. I picked up the phone impulsively to call him and say, I’m on my way. But I put it down again at once. And almost every day from then on I did the same thing. I’d pick up the phone and put it down again, telling myself I’d call the next day. Though each time something seemed to whisper to me that if I didn’t do it now I never would. But still I’d put it off till the next day. One time I actually dialed his number, waited till the second ring, then hung up. Another time I even heard his voice:
“Hello? Hello? Goddammit, someone’s having trouble getting through again. The hell with these telephones!”
I could barely keep from saying, it’s me, Mr. Robert. Then one time I had the day off. I poured myself a glass of brandy and drank it. Then a second, a third. Mr. Robert? It’s me. I’m coming. There was a moment of silence, I thought he must just be taken aback. Then I heard a kind of sigh:
“Finally. What made you decide?”
“I couldn’t resist those pickled mushrooms, Mr. Robert. I’ve never had pickled mushrooms.”
“I just wish you’d have let me know sooner. I don’t know if the woman’ll have enough time to do the pickling. I mean, she has to pick them first. I don’t even know if there are any tricholomas this time of year.”
“Don’t worry about that. I was only joking. Sooner or later I had to make up my mind, and I did.”
“I’m glad. I understand. I’ve been inviting you all these years.”
Yet I didn’t hear in his voice that he was as pleased as I might have expected from all those letters of his, especially the last one.
I arrived at his home towards evening on the Saturday. Because you don’t know where the place is, he said over the phone. You wouldn’t be able to find it on your own. So Sunday morning we set off together for the lake.
“This is a nice car. Must have cost a pretty penny. Me, I drive a baby Fiat, as you see.” His little Fiat was parked outside the building. “I just had the bodywork all redone. It was rusting away. And I work like a dog. All day long in the store. I don’t even break for lunch. In this country you can never earn any real money. Even selling souvenirs.” Then, when we got into my car: “I see you have a stereo as well. You’ve got all sorts of things.” He was so taken with the car that it brought on a whole litany of gripes. In fact, he forgot to give me directions for the lake. It was only when we were already in the woods, on the last stretch, that he suddenly snapped out of it:
“How do you know the way?”
“From your letters, Mr. Robert. And the map.”
“You must have looked at an ordinance map, the lake isn’t on the regular road maps. Good thing too.” A note of doubt sounded in his voice: “From my letters? I don’t recall describing the way.”
“All these years, there were so many letters, Mr. Robert. You can’t remember everything. Me, I tried to learn something from each one of them. It just goesto show how carefully I read them. All the more because for a long time now I’ve wanted to come visit.”
“It’s true, I wrote endless letters.” He relaxed a little. “You didn’t always reply. You’d write back once to every two or three of my letters. And usually only a few lines. Or just a postcard, thanks, greetings, best wishes. I often used to think you weren’t interested. That it got on your nerves. Though after all …” I could tell he was upset. So I jumped in:
“The thing is, Mr. Robert, I hate writing letters. I’d much
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