After the eruption of Vesuvius, the ancient Roman city of Pompeii was buried under 25 meters of volcanic ash. Nothing more was known of it again until 1599. While digging an underground channel to divert the river Sarno, a group of workers ran into some ancient walls covered with paintings and inscriptions. They called in the architect Domenico Fontana to examine the findings; Fontana unearthed several more frescoes, richly detailed, the colors still vibrant. After a few hours of careful examination, he ordered that the frescoes be reburied, bribed the workers to keep quiet, and never said anything else about them. The ruins of Pompeii were not touched again until their second rediscovery in 1738, during the construction of a summer palace for the King of Naples.
Whenever people ask me why I like to hide the wild mushrooms, I tell them about the architect Domenico Fontana, and his extraordinary sense of beauty. Except that no one will ever rediscover, for a second time, my buried wild mushrooms. They will rot back into the earth. Maybe, after many rains, other mushrooms will grow on top of them. And if I am still alive, I will bury those, too.
I have nothing against eating mushrooms. I quite enjoy them actually, especially the short plump ceps in a nice buttery sauce, the way my grandmother used to cook them. When I was a child, I would go hunt for mushrooms with my grandfather in the forest. He liked the Lions Manes and the Oysters best of all. He knew which ones were poisonous: the Flying Agaric, with their bright red caps and round white spots, were easy to identify. He knew the difference between Shaggy Parasols and Green-Spored Parasols, between Chanterelles and Jack-o’Lanterns, between White Buttons and Destroying Angels–to me the most beautiful of all the mushrooms. Later I would go out alone and pick the poisonous ones. I kept them in big glass jars on my windowsill.
Of course here in this scruffy flat green square of a park, walled in on every side, there aren’t nearly as many mushrooms as in the forests of my childhood, but every now and then I’ll spot one, and, under heavily armed guard as always, I bring over my trowel and my little sack of dirt, and I cover up the mushroom. In the summer, after heavy rains, I look for mushrooms to bury up to three hours a day–the maximum time I am allowed to be outdoors. The strange thing is that I don’t enjoy covering up the mushrooms. I would much rather dry them and put them in jars for the winter (they would have to be plastic jars, I suppose.) Truth be told, often, once I am done covering up the wild mushroom with fresh dirt, I feel like I am at a funeral, and I become very sad. But that it why it must be done.