The Alpine Pharmacist – Part 1: Tuesday Prescriptions

Every Tuesday at ten, Rudolf Imhof came in with a different ailment.

"A sore thumb," he announced, one October morning.

Elsbeth examined the thumb. It was large, brown, calloused and entirely healthy. She was fifty-nine, a pharmacist, newly arrived from Zurich to take over the village shop. Her white coat was starched, her glasses on a chain, her manner crisp. The pharmacy was tiny, with polished wooden drawers and a bell on the door and a view of the snow-capped peaks.

"There is nothing wrong with your thumb."

"It aches at the knuckle."

"It does not."

"When the weather turns."

"It is turning," she said drily, "in about three weeks."

He grinned, a slow, creaky grin. He was sixty-four, tall, bony, with a white moustache and bright blue eyes, in a grey wool jacket and mountain boots. The villagers had told her he was a retired cheesemaker, a widower, a man of regular habits. He had never been ill in his life.

She gave him a tube of arnica ointment. He bought two.

The following Tuesday, he complained of a sore throat. The one after, a headache. Then it was a sprained ankle, a stiff neck, a cough. Each time he left with a small paper bag and a deep, contented look. Elsbeth, to her annoyance, began to look forward to it.

"Rudolf," she said, in the sixth week. "What is really the matter?"

His face changed. He turned his cap in his hands. "I am lonely," he said, simply.

Her throat tightened. She set down the arnica. "Oh."

"It is very foolish."

"It is not foolish." She came round the counter. "It is honest. I am lonely too."

"Can I ask you something?" said Rudolf.

"Yes."

"Would you take a walk with me? On Sunday. To the alp."

"Green?" she said, a word from a prescription label.

"Green," said Rudolf, surprised and shy. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Alp.