Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  In her turn, Prudencia slowly began to strip the petals from the camellia flower.

  “Of course, when your children are involved the decision shouldn’t be difficult. They always come first. You live, you watch, you listen, play, teach, all the while thinking of them. But then one day the great dilemma arrives, the one that touches your heart, crushes your spirit, threatens your self-esteem. It turns up one day and presents you with a choice between two paths, each ending in sacrifice. If you take the right-hand path, you have to sacrifice yourself; if you take the left, it’s your children who suffer. Are you following me?”

  “Please, go on.”

  “Put like that it sounds rather cold-blooded, doesn’t it? You must be wondering how anyone could choose the left path and sacrifice their children. But it’s not that simple, my dear, because when you decide to take the second path you never allow yourself to see reality as it is, without excuses. You tell yourself that if you don’t pursue your own happiness, they’ll suffer too; that you have a right to be happy and you only get one life; that it’ll be better for them, they’re young, they’ll get over it. But the truth is, you make a choice and there is always a price to pay.”

  Miss Prim turned toward the old lady and took her cold hands in her own. For the first time she appeared hunched, small, and fragile.

  “I was faced with just such a dilemma, Prudencia. The details don’t matter now. All you need to know is that I could have chosen the right-hand path. But I chose the left. That’s the one I chose.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the horn as the maid pulled up to the house. As the two women rose and Miss Prim walked her companion to the car, tiny snowflakes started falling on the garden.

  “You need to get home, you’re frozen. I’ll stay and wait for your son, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, dear, I stopped worrying a long time ago,” she replied as Miss Prim helped her climb in.

  Once the car had driven off, Prudencia went to join the Man in the Wing Chair, who was taking his leave of a smiling, composed Miss Mott. As they walked to his car, she asked gently: “So, has everything been sorted out?”

  He took off his coat and placed it around his employee, who was silently grateful.

  “Yes, all sorted out.”

  “Is she going to take him back?”

  “She is, as long as he meets certain terms, which he assures her he’s prepared to do. I’ve spoken to him on the phone and I think he means it, but I want to see him in person and explain the plan to him more clearly.”

  “The plan? There’s a plan?”

  “Of course there’s a plan.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”

  “Quite right.”

  They walked on in silence. The paths of San Ireneo were becoming blurred under snow when he asked: “Is she all right?”

  Miss Prim searched for her words before replying.

  “I think so, but she seems very sad. She believes you blame her for something that happened many years ago.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair was silent for a moment.

  “I don’t. I forgave her many years ago, when I was still a boy. It’s she who blames herself, but she can’t see that. It’s easier to project blame into the eyes of others and defend yourself against that than to find it within yourself, where there’s no possible defense.”

  “But you said something very harsh to her this afternoon. I was staggered that you could say such a thing in front of everyone.”

  While her employer took out his keys and unlocked the car, she wondered if she had said too much. Once he’d started the engine and switched the heating on full blast, he turned to her and spoke.

  “My mother’s problem is that she can’t submit to any authority. She lost her parents years ago, and she lost her husband. She takes no account of her relatives’ views—she never has—and especially not her children’s. There’s no human or spiritual discipline to which she’ll subject her will. She just has her own opinions, and they’re the only tribunal that’s permitted to judge her when she makes a mistake. Can you imagine what you would be like if you didn’t have anyone close who was capable of influencing you? Anyone to point out your flaws, to confront you when you went too far, to correct you when you did something wrong?”

  Miss Prim said that she certainly couldn’t imagine.

  “My mother doesn’t have the blessing of someone to tell her what she absolutely doesn’t want to hear. This evening she was about to make a mistake and a weak, innocent person would have paid for it. I couldn’t let it happen, that’s all. There’s no bitterness or blame or accusation whatsoever in it. Quite the contrary: I love my mother deeply, believe me.”

  Miss Prim again experienced the envy that had lingered all afternoon. They were almost back at the house when she remembered that there was something she wanted to ask him.

  “What beauty will save the world? ” she murmured.

  He peered at her through the gloom inside the car.

  “Dostoyevsky, Prudencia? Dostoyevsky? If I were you, I’d start worrying.”

  Miss Prim, snugly wrapped in her employer’s coat, gave a happy grin, unseen in the darkness.

  4

  In the following weeks, the inhabitants of San Ireneo gradually learned the details of the plan that would turn Miss Mott’s husband into a resident spouse. As the mystery plan was revealed, enthusiasm spread throughout the village. The solution negotiated by the Man in the Wing Chair and approved by both husband and wife was designed to ensure that San Ireneo’s teacher overcame the major and most serious obstacle to restoring her marriage: loss of trust. Two conditions were considered essential to achieving this objective. The first, to find a job for the penitent Mr. Mott; the second, that the job should enable his wife to feel secure and not fear that he would leave again. How was this to be achieved? The answer surprised Miss Prim in its simplicity. San Ireneo de Arnois didn’t have a newsagent’s; there was nowhere to buy newspapers, magazines, children’s books, newspaper supplements, part works, picture cards, coloring pencils, or penny sweets. And the right place for it was the village square, close to all the main businesses and a stone’s throw from the school.

  At first, Prudencia didn’t grasp the key to the plan. She agreed that a decent job was essential for any man, especially a profoundly repentant man who wanted to rebuild his life, but she couldn’t comprehend why a simple newsagent’s was so important to the success of the undertaking. Hortensia Oeillet enlightened her.

  “It’s so she can see him, Prudencia, don’t you understand? He’s only a few yards from the school. All she has to do is look out of the window and there he is, right in front of her, selling the San Ireneo Gazette, thrillers, sweets, and sewing patterns. Isn’t it perfect?”

  Miss Prim did not agree. She thought it undignified for a man to be cooped up within four walls just so that his wife could keep tabs on him. She thought it unhealthy for a wife to be confident her husband would not run away perhaps only because it was impossible for him to do so. She thought it inappropriate that a married couple should have their private business on display in the village square in front of all their neighbors. Soon, however, she changed her mind. As the days passed, it became apparent to the residents of San Ireneo that a current of love had begun to flow between the newsagent’s and the school. It didn’t escape anyone’s notice that Mr. Mott’s smiles to his customers became distracted whenever his wife appeared at the window or came out into the garden. Nor could anyone fail to observe the teacher’s new hairstyle, her increasingly close-fitting dresses, or that she had exchanged her comfortable rubber-soled boots for dainty, high-heeled shoes. Thus married love bloomed in San Ireneo before everyone’s eyes, enfolded by the cold, sunny days that preceded Christmas in the region.

  This was what was in the air when Miss Prim reaffirmed her decision to place her marital future in the hands of the ladies of the village.

  “My dear, a
re you sure?” asked Hortensia Oeillet the morning she told her of her intentions over a cup of tea at the back of the flower shop.

  “Not really. Who could be? But if I haven’t met the right man before now, perhaps it’s due to negligence on my part.”

  “Oh, but it’s not your fault. That’s not how it works,” objected Emma Giovanacci, who had also been invited to have tea.

  “Emma’s right, Prudencia, it’s not a matter of negligence, not entirely anyway. It’s more like . . . have you read The Purloined Letter by Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “Again? Don’t tell me that story is relevant to falling in love as well? You all apply it to everything. I don’t understand what’s going on in this place.”

  “To everything? I’m not sure what you mean,” said the florist, surprised, “but what I do know is that it perfectly describes the discovery of love. Isn’t that right, Emma?”

  Her friend hastened to confirm this. She herself had observed the truth of Hortensia’s statement. Two years after her first husband died, she had become friendly with one of his old colleagues, a quiet, affable man called Edmundo Giovanacci, and had had coffee with him occasionally.

  “It was many years ago. I was still young and hadn’t yet moved to San Ireneo. I was busy carving out a future for myself. I had to work hard because my first husband, God forgive him, had squandered all our money behind my back. Edmundo knew how draining it had all been, and that I barely wanted to go on living. He would simply take me somewhere nice and order two cups of coffee. And it’s what he did week after week for eight years.”

  “Eight years? That’s such a long time,” said Miss Prim.

  “Of course it’s a long time. Emma’s always been a bit lazy,” laughed Hortensia, giving her friend a humorous pinch.

  “The truth is, I’ve never liked change,” replied Emma Giovanacci, bristling slightly. “That’s why I live here.”

  The florist cut each of her guests a large slice of apple tart and then filled their cups with steaming hot China tea.

  “But in the end you changed, did you?” asked the librarian.

  “Oh yes, I had no choice.”

  “Why not? Did he give you an ultimatum?”

  “Not exactly. Edmundo moved here to San Ireneo, and eventually I came after him. Don’t imagine it happened instantly—in real life things rarely happen instantly. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. Then one day I woke up and realized that something was missing from my life, something seemingly tiny but actually hugely important. The coffees, the chats, the walks, the pleasant afternoon outings were missing. It sounds silly but, as you grow older, it’s the little things that matter.”

  Miss Prim sipped her tea and nestled down into the storeroom armchair. She too believed in the value of the little things. Her first coffee in the morning drunk from her Limoges porcelain cup. Sunlight filtering through the shutters of her room, casting shadows on the floor. Dozing off over a book on a summer’s afternoon. The look in the children’s eyes when they told you about some fact they’d just learned. It was from the little things that the big ones were made, it definitely was. And suddenly she thought of Starets Ambrose and the turkeys.

  “It’s like a detective novel, Prudencia. Just like one,” the florist was saying.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Love, I mean love. It already exists, you can be sure. You just have to find out where, follow the trail, investigate. Exactly like a detective.”

  Miss Prim laughed and replied: “But that’s ridiculous. What you’re telling me is that a candidate—the Candidate—already exists and I just have to find out who he is, is that right?”

  The other two women smiled indulgently and said it was.

  “Well, I’ve never heard such a thing before, but let’s assume for a moment that it is so, just for a moment. How can I find him? What are the clues?”

  “Ah, the clues. There’s only one clue. Only one,” said Hortensia.

  Prudencia gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and drew her chair closer.

  “And that is . . . ?” she asked.

  “Harmony, of course. The Ancient Greeks’ άρμουια, the Romans’ harmonia. Herminia would explain it better, she knows so much about this sort of thing . . . Well, how to express it? I think the classical definition refers to balance in the proportions of parts of a whole. As in the sculpture of a beautiful face or body, in the manner in which you arrange flowers in a vase, combining them in ten different ways until you achieve something that satisfies your soul. As a highly qualified woman, you no doubt know that harmony comes from the Greek άρμόζω, which means ‘to fit together,’ ‘to connect.’ That’s the definitive clue, dear, the one that’ll help you solve your detective story.”

  Miss Prim considered this as she took a bite of apple tart.

  “But wouldn’t it be boring? Wouldn’t it be monotonous to be married to harmony?”

  The two friends gazed at her benevolently.

  “I don’t think we’ve explained it very well, Prudencia,” said Hortensia. “It’s not the husband who has to be the source of harmony. It’s not in him that you have to seek harmony. No, it’s in the marriage, in the combination of the two of you, that you’ve got to look for it.”

  “And not just that,” said her friend, “but in routine as well, especially in routine. Isn’t that so?”

  “Definitely. Of course, in this, poor Balzac got it completely wrong. He really knew nothing about it,” said the florist, refilling the teapot.

  “Balzac?” asked Miss Prim, a little confused.

  “It’s strange that the people who spit the most caustic words over marriage are precisely the ones who know least about it. All his life pursuing it, yearning for it . . . and for what? To get it at the end when he was ill and without hope. A dreadful woman, that Madame Hanska. She’s always seemed like the worst of our sex. So, tell me, how could he know anything about marriage?”

  “But what did Balzac say about marriage?” insisted the librarian.

  “He said that marriage always has to battle against a dark monster,” said Emma with a wink.

  “He was referring to routine,” added her friend.

  “And doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely not. Not only is this not true but it’s the biggest lie in the world, Prudencia. The cause of much suffering, believe me.”

  Emma Giovanacci cleared her throat quietly and moved her chair closer to the table before speaking.

  “Have you ever seen the flowers that grow on the Russian steppe?”

  Miss Prim replied that, regrettably, she had never visited the Russian steppe.

  “Well, you should. The Kalmyk steppe, near Stalingrad, is a bleak place, arid and featureless. If you go there in winter, it’s devastating to the soul. But try going in spring and see what you find.”

  Prudencia raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  “Tulips,” whispered Emma Giovanacci.

  “Tulips?”

  “Tulips. Fresh, delicate, wild tulips. Tulips that come up every year and cover the steppe, without anyone planting them. And that’s exactly what it’s about, Prudencia. Routine is like the steppe: it’s not a monster, it’s nourishment. If you can get something to grow there you can be sure that it will be real and strong. It’s the little everyday things that we mentioned earlier. But poor Balzac with all his dark, romantic sentimentality couldn’t know that, could he?”

  “The little everyday things,” echoed Miss Prim. “Well, let’s suppose I follow your advice. Can you help me with the investigation? Or do I have to do it all on my own?”

  The other two women looked at each other, amused. Then the florist spoke.

  “The investigation is up to you. We can only provide a little guidance. To start with, you could draw up a list of all the men you know who, objectively, possess the minimum qualities for a potential husband. We’ll add a few more names to the list—there are always possible candidates who go unnoticed and, in that respect, due to our age, we
’ve got more experience than you. You can use it as a starting point. How does that sound?”

  Miss Prim, who had begun to feel a fizzing excitement at the idea of solving this old-fashioned detective mystery, assured her that it sounded good, wonderfully good.

  The first name that came to Miss Prim’s mind was that of her former employer, Augusto Oliver. Though her initial reaction was a shudder, she was forced to concede that if this was all about applying a scientific method of investigation, she couldn’t make a list of possible husbands without including him. Had he ever wanted to marry her? Miss Prim maintained that he had not. Augusto Oliver was the kind of man who enjoyed making promises he had no intention of keeping. For three long years he had claimed to be sympathetic to his employee’s wish for more reasonable working hours—Miss Prim worked from ten till ten—and had promised again and again to do all he could to change them. But it became apparent that this was the last thing on his mind. Mr. Oliver liked to be alone with his most efficient employee at the end of their working day. He would emerge from his office and come to stand behind her, pretending to read over her shoulder. Sometimes, when he’d been at a business lunch and had had a little too much to drink, he’d come right up close and lean over so that he was almost whispering in her ear, making Miss Prim recoil. He was an attractive man, or at least he would have been if his manner had not been so overbearing.

  Very soon, what had begun as a minor nuisance, the kind any female employee experiences when her boss is attracted to her, ended up becoming untenable. Compliments were followed by invitations on dates, and invitations on dates—always politely refused—eventually led to tensions between them. Would things have been different if she had ever agreed to go out with him? It was difficult to say. Would employer and employee have married if Miss Prim had replied in the affirmative to the ridiculous proposal he made her on the day she announced she was leaving?

  “So was the swine really in love with you?” asked the mother of the Man in the Wing Chair, who had listened attentively to the librarian’s musings as they unpacked Christmas decorations from large white cardboard boxes.