Following her hasty departure from the Feminist League, the librarian had gone to the house of the only other man she knew in the village apart from her employer.
“This is a strange place, full of very odd people,” she said with a sigh.
“I hope you don’t think of me in that way. Remember, I’m one of them,” replied her host, offering her a glass of brandy. This she accepted gratefully.
Miss Prim assured him that she didn’t mean to include him. Since her arrival in San Ireneo she had tried to fit in, but her efforts had been in vain. There were too many unanswered questions, and the first of these was about her employer: Who was he? What did he do for a living? Why did he go to the abbey first thing every morning? Why did he spend whole days immersed in old books, forgetting mealtimes? Was he some kind of urban hermit? Miss Prim had heard of such people. Madmen devoted to a life of prayer, mystics who lived in the city in a state of constant worship just like the original hermits in the desert, or the mysterious Russianstarets. Perhaps the Man in the Wing Chair was an urban hermit.
“For the record, I don’t have anything against hermits, much less urban ones. I’ve always respected all forms of spirituality,” she pointed out.
“Of course you have, my dear. But believe me,heis not a hermit.”
“What is he, then? Because you can’t deny that his religious zeal goes beyond the norm.”
“Well beyond. I can’t believe you’re so unobservant. Haven’t you realized that you’re working for a convert?”
“A convert?”
“I was sure you knew.”
“Absolutely not. A convert from what?”
“From skepticism, of course. What else? You have to agree that of all dragons, it’s the only one worth fleeing.”
Perplexed, the librarian wondered if the brandy wasn’t going straight to her head.
“You must at least have observed that he’s not an ordinary man,” insisted her host.
Miss Prim agreed that it wouldn’t be easy to consider the Man in the Wing Chair an ordinary man.
“What does he do with his time?” she asked before raising her glass to her lips again.
“Study.”
“No one can make a living from studying.”
“He’s also a teacher.”
“To fifteen children whom he doesn’t even charge for their tea.”
“True, but that’s only one of his occupations. If you want to know what his main source of income is, I can tell you that he’s very highly regarded as an expert in dead languages; he contributes to a great many publications, and once or twice a year he gives series of lectures at various universities. As well as all that, which brings more prestige than money, he manages a large part of his family’s assets. Actually, he doesn’t need much to live on. He’s a frugal man, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”
“Series of lectures? I didn’t know that Latin and Greek were such a big deal,” said Miss Prim with a giggle.
Horacio gave her a look of surprise and consternation.
“Latin and Greek? My dear Prudencia, once again you leave me speechless. Your Man in the Wing Chair is fluent in around twenty languages, half of them dead. And when I say dead, I don’t mean just Aramaic and Sanskrit. I’m talking about Ugaritic, Syrio-Chaldean, Carthaginian Punic, and old Coptic dialects such as Sahidic and Fayyumic. As I said, you’re in the employ of a man who’s far from ordinary. You see him go to the abbey every morning because he’s devoted to the ancient Roman liturgy. And he lives isolated in this small place occupying himself with parochial concerns because he was inspired by the old man in the abbey—who now almost never ventures outside—and is in fact the founder of this colony of sorts.”
“Colony? What do you mean?”
For the second time Horacio stared at his guest in amazement.
“Prudencia, are you telling me that you had no idea that San Ireneo was a refuge for exiles from the hustle and bustle of modern life? It’s precisely what attracts such diverse people from so many different places! I’m beginning to think you accepted the job absolutely blind. I can’t believe you hadn’t seen that there was something unusual about our way of life until now.”
Emboldened by the brandy, Miss Prim confessed that she had noticed something. She’d been there long enough to take stock, form an opinion, and build up a mental picture of the place, if only a rather impressionistic one. Admittedly, she’d really only managed a rough sketch. She had, however, observed one or two peculiarities. In that one remote village, families of very different backgrounds had settled. They all owned their own houses, land, or small businesses. Primary goods were produced in the village, and there was a flourishing, prosperous local trade. She hadn’t spotted it at first, partly because she hadn’t had to buy much. If she wanted tights, shoes, or any other personal items she simply made a note of it and bought whatever she needed on her fortnightly visits to the city. She then aired her flat, watered her plants, chatted with her mother, had coffee with friends, did some shopping, and returned in the evening.
Gradually, however, she began to sense that there was something hidden beneath the surface of the community. In the area around San Ireneo de Arnois there were no factories, large businesses, or offices. All the shops sold high-quality goods, produced locally. The clothes and shoes bore the signatures of three or four tailors and shoemakers; the small stationery shop, charmingly, sold goods made to order; the food shops were friendly establishments bursting with produce, handmade preserves, fresh milk, and bread just baked at the bakery on the corner. At first, Miss Prim thought she detected an environmentalist zeal, but soon realized she was wrong. Whatever was nourishing this village, it was far from green in hue. A quiet, peaceful community of home and business owners, that’s what it was. Life in San Ireneo was small-scale and, Miss Prim thought to herself, also unusually harmonious.
“Are they Distributists, or something?”
