5
TheSan Ireneo Gazetteoccupied one of the few office blocks in the village, if that’s what you could call the old three-story stone and timber building. It was so narrow that the staircase took up almost half of each floor. Like all the commercial establishments in San Ireneo, it had a neat metal sign and a small garden, but everyone agreed that its most valuable asset was, without a doubt, its editor. Miss Prim arrived at the appointed time in the early afternoon carrying a tray of freshly baked cakes. After almost three months in the village, she knew that tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, fine pastries, and a good liqueur were essential to any social gathering there.
“It surprised me too at first, but I’ve come to see it as a mark of civilization,” said Herminia Treaumont after thanking the librarian for her edible gift and inviting her to look around the tiny newspaper premises.
“Really? It seems like a relic to me,” said Miss Prim. “Who has time nowadays for these leisurely teas?”
The editor of theGazetteshowed her the antique rotary press on which the newspaper’s four hundred copies were printed daily.
“What a beautiful thing! So it still works?”
“Of course it does. It’s a relic, as you would say, but the concept of memory is inherent to civilization. Primitive peoples perpetuate barely more than a handful of traditions. They can’t capture their history in writing. They have no sense of permanence.”
“That can apply to tea, macaroons, and pastries.”
“And to conversation too, of course. We modern primitives also have our limitations. We no longer find the time to sit around a table and chat about the human and the divine. And not only do we not find the time, we don’t even know how to anymore.”
Miss Prim examined a copy of that evening’s paper.
“What you mean, Herminia, is that traditions are a bulwark against the decline of culture, is that it?” she asked. “I quite agree, but I would never have thought of extending that to the mountains of cake consumed at social gatherings in San Ireneo.”
They laughed as they entered Herminia’s office, which was screened off from the minuscule editorial department behind a glass partition. Two paces from a desk piled with books and papers, there was a tea table spread with an immaculate cloth upon which were set out a tray of cupcakes and macaroons, a pot of hot chocolate, a jug of cream and a bowl of fruit.
“You’re an extremely civilized woman,” said Miss Prim with a smile. “Tell me, what do you report on around here? Is there any news in San Ireneo? Or do you make it up?”
“Of course there’s news in San Ireneo,” replied her hostess. “Wherever there’s a group of human beings there’s news. What constitutes news and the criteria you use to establish that is another matter. This is a newspaper in the old tradition, Prudencia. We don’t only report small events in the community—above all, we are a forum for debate.”
“Really? Who takes part? And what do you debate?”
“We all take part. We debate anything and everything: politics, economics, art, education, literature, religion... Are you surprised? Look around you, at your own life, your relationships. Isn’t life a continual debate?”
For a moment Miss Prim thought of herself in the library telling the Man in the Wing Chair about the clamor in her head. Then she recalled discussing marriage with Hortensia Oeillet, feminism with the ladies of the Feminist League, education with her employer’s mother, fairy tales with the children of the house. Yes, in a way, life was indeed a continual debate.
“From time to time—about once or twice a month, in fact—we organize public debates at our Socratic Club and then we publish them.”
Prudencia took a macaroon and nibbled at it.
“What’s a Socratic Club? Do you mean a debating society?”
“You can’t imagine how popular it is. People come from all around. Sometimes it’s not a live debate but happens in installments. One day someone publishes an article, a second person responds, then a third writes something, a fourth, even a fifth, and we all watch the cut and thrust.”
Miss Prim asked if her employer joined in.
“Of course he does. And he often wins.”
The librarian replied that this didn’t surprise her in the slightest.
“Well, I doubt he’s ever used all his ammunition against you. Watching him in discussion with Horacio Delàs is quite a spectacle.”
“Horacio is a charming man,” said Miss Prim.
“I’m delighted you’ve noticed.”
The librarian regarded her hostess with interest. The editor of theSan Ireneo Gazettehad the indefinable charm of someone who said little but thought much. Miss Prim had always felt that such people were at a marked advantage. They never said anything tactless, never spouted nonsense, never had cause to regret their words or justify themselves. She had always tried to behave like this, tried not to say anything that might hurt other people or herself, but it wasn’t easy. Herminia Treaumont was a master of the art. Reluctantly, she could now see what the Man in the Wing Chair had meant when he’d said Herminia was attractive.
“I’m concerned about the two girls,” Miss Prim said suddenly, remembering something she’d wanted to raise for some time.
The editor looked at her, taken aback.
