“You can’t be, and at the same time believe that this man divines things.”
“Of course I can’t. But that’s not what I said. What I said was that ‘this man,’ as you call him,knowsthings.”
Virginia quietly began clearing the table.
“But isn’t that one and the same?” insisted Miss Prim.
“Definitely not. I challenge you to go and talk to him sometime.”
“I don’t think I will, thank you.”
“Why not? Are you afraid?”
Prudencia looked peeved.
“Afraid? Of a poor, elderly monk?”
Horacio glanced at Virginia before replying.
“Tell me, Prudencia. Is there a black hole in that young life of yours? Something you have to live with but would like to be rid of? A stain on your conscience? A fear not dealt with? A rumble of despair?”
“And what if there is?” answered the librarian with her chin held high. “We all have not just one, but many of those.”
“You’re right, we all do. But what I’m trying to say is that he knows what they are. He knows what’s in people’s minds—he can read them like a book.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Just go and see him. He may not say anything revelatory—he doesn’t always. But whatever he says, it will hit the mark, I assure you.”
After paying for the book and thanking the bookseller for the tea and conversation, they left the shop and emerged onto the streets of San Ireneo, which were cold but aglow with Christmas lights.
“I still maintain that I’m surprised to hear all this from a man who isn’t exactly gullible,” said Miss Prim.
Laden down with yet another parcel—Abbé Fleury’s catechism—Horacio smiled affably.
“That’s just it, Prudencia. My skepticism isn’t of the Pyrrhonist sort, but scientific. I accept any premise that has empirical evidence to support it.”
“Really?” said the librarian. “So is there empirical evidence for this faculty you’ve mentioned that lets the old monk know what one is?”
Her companion stopped and looked straight into her eyes.
“Is there empirical evidence? Of course there is.”
“And what is it, may I ask?”
Miss Prim guessed what Horacio was going to say a split second before he said it.
“The black holes in my own life, of course.”
6
News of Mr. Mott’s disappearance shattered the peace of San Ireneo with the abrupt violence of a punch in the solar plexus. Miss Prim heard about it at the butcher’s. She was buying an enormous turkey which she intended to roast for Christmas dinner—behind the cook’s back, though she wasn’t quite sure yet how she would accomplish this.
“I never liked him,” declared the butcher. “I said as much when I saw the way he served his customers. He always seemed to be looking past you, like a caged lion dying to escape. Poor Miss Mott, men like that never change.”
The librarian dashed out of the shop and ran to the schoolhouse. Reaching the front door, she stopped short, out of breath, not daring to ring the bell. She just stood, in silence, the huge turkey in her arms. Movements behind the net curtains, slow and furtive, raised her hopes that someone had seen she was there. A few minutes later the door opened and the Man in the Wing Chair, looking grave, asked if she would like to come in.
“So he’s gone?” she said, still breathless from running with the heavy turkey.
