Chapter 1 Awakening of Miss Prim
Prudencia Prim climbed the last few steps up from the crypt of the Basilica of St. Benedict and, unhooking the crimson rope that cordoned off the entrance from the rest of the building, went outside.
She felt the cool morning air on her face as she descended the steps into the main square in Nursia.
The market was mostly still closed but some of the stalls were coming to life, ready to sell local handicrafts to early passersby.
In the norcinerie, which sold impressive arrays of sausages, prosciutto, mortadella, and salami as well as lentils, rice, pasta of all shapes and colors and the most delicious truffles, shopkeepers were raising shutters, opening doors, and arranging baskets and attractive displays of goods outside their premises.
The town hall, adorned with the Italian flag that flapped in the wind, and, opposite, the severe edifice that housed the Castellina Museum, were delightfully familiar to her.
Yet she’d only been living there for sixteen weeks.
It was a Friday and, as she always did, Miss Prim turned the corner at the church and walked down the street to the small terrace of the Bar Venezia.
Looking forward to a large breakfast, she sat at a table, picked up the menu, and ran her eyes down the list of cured hams and brawn on offer.
When the waiter came to take her order with his usual friendly smile, she sighed happily.
“Buongiorno, signorina.”
“Buongiorno, Giovanni.”
“Cappuccino?”
“Cappuccino,” she said. “And some of your excellent prosciutto.”
He looked at her dubiously.
“Prosciutto? I don’t think so. You must be mistaken.”
Miss Prim shot him a look of surprise. She opened her mouth as if to say something but merely grinned in embarrassment.
“Of course, what was I thinking?”
“How about some toast with cream cheese and jam?”
“That’ll be lovely, thank you.”
She settled herself in her chair and half closed her eyes.
She’d arrived in early May, just in time to enjoy spring in all its finery, the spring that filled the Piano Grande of the Monti Sibillini—a vast plain surrounded by mountains that stretched like a lake only a few miles from Nursia—with flowers.
On the advice of the hotel owner, one morning she had walked up to the plateau and admired the incredible sight: an endless carpet of poppies, daisies, clover and violets, dandelions, yellow, pink, and red ranunculus, blue gentians, bellflowers, and many other wild species.
That morning Miss Prim had stepped onto the carpet of flowers, wandered among them, sat and even—who would have thought it?
—lain down. With dazzled eyes she could make out the tiny, isolated village of Castelluccio, a lost kingdom in a fairy tale, rising like an island from the sea.
And yet it wasn’t the abundance of nature that had kept her there.
It wasn’t the ancient Sybilline Mountains, the vibrant red poppies or the slender cypresses edging the wheat fields.
Nor was it the serene faces of the monks or the austere radiance of their chant.
It was all these and much more that had made her stay.
She’d crisscrossed Italy, from north to south and from east to west. She had absorbed the grandeur of the cities and the beauty of the landscapes.
She had given herself up to the dazzling coasts of Liguria and Amalfi, strolled along the shores of Lombardy, surrendered to the harmony of Florence, the beauty of Venice, the spirit of Rome.
She’d been captivated by the bustle of Naples and lost all sense of time along the coasts of the Cinque Terre; she’d admired the luminosity of Bari and wandered the sober streets of Milan.
For two long months she wandered down narrow streets and around harbors, palaces, fields, and gardens.
She’d sauntered through the villages of Tuscany and lands of Piedmont.
But only in Umbria, that corner of Umbria, had she come to a stop at last and unpacked her bags.
“What a small thing happiness is, yet what a big thing,” she said to herself as she munched her toast and sipped her cappuccino.
She had to plan her day. She had thought of spending the morning answering letters—Miss Prim was one of the few guests at the hotel, if not the only one, who sent and received letters—and the afternoon visiting Spoleto.
What a pleasing prospect to be able to spend hours on a café terrace, observing the people around her, occasionally reading some poetry—since she’d been in Italy she’d only been able to read poetry—and breathing in the gentle warmth of the summer air.
She bit into a second slice of toast and motioned to the waiter, who was lingering benignly in the café doorway, watching the morning unfold.
“Cappuccino, signorina?”
“Cappuccino, Giovanni.”
“The postman left a registered letter for you yesterday,” said Giovanni a few moments later, placing a steaming, fragrant cup of coffee, more toast, and a tray with three envelopes on the table.
“Thank you.”
“Prego.”
Miss Prim opened the first letter, read it, and put it down.
She drank some coffee, opened the second letter, read it, and put it down.
She took a bite of toast, opened the third letter, read it, and put down the toast. For a few minutes she simply reread the sheet of paper she had taken from the envelope.
Then she unfolded a newspaper cutting that had come with the letter, smoothed it out on the table, and examined it closely.
It was a page of small ads from the San Ireneo Gazette.
At the bottom of the third column an item was circled in red.
Wanted: a heterodox teacher for an unorthodox school, able to teach the trivium—Greek and Latin grammar, rhetoric, and logic—to children aged six to eleven. Preferably with no work experience. Graduates or postgraduates need not apply.
As her eyes alighted on the last two sentences, Miss Prim’s heart began to beat faster.
She took a few deep breaths and her pulse slowed.
At last, there it was: the moment had arrived.
During her months of traveling she’d corresponded regularly with some of her friends in San Ireneo.
None of them had mentioned it, nor had she.
But in a way, they had all been waiting for the moment to arrive.
So many letters sent and received, so many anecdotes recalled, so many small events recorded on sheets of paper shuttling back and forth, north to south, linking the librarian to the place she had found so difficult to leave and to which she so feared returning.
So much had changed during those months.
Sometimes she was quite shocked when she remembered how indignant she’d been when leaving San Ireneo that frozen February.
How angry she was as she stormed out of Lulu Thiberville’s house—dear Lulu Thiberville, with whom she’d exchanged so many letters over the past month.
How could she not write to Lulu after her seventh visit to the crypt?
How could she not write to her after walking, kneeling—who would have thought it—and lying down on the carpet of a thousand colors overlooked by the Sybilline Mountains?
How could she not explain that she’d learned to look, scan the horizon, close her eyes, and travel back to the past, to identify monsters and avoid icebergs, to understand and appreciate the arduous labor of the gatekeeper?
She also wrote often to her dear, much admired Horacio.
How could she not write when one day she succeeded at last in admiring Giotto without trying to dissect him?
How could she not tell him that in some local villages children still played football in church courtyards, just as all the children in all the villages of Europe had played before Europe forgot games and courtyards?
How could she not tell Horacio about the silence of afternoons in Spoleto, the beauty of the narrow streets of Gubbio, the tranquillity of the gardens around the monastery of San Damiano?
She missed her friend, she missed his severe, gentlemanly kindness, she felt its loss keenly.
But she knew that she missed more than that, and more than him.
“Cappuccino, signorina?”
“No, thank you, Giovanni. Could I have the bill, please?”
Miss Prim paid, gathered up the letters, and left the terrace of the Bar Venezia just as on any other day.
She crossed the main square and paused to chat with the carabiniere, asking after his wife and mother just as on any other day.
She stopped briefly at the shop of the Monastery of St. Benedict, bought a few things, and left with a smile on her face just as on any other day.
Then she returned to her hotel, located a stone’s throw from the square.
She walked up to the reception desk and waited patiently while the receptionist dealt with a young Japanese couple who, with much gesturing and giggling, were asking how to get to Assisi. Miss Prim looked at them warmly.
Tutti li miei penser parlan d’Amore