The Quest: A Novel (34 page)

Gann agreed, “That is a safe insertion plan.”

Purcell said, “Unless they’re waiting for all of us to get there.”

Mercado said, “If your paranoia has substance, Frank, then I should go first to see if there is a problem.”

“Your offer is noted for the record.” He added, “I leave on the eighteenth.”

Gann informed them, “I have a number of safe houses in Addis. Where will you be staying?”

Purcell replied, “With all the other reporters at the Addis Hilton.”

“Safety in numbers,” said Gann.

“With the journalistic community, Colonel, it’s more like dog eat dog.”

Mercado reminded Purcell and Vivian, “Alitalia still has daily flights to Addis, and seats are not hard to come by. Same with rooms at the Addis Ababa Hilton. I will notify the newspaper and the travel office of our plans next week.” He added, “Gives us time to think about this.”

Purcell said, “There is nothing to think about.”

Mercado nodded.

They discussed a few other operational details, and in regard to their Berini trip on the fourteenth, Mercado consulted an Alitalia flight schedule and said to Purcell and Vivian, “Book the nine-sixteen
A.M.
Alitalia to Palermo. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

Mercado said he had work to do, and his three visitors left.

Gann said he wanted to wander around the seat of the papacy, and he wished them good day.

Purcell and Vivian exited Vatican City and walked along the Tiber.

Vivian said, “This has just become real.”

“It gets even more real in Ethiopia.”

T
hey landed in Palermo, rented a Fiat, and bought a road map of Sicily.

There were a few routes to Berini, which was in the mountains near the town of Corleone, and they decided to reverse the route that Father Armano had taken in 1935 from Alcamo to Palermo, though instead of a train, they drove the new highway to Alcamo. There, they took an increasingly bad road into the hills—the same road that the priest had undoubtedly walked forty years before with the other army conscripts who, like himself, were bound for Palermo, then Ethiopia. Father Armano, however, had taken a detour to Rome, and to the Vatican, before his fateful and fatal journey to Africa.

It was a sunny day and much warmer than Rome. The sky was deep blue and white clouds hung over the distant mountains. Lemon and orange groves covered the narrow valleys, and olive trees and vineyards rose up the terraced slopes. Clusters of umbrella pines shaded white stucco houses, and tall cedars stood sentry at the bases of the hills.

This, Purcell thought, was the last that Father Armano had seen of his native land, and he must have realized as he was walking to Alcamo with the other young men that he might never see it again.

Vivian said, “This is beautiful. Completely unspoiled.”

Purcell noticed there was very little vehicular traffic, but there were a good number of donkeys and carts on the road, and a lot of people walking and biking. The villages, as expected, were picturesque—white stuccoed houses with red tile roofs, and church bell towers in even the smallest town. “They must pray a lot.”

Mercado said, “I’m sure they’re all in church every Sunday and holy day. And, of course, for weddings, funerals, baptisms, and such, not to mention Saturday confessions.” He added, “They are a very
simple, religious people and there are not many like them in Europe anymore.”

Purcell suggested, “You should move here, Henry.”

“After you, Frank.”

Vivian said, “I can see having a summer place in Sicily.”

Mercado reminded her, “You don’t speak the dialect.”

Purcell pointed out, “You both spoke to Father Armano.”

Mercado explained, “He spoke standard Italian, a result I’m sure of his seminary training and his time in the army.”

“Are we going to have trouble speaking to the citizens of Berini?”

“Sicilians understand standard Italian when they want to.” He added, “The priest will understand my Italian. And the younger people as well, because of television and cinema.”

“Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”

Mercado informed them, “Sicilians don’t like to answer questions, especially from strangers.”

“We’re doing a nice story for L’Osservatore Romano on their native son.”

“Doesn’t matter. They are suspicious of the outside world.”

“And with good reason.”

Vivian suggested, “Use your charm, Henry.”

Purcell said, “We may as well turn around now.”

Mercado ignored that and said, “The key is the village priest.”

They reached Corleone, consulted the road map and the signs, and headed southwest into the higher hills.

It would not have been too difficult, Purcell thought, to walk downhill to Alcamo. But it would not have been an easy journey home to Berini, on foot, though a soldier returning home would not think about that.

They had spotted a few classical Roman and Greek ruins along the way, and Mercado informed them, “The Carthaginians were also here, as well as the Normans, the armies of Islam, and a dozen other invaders.” He further informed his audience, “Sicily was a prize in the ancient world, and now it is the land that time forgot—like Ethiopia.”

“The world changes,” Purcell agreed. “Wars have consequences.”

“I have an English cousin who served with Montgomery, and he may have passed through here in ’43.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for anyone with a family resemblance.”

The village of Berini was strategically located at the top of a hill that rose above the valley, and the one-lane road hugged the side of the slope and wrapped around it like a corkscrew until it abruptly ended at a stone arch, which marked the entrance to the village.

Purcell drove through the arch and followed a narrow lane between whitewashed houses. The few pedestrians stood aside and eyed them curiously as they passed by.

A minute later they entered a small, sunlit piazza, and at its far end was a good-sized stone church, which according to the Vatican directory was San Anselmo. The parish priest, if the information was up to date, was Father Giorgio Rulli. There were no other priests listed.

On the right side of the square was a row of two-story stucco buildings, one of which had an orange awning and a sign that said, simply, “Taverna.” On the other side of the piazza was a place called “Caffe,” and next to that was a tabaccheria, a sort of corner candy store. That seemed to be the extent of the commercial establishments, and the other structures appeared to be residences and a village hall. A few miniature Fiats were parked around the perimeter of the piazza, but the main form of transportation seemed to be bicycles. Purcell noticed there were no donkeys.

The outdoor seating under the awning and umbrellas of the taverna and caffe was filled with people, and Purcell noted they were all male. He could also see that their full-sized Fiat had attracted some attention. It was a little past three o’clock and Mercado said, “This is the riposo—the traditional four-hour afternoon break.”

Purcell inquired, “Break from what?”

Vivian suggested, “Park someplace.”

“I’m looking for a parking meter.”

“Wherever you stop the car is a parking place, Frank.”

“Right.”

He moved the Fiat slowly over the cobblestoned piazza and stopped a respectable distance from the church. They all got out
and stretched. It was cooler here at the higher elevation, and the air smelled of woodsmoke.

They had been advised by one of Mercado’s colleagues to dress modestly and in muted colors. The rural Sicilians, the colleague said, literally laugh at brightly colored clothing, the way most people would laugh at someone coming down the street in a clown outfit. Purcell and Mercado wore black trousers, white shirts, and dark sports jackets, and Vivian wore a black dress, a loose-fitting black sweater, and sensible shoes. She also had a black scarf to cover her head if they entered the church.

A few elderly men and women made their way up and down the steps of the church, and Mercado said to an old woman in a black dress, “Mi scusi, Signora,” then slowly and distinctly asked her something.

She replied, pointed, and moved on, giving the strangers a backward glance and looking Vivian up and down. Mercado informed them that the rectory was behind the church and he led the way.

The rectory was a small stucco house set in a garden, and they went up the path to the door. They had discussed what they were going to say, and they’d agreed that Mercado would take the lead. There was a doorbell and Mercado rang it. They waited.

The door opened and a very young priest stood there and looked at them. “Si?”

Mercado inquired, “Padre Rulli?”

“Si.”

Mercado introduced himself and his companions, and said they were from
L’Osservatore Romano
, then Purcell heard him say, “Padre Armano.”

The priest didn’t slam the door in their faces, but he seemed to hesitate, then invited them inside. He ushered them into a small, plain sitting room and indicated a narrow upholstered couch. They sat, and the priest sat opposite them on a high-backed chair.

The priest, as Purcell noted, was young, and also short of stature, though he had a presence about him. His nose looked like it could have its own mailing address, and his eyes were dark and intelligent. He had thin lips and an olive complexion, and the sum total of his appearance was handsome in an interesting way.

Purcell glanced around the room. A woodstove radiated heat, one
floor lamp cast a dim light in the corner behind the priest’s chair, and the crude plaster walls were adorned with colored prints of men with beards and women with veils. A white marble Jesus hung from an olivewood cross above the priest’s chair.

This was obviously a small and poor country church in a poor parish, Purcell thought; a place where the priest answered his own door. This was not the Vatican.

Mercado said something to the priest, enunciating each word so the Sicilian priest would have no difficulty understanding.

The priest replied, “You may speak English if it is better than your Italian.”

Mercado seemed surprised, then recovered and said, “Forgive us, Father, for not making an appointment—”

“My doorbell rings all day. It is the only doorbell in Berini. I am here.”

“Yes… well, as I said, we are from L’Osservatore Romano. Signorina Smith is my photographer and Signore Purcell is my… assistant.”

“I understand.” He informed them, “I have taught myself English. From books and tapes. Why? It is the language of the world, as Latin once was. Someday…” He didn’t complete his thought, but said, “So forgive me in advance if I do not understand, or if I mispronounce.”

Mercado assured him, “Your English is perfect.”

Father Rulli asked, “How may I be of assistance?”

Mercado replied, “My colleagues and I were in Ethiopia, in September, and while there we came across a priest who was dying—”

“Father Armano.”

“Yes.” He asked, “Have you been notified of his death?”

“I have.”

“I see… When were you notified?”

“In November. Why do you ask?”

Purcell answered without answering, “We’re writing a newspaper article on Father Armano, so we are collecting information.”

“Yes, of course. But it is my understanding that you have all this information from the Vatican press office.”

Purcell knew that the Vatican press office and
L’Osservatore Romano
were not one and the same, though sometimes they seemed to be. He glanced at Mercado.

Mercado said to Father Rulli, “I haven’t had contact with the Vatican press office.”

“They said they were in contact with L’Osservatore Romano.”

“They may be… but not me.”

Father Rulli admitted, “I have no idea how these things work in Rome.”

Purcell assured him, “Neither do we.”

Father Rulli smiled. He then informed them, “But you do know about the steps toward Father Armano’s beatification.”

At first Purcell thought that the priest had mispronounced “beautification,” and he was confused. Then he understood.

Mercado seemed dumbstruck.

Vivian asked, “What am I missing?”

Mercado told her, “Father Armano has been proposed for canonization—sainthood.”

“Oh…”

“Did you not know this?” asked the priest.

“We… had heard…”

“That is the purpose of your visit, is it not?”

“Yes… well, we wanted to gather some background on his early life. His time in the army… perhaps letters that he wrote to his family and friends.”

Father Rulli informed them, “You could have saved yourselves the journey.” He explained, “A delegation from the Vatican was here in November to let me know of Father Armano’s death and his proposed canonization. As you know, if he is entered into the sainthood, and if a church is ever built in his name, a relic is needed to consecrate the church. And also a complete biography of the prospective saint is compiled. So a call was put out in Berini and we also searched the storage cellar of this rectory.” He let them know, “We found some of his old vestments in trunks, and his family had photographs and letters they had saved. Some from Ethiopia.” He told them, “The man from the Vatican press office interviewed the family and some childhood friends of Giuseppe Armano. So this has all been done.”