Nelson Demille - The Quest

The priest rose and his guests also stood. Father Rulli showed them to the door and said, “Five o’clock. I will have coffee.”

They thanked him, left the rectory, and walked along the side of the church and entered the piazza. The afternoon break seemed to be over and the taverna looked quiet, so they crossed the piazza and found a table under the awning.

Mercado said, “We were scooped by the Vatican press office.”

Purcell added, “And they made off with all traces of Father Armano.”

Vivian said, “This is hard to believe… I mean, is this canonization… legitimate?”

Mercado replied, “It could be.”

Purcell lit a cigarette and looked at him.

Mercado met his stare and said, “It could be, Frank.” He explained, “They’d want his army letters to see if he mentioned anything that could be construed as a miracle.”

“They wanted his army letters to see if he mentioned anything about the letter he was carrying from the pope.”

“We don’t know that.”

Purcell asked, “Aren’t there supposed to be eyewitnesses to these miracles?”

Mercado replied, “I’m impressed with your knowledge of the steps to sainthood.” He added, “The Vatican office of beatification will be trying to find and interview men who served with Father Armano in Ethiopia.”

Vivian said, “Even if he didn’t perform a miracle, he experienced the greater miracle of… being healed.”

Purcell inquired, “Does that count?”

Mercado surprised him by saying, “Even doubting Thomas had a place among the apostles.” He assured Purcell, “We need a skeptic.”

Vivian smiled. “I look forward to being there, Frank, when you are in the black monastery in the presence of the Holy Spirit.”

“I will eat my words. Or drink them.”

Vivian thought a moment, then said, “Father Armano asked us to tell his sister Anna of his death.”

No one responded.

“Why did he say Anna? Why didn’t he mention his other sister or brother?”

The obvious answer, as they all knew, was that Giuseppe Armano had indeed gone home to Berini, then returned to Ethiopia with the happy knowledge that Anna was still alive, and that she would be waiting to hear from them about his last hours on earth.

Purcell said, “The rational side of me says that Anna was closest to him.”

No one responded.

Purcell continued, “But I like the other possibility better. He went home.”

The proprietor saw they were still sitting in his chairs and he came out to see why. Mercado greeted him and asked politely for three glasses of vino rosso and acqua minerale . The man seemed all right with that and disappeared inside.

Mercado said, “The last strangers he saw were wearing British Army uniforms.”

“He looks the right age to be your cousin.”

Vivian returned to the subject. “Father Rulli seemed a bit confused, or even suspicious, that we didn’t know about the Vatican delegation or much else.”

Mercado assured her, “Catholic priests know better than anyone that the Vatican moves in mysterious ways.” He added, “Rome is Rome.”

Purcell said, “The Roman Church, in my opinion, is a continuation of the Roman Empire, also not known for openness or enlightenment.”

Mercado replied, “The Church of Rome preaches and practices the word of God.”

Purcell thought that every time Henry Mercado heard the word “God,” he also heard a choir of heavenly angels. He said to Mercado, “You lied to the priest.”

Mercado replied, “I was as confused as he was and I may have misspoken.”

“You need to go to confession.”

Mercado changed the subject. “We may be able to get some information on Father Armano’s military unit from his family. But to be honest with you, the Ministry of War is not going to be cooperative in regard to providing us with maps or logbooks.” He added, “We have been shut down.”

Purcell agreed. “This is not a productive trip. But it could be good background for our story-though not the one we write for L’Osservatore Romano.”

Vivian reminded them, “We also came here to inform his family-to tell Anna-of his death and to tell them we were with him at the end.”

Purcell pointed out, “The Vatican beat us to the death notification.” He added, “And whatever else we tell them might contradict what the Vatican delegation has already told Father Rulli and the family.” He advised, “Keep it short, general, and upbeat.”

Mercado reminded Vivian, “He was unconscious most of the time.”

Vivian replied, “Lies just breed more lies.”

Purcell said, “When in Rome.”

Their wine and water came with a bill written on a slate board, and Mercado gave the proprietor a fifty-thousand-lire note. He said to his companions, “It’s pay as you go.”

“We look shady,” Purcell agreed.

The proprietor made change from his apron and Mercado took it, explaining, “Overtipping is in poor taste.” He left some coins on the table.

Mercado raised his glass, “God rest the soul of Father Giuseppe Armano.”

“San Giuseppe,” said Purcell.

Mercado pronounced the wine drinkable, then informed them, “Sainthood moves very slowly. We will not see his canonization in our lifetime.”

“Well, not your lifetime, Henry.”

Mercado pointed out, “None of us knows how much time we have left here, Frank.” He nodded toward San Anselmo, where men, women, and children, dressed in black, were climbing the steps as the church bells tolled slowly and echoed through the piazza.

Vivian said, “Let’s go to this burial Mass.”

Purcell inquired, “Did you know the deceased?”

“I want to see Father Armano’s church.”

Purcell and Mercado exchanged glances, then Mercado said, “All right.” He went inside to say arrivederci to the proprietor, then came out and informed his companions, “You never leave without saying good-bye.”

Purcell said, “I’m impressed with your rustic etiquette.”

Vivian said, “I think I could live in Sicily.”

Purcell informed her, “Half the Italians in America are Sicilian. They couldn’t live here.”

“Maybe summers.”

They walked across the piazza to the church and Vivian draped her scarf over her head as they climbed the steps.

The church of San Anselmo was big, built, Purcell thought, when more people lived here. The peaked roof showed exposed beams and rafters, and the thick stone walls were plastered and whitewashed. The altar, though, was of polished stone and gilded wood, and looked out of place in the simple setting, as did the intricate stained glass windows.

A white-draped coffin sat at the Communion rail and Father Rulli stood beside it, blessed it, then went up to the altar.

There were no pews, but a collection of wooden chairs were lined up in rows, and most of them were filled with the people of Berini and the surrounding farms. The three visitors took empty seats in the rear.

Father Rulli stood in the center of the altar, raised his arms, and greeted his flock in Italian. Everyone stood and the Mass of Christian burial began.

Purcell looked at Father Rulli, and he saw Father Armano, forty years ago; a young priest from this village who’d gone to the seminary and returned to his village, his family, his friends, and his church where he’d been baptized. In a perfect world, where there was no war, Father Giuseppe Armano might have stayed here until the burial Mass was for him. But the new Caesar in Rome had much grander plans for the Italian people, and the winds of war swept into Berini and carried off its sons.

Father Rulli was now at the lectern, speaking, Purcell imagined, of the mystery of death and of the promise of eternal life. Or maybe he was speaking well of the departed, because people were crying. Even Vivian, who had no clue who was in the coffin, was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.