The Quest: A Novel

I wished to go to Rome. Now I was in Rome. What a city… have you seen it? Everyone should go to Rome before he dies… You are a Catholic, Henry?”
    “Well, yes, sort of. Yes.”
    “Good.” The priest stayed silent awhile, then continued. “We were taken to the Vatican… all the priests from Sicily… there were twelve of us, I remember… to the Vatican, some place in the Vatican. A small building near the Sistine Chapel. There was a cardinal there dressed all in white. He did not give his name and I remembered thinking that this was ill-mannered, but what was I going to say to a cardinal of the Sacred College? We sat in chairs of fine fabric and we listened. The cardinal told us we would go with Mussolini’s army. Go to war in Ethiopia. We listened sadly, but no one spoke. The cardinal showed us an envelope, a beautiful envelope of hard paper, colored like butter. On the envelope was the seal of His Holiness… thering of the fisherman…” The old priest stopped, and Vivian finished her translation.
    Purcell thought he had passed out, but then he opened his eyes and asked, “Who sits on the throne of Saint Peter, now? How many since Pius?”
    “Three, since Pius, Father,” Mercado replied.
    Purcell said to Mercado, “The guy is near dead and he wants to know who his boss is. Listen, Henry, he is going to ask you a thousand irrelevant questions. Get him back to the story, please.”
    “He is telling the story in his own way, Frank. The man has suffered. You and I know how he has suffered. These questions are important to him.”
    Vivian put her hand on Purcell’s arm and said softly, “Let Henry handle it.”
    Purcell grunted. Mercado spoke again in Italian. “After Pius XI was Pius XII. Then John XXIII. You would have liked him, Father. A good man. He died eleven years ago. Now Paul VI sits on the throne of Saint Peter. A good man also,” he added.
    The old priest made noises that sounded like quiet weeping. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Yes. All good men, I am sure. And Il Duce? Is he still alive?”
    Mercado replied, “There was a war. In Europe. Mussolini was killed. Europe is at peace now.”
    “Yes. A war. I could see it coming, even in Berini. We could see it.”
    Mercado asked, “Father, did you see what was in the envelope? The one the cardinal showed you?”
    “The envelope…?” He paused. “Yes. There was an envelope for each priest. The cardinal told us we must keep the envelope in our possession always. Never, never must it leave our person… we were never to mention the envelope to anyone. Not even to the officers. The cardinal explained that when a priest dies in the army, all his possessions are given to another priest. So the envelope would always be in the hands of those who were sworn… we had to take an oath… sworn never to open it… but we would know when to open it. This cardinal with no name said that as a further precaution, the message on the inside was written in Latin, so if someone else should openit, he would have difficulty with the words. My Latin was bad and I remembered being ashamed of that. Latin is not used so much by a country priest. Only in the Mass. You understand? But the letter was in Latin, so that if it was opened by error, it would no doubt be taken to a priest for translation. This cardinal said that if we ever came upon the letter in that way, we were to say we had to take the letter and study it. Then we were to make a false translation on paper and burn the letter.” The priest breathed heavily, then moaned.
    Vivian finished translating for Purcell, then said, “This is getting interesting.” She suggested, “Henry, push him just a little.”
    “In his own way,” Mercado answered flatly. “He will get it all out.”
    The priest moaned again. Vivian put her hand on his sweaty forehead. “He has fever, Henry. Isn’t there anything we can do?”
    “I’m afraid not. If he holds out till morning, we can make Gondar in a few hours. There’s an English missionary hospital there.”
    Purcell reminded them, “Prince Joshua’s army and the Provisional government army are less than an hour away—in those hills. I wouldn’t try it now, but in the morning, maybe. They should have a surgeon.”
    Mercado thought a moment, then replied, “I don’t know. He is obviously a fugitive of some sort. When we find out from whom, then we can decide where to bring him.”
    “Right. But push him just a little, Henry,” he said,