The Quest: A Novel

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 outand 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, onefloor 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