The Quest: A Novel

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 linedup 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.
    Purcell returned to Father Armano, and wondered if the priest saw his life as wasted or as blessed for having seen and experienced a miracle. Probably, Purcell thought, the priest had had moments of doubt in his prison cell, but his faith and his experience in the black monastery had sustained him. And in the end, as he was dying, he had probably thought he was again blessed to be ending his life a free man, in the company of at least one, maybe two believers who would tell his family and the world of his fate and of what he had seen and experienced. He seemed at peace, Purcell recalled, ready for his journey home.
    It occurred to Purcell that they didn’t have to come to Berini, but it was the right thing to do; it was the right place to begin their own journey back to where this all began.

PART III
Ethiopia
    The longest journey
    Is the journey inwards
    Of him who has chosen his destiny,
    Who has started upon his quest
    For the source of his being…
    —Dag Hammarskjöld,
Markings

Chapter 31
    F rank Purcell stood with his back to the bar, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
    The Addis Ababa Hilton cocktail lounge was filled with the usual clientele that one finds in times of war, pestilence, and famine, though it seemed to Purcell that there were far fewer news people here than in September—though more UN relief people and embassy reinforcements. And, as always, there were some shady-looking characters whose purpose here was unknown, but it had to do with either money or spying.
    Another difference from the last time was that the rich Ethiopians seemed to have disappeared. The ones that weren’t dead or in prison were at Etiopia in Rome. The Italian expats and businesspeople had also disappeared.
    Purcell was happy to see that the newly arrived Soviet and Cuban advisors were not drinking in the Addis Hilton. The hotel demanded hard currency, which kept out the riffraff and the Reds.
    He’d sent his telex to Vivian at the Forum Hotel, and to Mercado at the newspaper two days before, informing them he was alive and well at the Hilton. Now he was waiting for Vivian to arrive.
    A few of his former colleagues had approached him in the two days since he’d been here, but they’d observed the unspoken rule of not asking any questions of a fellow reporter. He had, however, volunteered a few details about his trip to the front in September, his arrest and imprisonment, and his expulsion from the country. He was back, he said, on assignment for
L’Osservatore Romano
. This was old news and didn’t rate getting bought a drink, but they wished him good luck.
    One reporter, a nice lady named Fran from AP, had informed him, “The crazy fun phase of the revolution is over. Almost everyonethey wanted dead is dead or in jail, or on the run. Now they have to govern and they can’t deal with the famine or the Eritrean separatists.”
    Purcell had asked her about the Gallas, but she didn’t know or care much. The Gallas were not on the radar