The Quest: A Novel

glint?”
    “If you buy me lunch, I’ll tell you.”
    “I’ll buy you two lunches.”
    The waiter came by, an authentic Italian who, like Signore Bocaccio, hadn’t bought his ticket to Italy yet. Most of what his customers wanted on the menu was no longer available, but pasta was still plentiful, he assured them, though the only sauce today was olive oil. There was also a small and diminishing selection of wine, and Mercado chose a Chianti that had tripled in price. He said to his luncheon companions, “I miss Rome.”
    Purcell asked, “What makes you say that?”
    Vivian reminded them, “There is a famine out there. Get some perspective, please.”
    Purcell admitted, “I hate eating in restaurants when there’s a famine.”
    Mercado admonished, “That is insensitive.”
    “Sorry.” He reminded Mercado, “I almost starved to death in that Khmer Rouge prison camp. So I can make famine jokes.” He asked, “What do you call an Ethiopian having a bowel movement? A show-off.”
    “Frank. Really,” said Vivian. “That is not funny.”
    “Sorry.” He said to Mercado, “You can use that as a Gulag joke.”
    Purcell lit a cigarette and said, “This famine is mostly man-made by a stupid, corrupt government that has instituted stupid policies.” He continued, “Half the famine relief food coming in is stolen by the government and sold on the black market. The birr is worthless and you can’t buy food at any price unless you have hard currency. The UN relief workers are being harassed, and the military uses all the available transportation to move soldiers around instead of food.” He told Mercado, “That’s my next article for L’Osservatore Romano.”
    “You can write it, Frank, but it will not run. And if it does, you will be lucky if you only get expelled.”
    “The truth will set us free, Henry.”
    “Not in Ethiopia. Save it for when we are out of here.”
    “What is worse—me not demonstrating the proper guilt about eating during the famine, or you not letting me write the truth about it?”
    Mercado stayed silent awhile, then replied, “Your point is made, and well taken.” He smiled, “Someday you will make a good journalist.”
    Vivian asked, “Is the pissing match over?”
    Purcell said, “Pass the bread.”
    The wine came and they drank as they flipped through the photographs.
    Purcell looked around the restaurant, which, if it could talk, would have some stories to tell. The clientele was mostly Western European embassy staff, though he spotted four Russians in bad suits at a table. Vesuvio, unlike the Hilton and other hotels, was not in a position to demand only hard currency, but the proprietor and staff did not go out of their way to welcome the Russians or Cubans who paid in birr.
    This country was in bad shape, Purcell thought, and the worst was yet to come. The old Ethiopia was dead, and the new Ethiopia should never have been born.
    Vivian said, “I assume there was no message from Colonel Gann at the hotel.”
    Mercado replied, “None.”
    “Do you think something has happened to him?”
    Mercado replied, “If he’s been arrested, and being held in Addis, someone in the press community would have heard through sources.” He added, “But if he’s been killed in the hinterlands, we may never know.”
    Purcell said, “We will hear from him.”
    Vivian reminded Purcell, “You were going to tell us what a glint is.”
    “It is what you see in my eyes when you walk into a room.”
    Purcell thought that was funny, but Vivian did not, though she might have if Henry was not at the table. Clearly she was still uncomfortable with the situation, but no more so than he was. Henry, too, was not amused, though he smiled for the record.
    Purcell said, “A glint is what it sounds like—a quick reflection of light off a shiny surface. Pilots in combat look for the glint of an enemy aircraft, or the glint of a metal target on the ground.” He picked up his wineglass. “Glass, too, can give off a type of glint. Glass roofs, even if opaque, may give off a glint.” He drank his wine.
    Mercado was nodding, and Vivian was flipping through the photographs again, looking for a glint.
    Purcell continued, “Obviously, the sun has to strike the object, and the object has to be reflective enough to produce a glint.”
    Mercado nodded again, and Purcell continued, “Father Armano said he thought the roof could have been alabaster, and he said it let in the sunlight and bathed the