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
Frank 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 everyone they 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 screens of anyone in the capital; they were like marauding lions, somewhere out there, with no political agenda. Plus, they were not available for comment.
He also asked, “How about the Royalist partisans?”
“They’re finished.”
He thought about Colonel Gann, who was returning to fight a lost cause. Colonel Gann would wind up dead this time.
Fran also informed him that the Falasha Jews were beginning an exodus, to Israel, and that was a good story.
Purcell looked up at the huge stained glass window that diffused the dying afternoon sunlight throughout the modern bar, and which would do credit to a European cathedral. The window was the work of a contemporary Ethiopian artist, done in a neoprimitive style, and told the story of the founding of the Ethiopian royal line. The first panel showed the black queen, Sheba, visiting Jerusalem with her attendants. The next panel showed them being received by King Solomon. The queen then returns to her homeland, and there she gives birth to a son, Menelik, the ancestor of the present emperor, who would also be the last emperor of Ethiopia, unless Colonel Gann could perform a miracle. Purcell wondered if the new government would allow that window to stay there. The hotel guests liked it.
He looked at his watch: 4:36. Vivian’s plane had landed. Lovers meet at the airport. Reporters and their photographers do not if they are also lovers and don’t want to advertise that relationship to the security apparatus, who might make use of the information. So for that reason, and also because L’Osservatore Romano was a Catholic enterprise, Vivian had her own room.
Purcell had, however, sent a hotel car and driver to meet her, and to report by telephone that the hotel guest had arrived and was safely through passport control.
Purcell informed the bartender that he was waiting for this call.
He ordered another Jack Daniel’s and perused an English-language newspaper on the bar. A small item tucked away inside the paper reported that the former monarch, Mr. Haile Selassie, remained under the protective custody of the Provisional Revolutionary government.
If Mr. Selassie was a younger man, Purcell knew, they’d have already executed him. But one of the advantages of advanced age—if there were any—was that people who wanted you dead only had to wait patiently. Also, the now Mr. Selassie was still popular in the West and killing him would further strain relations with Europe and America. Even the Soviet and Cuban advisors would argue against regicide in this case. The murdered Romanovs had become martyrs, and the modern Marxists wanted to avoid that this time.
Purcell thought back to Berini. Coffee and cannoli at the rectory of San Anselmo had not been as awful as he’d expected. The sister of Father Armano, Anna, was a sweet woman and she had taken to Vivian, despite Vivian’s exotic appearance.
Vivian had told Anna that her brother had mentioned her by name, which made Anna weep. Anna told them that she had seen her brother in a dream, last year when there was much news of Ethiopia, and her brother was smiling, which according to Sicilian belief meant he was in heaven. Unfortunately, Anna couldn’t recall the exact date of the dream, though with Vivian’s prompting she agreed it could have been in September.
Coincidence? Not according to Vivian or Mercado, who took this as a further sign of divine design. Even he, Frank Purcell, found himself wanting to believe that Father Armano had traveled home for a last visit.
Father Rulli’s small rectory had become filled with the near and distant relatives of the late Giuseppe Armano, and as Father Rulli explained, unnecessarily, “Sicilian families are large.”
There were some language difficulties, but mostly everyone understood each other, and Mercado and Vivian repeated the story of how they and Signore Purcell, who spoke no Italian, had found Father Armano, mortally wounded, and how the priest had asked them to tell his family that he was thinking of them in his last moments. Everyone was very moved by the story, and no one asked why it had taken so long for the three giornalisti to come to Berini, though Mercado mentioned he’d been in an Ethiopian prison. An older man, who’d fought in Ethiopia, and was a cousin of Father Armano, said, “Ethiopia is a place of death. You should not return.”
Vivian informed him and everyone that they were going to find the grave of Father Armano and bring back a mortal relic of the saint-to-be. Purcell thought this custom was ghoulish, but no one else there did.
The women disappeared at about 6 P.M., and cordials were served. At seven, the men excused themselves and Father Rulli invited his three guests to stay for dinner. Vivian wanted to stay, but it was obvious that Father Rulli wanted his guests to clear up some inconsistencies between their story and that of the Vatican beatification delegation, so Mercado reminded Vivian of their flight to Rome—which was actually the next day.
They thanked Father Rulli for his hospitality and assistance and promised to return to Berini after their assignment in Ethiopia. The priest blessed them and their work and wished them a safe journey.
Outside, on the way to the car, Vivian said, “That was a very moving and w
onderful experience.”
Mercado agreed, and so did Purcell, though he’d had to rely on translations for the experience.
In the car, Vivian announced, “I got Father Armano’s military address from Anna. She knew it by heart.”
They drove to Corleone and spent the night in a small hotel, then caught a noon flight from Palermo back to Rome.
Mercado wrote to the Ministry of War on L’Osservatore Romano letterhead, saying he was doing an article on the Ethiopian war and requesting information such as unit logs on the battalion or regiment whose military designation he specified in his letter.
The response, unusually fast, informed him that all records of this regiment had been lost in Ethiopia.
And that was that.
As for Italian Army maps, which would be critical for their mission, Colonel Gann had informed them that he had a source in London for captured Italian maps. He also advised them not to visit the Italian Library in Addis Ababa, which he’d discovered was under some sort of state surveillance. So now they needed Colonel Gann and his maps before they could begin their journey, and Gann was scheduled to arrive on the twenty-fourth. He said he’d contact them at the Hilton, but if they didn’t hear from him by the twenty-eighth, they were on their own.
Purcell looked at the telephone on the bar. He’d checked for telexes twice already, to see if Vivian—or Mercado—had tried to contact him. He picked up the phone, called the front desk, and asked again. The clerk informed him, “We will deliver any telex to you in the lounge, Mr. Purcell.”
“And forward my phone calls here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He knew he should have gone to the airport to meet her, but they’d all agreed in Rome not to do that. Sounded good in Rome.
He ordered another drink and lit another cigarette. It was now 5:24, long past the time when she’d be through airport security. But probably the Alitalia flight from Rome was late.
He turned and looked at the patrons at the cocktail tables. People gravitated toward the hotel bars in times of stress. They came to get news, or hear rumors, or because there actually is safety in numbers. Some of the patrons were quiet and withdrawn, and some were hyper. A feeling of unreality always permeated these softly lit islands of comfort, and sometimes a feeling of guilt; there was death and famine out there.
He looked up at the stained glass window again. The mid-January sun was almost gone, and when the light struck the huge window at this angle, Purcell could make out in the modern scene of the panorama, as well as in the ancient scene, a church or monastery. The artist chose to use black glass for the depiction of the church, and around it were dark green palms. Purcell wondered if the church was black by design or by the random choice of the artist. The dark green glass of the palms made the black church almost impossible to see except in a certain light, yet the remainder of the panorama was a contrast in light and dark. He stared at the glass as the sun sank lower and both the modern and ancient depictions of the same church—or monastery—disappeared, and the soft glow of the lounge lighting gave the stained glass an altogether different appearance.
The phone rang and the bartender answered it, then gave it to him.
“Purcell.”
A woman with an Italian accent said, “This an Alitalia customer servizio.”
“Yes?”
“I hava deliver to your room a young a lady.”
He smiled and asked, “Is she naked?”
“Due minuto.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Chapter 32
Purcell and Vivian spent the next two days re-familiarizing themselves with the city, and reestablishing some press contacts and local contacts.
L’Osservatore Romano had no office in Addis, but the paper shared space in the old Imperial Hotel with other transient reporters and freelancers who paid a small fee for a place to hang their hats and use the typewriters and telexes.
They also visited the American embassy to register their presence, and to see Anne, the consulate officer who’d come for Purcell in prison, and also for Vivian. Vivian gave Anne a pot of black African violets she’d picked up from a street vendor, and Anne gave them some advice: “You should not have returned.”
Purcell assured her, “We’ll try not to get arrested this time.”
Purcell also wrote and filed a story about Ethiopian Catholic refugees from the fighting on the Eritrean border. He knew nothing about this, so in Mercado style, he made up most of it. But to give it a little twist, he mentioned his visit to the Ethiopian College in the Vatican, and praised the Catholic brothers there for their hospitality and their blessing of his journey to Ethiopia.
Vivian read his piece and asked, “How much of this is true?”
He reminded her, “The first casualty of war is the truth.” He added, “We need to earn our keep. Take a picture of a beggar and caption it ‘Catholic Refugee.’ ”
They checked for telexes twice a day to see if Henry Mercado had decided that Rome was a better place to be. But Mercado’s only telex, that morning, said: ARRIVING ALITALIA, 4:23. CONFIRM.
Purcell sent him a telex confirming they were still alive and well, and looking forward to his arrival.
Purcell left a note for Mercado at the front desk saying he’d be in the bar at six, and now he and Vivian sat at a cocktail table waiting to see if Henry had made it past the security people at the airport. It was 6:35.
Vivian looked up at the stained glass window and asked him, “Where are they keeping the emperor these days?”
“They’re not saying.”
“Do you think he’s still alive?”
“If he was dead, they’d announce he died of natural causes.” He reminded her, “He’s the reason the rasses are still fighting.”
“Who is the successor to the throne?”
“Crown Prince Afsa Wossen. He escaped to London. Probably a pal of Gann.”
She nodded.
Purcell glanced at his watch: 6:46. Henry was very late.
He said to Vivian, “Do you know that the Rastafarians in Jamaica consider Haile Selassie to be divine?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“We need to fly to Jamaica next and do a story on that.”
She forced a smile.
Clearly she was worried about Henry, but she was reluctant to say that in case he misinterpreted her concern.
He pointed to the long bar and said, “Right over there. That’s where I was sitting, minding my own business, when you and Henry came up to me.”
She again forced a smile.
He mimicked Henry’s slight British accent, “Hello, old man. Have you met my photographer?”
Her smile got wider. “I was immediately taken with you.”
“You wanted my Jeep.”
“I didn’t even know you had a Jeep.”
“Well, I don’t anymore. The Gallas probably have it now. Pulling it around with their horses.” He added, “I have to find the guy I rented it from and get my three-thousand-dollar security deposit back.”
“Why should he give it back? You lost his Jeep.”
“Wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t his fault either. Where did you get the Jeep? We need another one.”
“An Italian resident of Addis. Probably gone by now.”
“You need to find him.”
“I think he’s out of Jeeps.” He informed her, “There’s another guy here, Signore Bocaccio, who owns or owned a small plane. I’ve asked around, but no one seems to know if he’s still here.”
She nodded, then glanced at her watch. She said, “I’ll go to the front desk to see if he’s checked in. Or see if the flight is late.”
“All right.”
She got up and left the lounge.
Purcell sipped his drink. He had an after-hours emergency number for the British, American, and Swiss embassies.
It occurred to him that without Mercado and without Gann, the quest for the Holy Grail was going nowhere. He an
d Vivian could, of course, press on, but that would be crossing the line from brave to crazy. And yet… now that he was here, something was telling him that it was going to be all right—that what they’d felt and believed was correct; they had been chosen to do this.
He understood, too, that they had not necessarily been chosen to succeed, or even to live. But they’d been chosen to find the Holy Grail that was within themselves. And that was what this was always about; the Grail was a phantom and the journey was inward, into their hearts and souls.
Vivian and Henry walked into the lounge, smiling, arm in arm, and Purcell stood, smiled, and said, “Henry, have you met my photographer?”
“I have, old man. She’s going to buy me a drink. And buy one for yourself.”
Chapter 33
Purcell walked across the windy airstrip. The rising sun began to burn off the highland mist that still shrouded the valley floor. In the distance, along the same mountain chain, Addis Ababa was becoming visible as the ground fog dropped back into the valley.
Purcell noticed the condition of the concrete as he walked. Like much of the civil and military engineering in this country, this old airfield was an Italian legacy. The Italians were good builders, but forty years was a long time. The concrete runways were patched with low-grade blacktop and the hangar roofs were mended with woven thatch. A platoon of soldiers was forming up near the hangar. The Royalists may have been beaten, but the Eritreans, who were now trying to win independence from the new Ethiopian government, were winning, and the whole country was on a war footing.
The Ethiopian Air Force kept a wing of American-made C-47 transports here, and Signore Bocaccio, the Italian coffee dealer, whom Henry had found, also kept his American-made Navion here. He told Mr. Purcell, however, that he used to hangar it at the Addis Ababa International Airport, but the Ethiopian Air Force made him keep the ancient Navion within their grabbing distance in the event they should need it. It had in fact already been used as a spotter for jet fighters in the Eritrean conflict, and as a consequence of that, the Navion sported a rocket pod under its fuselage that Signore Bocaccio pointed out to Mr. Purcell. The rocket pod was used to fire smoke markers at the Eritrean rebels, the Royalist forces, or anyone else they didn’t care for. The few French Mirage jets that the Ethiopians possessed would then try to place their bombs and rockets on the smoke markers, with varying degrees of success.
The Quest: A Novel Page 27
