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, one floor 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 September, and while there we came across a priest who was dying—”
“Father Armano.”
“Yes.” He asked, “Have you been notified of his death?”
“I have.”
“I see… When were you notified?”
“In November. Why do you ask?”
Purcell answered without answering, “We’re writing a newspaper article on Father Armano, so we are collecting information.”
“Yes, of course. But it is my understanding that you have all this information from the Vatican press office.”
Purcell knew that the Vatican press office and L’Osservatore Romano were not one and the same, though sometimes they seemed to be. He glanced at Mercado.
Mercado said to Father Rulli, “I haven’t had contact with the Vatican press office.”
“They said they were in contact with L’Osservatore Romano.”
“They may be… but not me.”
Father Rulli admitted, “I have no idea how these things work in Rome.”
Purcell assured him, “Neither do we.”
Father Rulli smiled. He then informed them, “But you do know about the steps toward Father Armano’s beatification.”
At first Purcell thought that the priest had mispronounced “beautification,” and he was confused. Then he understood.
Mercado seemed dumbstruck.
Vivian asked, “What am I missing?”
Mercado told her, “Father Armano has been proposed for canonization—sainthood.”
“Oh…”
“Did you not know this?” asked the priest.
“We… had heard…”
“That is the purpose of your visit, is it not?”
“Yes… well, we wanted to gather some background on his early life. His time in the army… perhaps letters that he wrote to his family and friends.”
Father Rulli informed them, “You could have saved yourselves the journey.” He explained, “A delegation from the Vatican was here in November to let me know of Father Armano’s death and his proposed canonization. As you know, if he is entered into the sainthood, and if a church is ever built in his name, a relic is needed to consecrate the church. And also a complete biography of the prospective saint is compiled. So a call was put out in Berini and we also searched the storage cellar of this rectory.” He let them know, “We found some of his old vestments in trunks, and his family had photographs and letters they had saved. Some from Ethiopia.” He told them, “The man from the Vatican press office interviewed the family and some childhood friends of Giuseppe Armano. So this has all been done.”
Mercado replied, “L’Osservatore Romano likes to do this work themselves.”
“As you wish.” Father Rulli said, “We had a special Mass when the delegation from the Vatican announced this. The town was very excited, and the bells of San Anselmo rang all day. His family was filled with joy at the news of his beatification. And of the news that he had performed miracles in Ethiopia.”
Mercado nodded, then said, “We are sorry we missed that day.”
Well, Purcell thought, Colonel Gann had guessed correctly. The Vatican was here first, and it was Henry’s unanswered letter that led them here. It was possible, of course, that there was nothing sinister about this; it was just the Vatican doing its job of making a death notification of a priest. And while they were at it, they sent a whole delegation to announce that Father Giuseppe Armano was being considered for sainthood. And they took what they needed. Purcell was impressed.
Father Rulli looked at his guests. “Did you say you were with Father Armano when he died?”
“Yes.”
The priest nodded, then said, “I am not clear about the circumstances of his death.” No one replied, so Father Rulli went on. “Monsignor Mazza from the office of beatification told me that Father Armano had been imprisoned since 1936, and that he escaped and was found dying by three war correspondents from England who did not speak much Italian.” He asked, “So that was you?”
Mercado nodded.
Father Rulli said, “Well, that is itself a miracle. After forty years, to be found by… English people who work for L’Osservatore Romano.” He asked Mercado, “Can you tell me the circumstances of this encounter?”
Mercado related an edited version of what happened that night, and Father Rulli kept nodding with interest. Mercado concluded, “We buried him in a garden of this Italian spa… and said prayers over his grave.”
“That is a wonderful story. And wonderful that this man did not die alone.”
Mercado said, “He was at peace.”
“Yes. Good.” He thought a moment, then asked Mercado, “Is your Italian good?”
“It is passable.”
The priest thought a moment, then said, “But Monsignor Mazza said to me he received a letter from one of the people who found Father Armano dying and that this man had little to report about Father Armano’s last words—because of the language difficulties and because he died soon after he was found.”
“He… was unconscious most of
the time.”
“I see.” Father Rulli stayed silent awhile, then said, “As you know, there must be three miracles for a person to enter into the sainthood, and I am wondering how they in Rome would know of a miracle.”
Mercado replied, “I’m not sure.”
“Perhaps these miracles took place when he was serving in the army during that terrible war.”
“Probably.”
“And they were reported by the survivors of his military group.”
“That’s possible.” Mercado added, “That’s what we are investigating. For our story.”
Purcell inquired, “Do you have any information as to Father Armano’s military unit?”
“Well, his return address would have been on his letters, but that is all in Rome now.” He looked again at his guest and said, “It seems to me that all this information is available to you in Rome.”
“Of course.”
Father Rulli informed them, “I was told not to speak of this to outsiders. Why is that?”
Mercado replied, “I have no idea.” He added, “Rome is Rome.”
Father Rulli nodded, then changed the subject. “The most important relic of a saint is part of his body. Monsignor Mazza said that he was going to send a mission to Ethiopia to locate this spa and recover the remains.”
Mercado, wanting to appear more knowledgeable than he had been, replied, “Yes, we know that. In fact, we may return to Ethiopia ourselves.”
The priest advised them, “It has become dangerous there.”
Purcell reminded him, “We’ve been there.”
“Yes, of course.” Father Rulli looked at his watch and said, “I am to perform a burial Mass in half an hour.”
Purcell asked him, “Can you put us into contact with any of Father Armano’s family? Or anyone else who is still alive from his time? He mentioned a brother and two sisters.”
“Yes, Anna is still alive. A widow. And I can have her and other family members, and perhaps some friends, meet you here if you wish.”
“That would be very good of you.”
“Anna would find some comfort in speaking to you who last saw her brother alive.” He added, “She grieved for his loss, but now she has been delivered a miracle.”
The priest rose and his guests also stood. Father Rulli showed them to the door and said, “Five o’clock. I will have coffee.”
They thanked him, left the rectory, and walked along the side of the church and entered the piazza. The afternoon break seemed to be over and the taverna looked quiet, so they crossed the piazza and found a table under the awning.
Mercado said, “We were scooped by the Vatican press office.”
Purcell added, “And they made off with all traces of Father Armano.”
Vivian said, “This is hard to believe… I mean, is this canonization… legitimate?”
Mercado replied, “It could be.”
Purcell lit a cigarette and looked at him.
Mercado met his stare and said, “It could be, Frank.” He explained, “They’d want his army letters to see if he mentioned anything that could be construed as a miracle.”
“They wanted his army letters to see if he mentioned anything about the letter he was carrying from the pope.”
“We don’t know that.”
Purcell asked, “Aren’t there supposed to be eyewitnesses to these miracles?”
Mercado replied, “I’m impressed with your knowledge of the steps to sainthood.” He added, “The Vatican office of beatification will be trying to find and interview men who served with Father Armano in Ethiopia.”
Vivian said, “Even if he didn’t perform a miracle, he experienced the greater miracle of… being healed.”
Purcell inquired, “Does that count?”
Mercado surprised him by saying, “Even doubting Thomas had a place among the apostles.” He assured Purcell, “We need a skeptic.”
Vivian smiled. “I look forward to being there, Frank, when you are in the black monastery in the presence of the Holy Spirit.”
“I will eat my words. Or drink them.”
Vivian thought a moment, then said, “Father Armano asked us to tell his sister Anna of his death.”
No one responded.
“Why did he say Anna? Why didn’t he mention his other sister or brother?”
The obvious answer, as they all knew, was that Giuseppe Armano had indeed gone home to Berini, then returned to Ethiopia with the happy knowledge that Anna was still alive, and that she would be waiting to hear from them about his last hours on earth.
Purcell said, “The rational side of me says that Anna was closest to him.”
No one responded.
Purcell continued, “But I like the other possibility better. He went home.”
The proprietor saw they were still sitting in his chairs and he came out to see why. Mercado greeted him and asked politely for three glasses of vino rosso and acqua minerale. The man seemed all right with that and disappeared inside.
Mercado said, “The last strangers he saw were wearing British Army uniforms.”
“He looks the right age to be your cousin.”
Vivian returned to the subject. “Father Rulli seemed a bit confused, or even suspicious, that we didn’t know about the Vatican delegation or much else.”
Mercado assured her, “Catholic priests know better than anyone that the Vatican moves in mysterious ways.” He added, “Rome is Rome.”
Purcell said, “The Roman Church, in my opinion, is a continuation of the Roman Empire, also not known for openness or enlightenment.”
Mercado replied, “The Church of Rome preaches and practices the word of God.”
Purcell thought that every time Henry Mercado heard the word “God,” he also heard a choir of heavenly angels. He said to Mercado, “You lied to the priest.”
Mercado replied, “I was as confused as he was and I may have misspoken.”
“You need to go to confession.”
Mercado changed the subject. “We may be able to get some information on Father Armano’s military unit from his family. But to be honest with you, the Ministry of War is not going to be cooperative in regard to providing us with maps or logbooks.” He added, “We have been shut down.”
Purcell agreed. “This is not a productive trip. But it could be good background for our story—though not the one we write for L’Osservatore Romano.”
Vivian reminded them, “We also came here to inform his family—to tell Anna—of his death and to tell them we were with him at the end.”
Purcell pointed out, “The Vatican beat us to the death notification.” He added, “And whatever else we tell them might contradict what the Vatican delegation has already told Father Rulli and the family.” He advised, “Keep it short, general, and upbeat.”
Mercado reminded Vivian, “He was unconscious most of the time.”
Vivian replied, “Lies just breed more lies.”
Purcell said, “When in Rome.”
Their wine and water came with a bill written on a slate board, and Mercado gave the proprietor a fifty-thousand-lire note. He said to his companions, “It’s pay as you go.”
“We look shady,” Purcell agreed.
The proprietor made change from his apron and Mercado took it, explaining, “Overtipping is in poor taste.” He left some coins on the table.
Mercado raised his glass, “God rest the soul of Father Giuseppe Armano.”
“San Giuseppe,” said Purcell.
Mercado pronounced the wine drinkable, then informed them, “Sainthood moves very slowly. We will not see his canonization in our lifetime.”
“Well, not your lifetime, Henry.”
Mercado pointed out, “None of us knows how much time we have left here, Frank.” He nodded toward San Anselmo, where men, women, and children, dressed in black, were climbing the steps as the church bells tolled slowly and echoed through the piazza.
Vivian said, “Let’s go to this burial Mass.”
/> Purcell inquired, “Did you know the deceased?”
“I want to see Father Armano’s church.”
Purcell and Mercado exchanged glances, then Mercado said, “All right.” He went inside to say arrivederci to the proprietor, then came out and informed his companions, “You never leave without saying good-bye.”
Purcell said, “I’m impressed with your rustic etiquette.”
Vivian said, “I think I could live in Sicily.”
Purcell informed her, “Half the Italians in America are Sicilian. They couldn’t live here.”
“Maybe summers.”
They walked across the piazza to the church and Vivian draped her scarf over her head as they climbed the steps.
The church of San Anselmo was big, built, Purcell thought, when more people lived here. The peaked roof showed exposed beams and 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 lined up 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.