The Quest: A Novel

army conscripts who, like himself, were bound for Palermo, then Ethiopia. Father Armano, however, had taken a detour to Rome, and to the Vatican, before his fateful and fatal journey to Africa.
    It was a sunny day and much warmer than Rome. The sky was deep blue and white clouds hung over the distant mountains. Lemon and orange groves covered the narrow valleys, and olive trees and vineyards rose up the terraced slopes. Clusters of umbrella pines shaded white stucco houses, and tall cedars stood sentry at the bases of the hills.
    This, Purcell thought, was the last that Father Armano had seen of his native land, and he must have realized as he was walking to Alcamo with the other young men that he might never see it again.
    Vivian said, “This is beautiful. Completely unspoiled.”
    Purcell noticed there was very little vehicular traffic, but there were a good number of donkeys and carts on the road, and a lot of people walking and biking. The villages, as expected, were picturesque—white stuccoed houses with red tile roofs, and church bell towers in even the smallest town. “They must pray a lot.”
    Mercado said, “I’m sure they’re all in church every Sunday and holy day. And, of course, for weddings, funerals, baptisms, and such, not to mention Saturday confessions.” He added, “They are a verysimple, religious people and there are not many like them in Europe anymore.”
    Purcell suggested, “You should move here, Henry.”
    “After you, Frank.”
    Vivian said, “I can see having a summer place in Sicily.”
    Mercado reminded her, “You don’t speak the dialect.”
    Purcell pointed out, “You both spoke to Father Armano.”
    Mercado explained, “He spoke standard Italian, a result I’m sure of his seminary training and his time in the army.”
    “Are we going to have trouble speaking to the citizens of Berini?”
    “Sicilians understand standard Italian when they want to.” He added, “The priest will understand my Italian. And the younger people as well, because of television and cinema.”
    “Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”
    Mercado informed them, “Sicilians don’t like to answer questions, especially from strangers.”
    “We’re doing a nice story for L’Osservatore Romano on their native son.”
    “Doesn’t matter. They are suspicious of the outside world.”
    “And with good reason.”
    Vivian suggested, “Use your charm, Henry.”
    Purcell said, “We may as well turn around now.”
    Mercado ignored that and said, “The key is the village priest.”
    They reached Corleone, consulted the road map and the signs, and headed southwest into the higher hills.
    It would not have been too difficult, Purcell thought, to walk downhill to Alcamo. But it would not have been an easy journey home to Berini, on foot, though a soldier returning home would not think about that.
    They had spotted a few classical Roman and Greek ruins along the way, and Mercado informed them, “The Carthaginians were also here, as well as the Normans, the armies of Islam, and a dozen other invaders.” He further informed his audience, “Sicily was a prize in the ancient world, and now it is the land that time forgot—like Ethiopia.”
    “The world changes,” Purcell agreed. “Wars have consequences.”
    “I have an English cousin who served with Montgomery, and he may have passed through here in ’43.”
    “We’ll keep an eye out for anyone with a family resemblance.”
    The village of Berini was strategically located at the top of a hill that rose above the valley, and the one-lane road hugged the side of the slope and wrapped around it like a corkscrew until it abruptly ended at a stone arch, which marked the entrance to the village.
    Purcell drove through the arch and followed a narrow lane between whitewashed houses. The few pedestrians stood aside and eyed them curiously as they passed by.
    A minute later they entered a small, sunlit piazza, and at its far end was a good-sized stone church, which according to the Vatican directory was San Anselmo. The parish priest, if the information was up to date, was Father Giorgio Rulli. There were no other priests listed.
    On the right side of the square was a row of two-story stucco buildings, one of which had an orange awning and a sign that said, simply, “Taverna.” On the other side of the piazza was a place called “Caffe,” and next to that was a tabaccheria, a sort of corner candy store. That seemed to be the extent of the