The Quest: A Novel

give this place three stars.”
    Suddenly the northern sky was illuminated so brightly that all three stopped in their tracks and crouched.
    They looked up and could see star shells bursting in the night sky. An infantry attack had begun somewhere in the hills to the north and one side or the other had sent up these artificial suns to light the way. Automatic weapons fire could be heard now and green and red tracer rounds crisscrossed the hills. The deep, throaty sounds of muffled artillery rolled down into the spa complex, and explosions lit up the low mountain range like a thousand campfires.
    Purcell stared at the close-by hills. He could see illumination flares pop and float to earth on their parachutes. Even after all the years in Indochina, the sights and sounds of battle awed him. He stood mesmerized as the hills lit up and sent a crescendo of sound through the night air. It was as though it were a light and sound show, a mixed-media symphony played only for him.
    Mercado asked, “Who is killing whom tonight?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “No, I suppose not. As long as it isn’t us.” Mercado suggested, “We should stay here tonight.”
    Vivian agreed, and Purcell said, “All right. We’ve found the armies. In the morning we’ll go see who won the battle.”
    They continued on and entered the main building. The Jeep stood in the middle of the lobby looking very exposed. Purcell glanced around for a place to move the vehicle and spend the night. He noticed that one corner of the roofless lobby remained dark when the illumination flares burst. Between the Jeep and the dark cornerwas some rubble from the ceiling, but it was not an impossible task to get the Jeep through it. He stepped up to the vehicle and began pushing, not wanting to start the engine and create noise. Vivian jumped behind the wheel and Mercado helped Purcell push.
    As their Jeep approached the patch of blackness in the far corner, an illumination flare lit up the lobby, and they saw standing in front of them a man holding a skull.

Chapter 3
    T hey laid him on a sleeping bag between the Jeep and the dark corner, and Vivian fed him cold soup out of a can. Purcell threw the skull out a window.
    The man’s
shamma
was in tatters, so they covered his shaking body with their only blanket. In the dark corner, they did not see the dried blood on the
shamma
.
    They could not make out what or who he was. So many Ethiopians were light-skinned, with straight noses and Semitic-Hamitic features, and many wore beards like this man.
    Mercado leaned over and asked in Amharic, “Who are you?”
    He responded in Amharic, “Weha.” Water.
    Mercado gave him water from a canteen, then took a flashlight from the Jeep and shined it in the man’s face. “He’s not an Ethiopian. Not an Amhara, anyway. Maybe an Arab from Eritrea. I know a little—”
    “Italiano,” said the old man.
    There was a long silence.
    Mercado crouched next to him and spoke slowly in Italian. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Are you ill?”
    The old man closed his eyes and did not respond.
    Purcell took the flashlight from Mercado, knelt beside the old man, and stared down at him. The man’s beard was unkempt and his skin hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Purcell took the old man’s hand from under the blanket. The hand was filthy, but the skin was soft. “I think he’s been locked away for a while.”
    Mercado nodded in the darkness.
    The old man opened his eyes again, and Vivian spooned more soup into his toothless mouth. “He’s in terrible shape, poor old man.”
    The old man was trying to speak, but his lips trembled and onlysmall sounds came out. Finally, he spoke in slow Italian. Vivian sat close to Purcell and whispered the translation into his ear as she continued to spoon-feed him. “He says he is wounded in the stomach.”
    Purcell took the can and spoon from Vivian and laid them down. The old man protested. “Tell him he can’t eat until we’ve seen the wound.”
    Mercado pulled down the blanket and tore aside the
shamma
. He turned on the flashlight again. A large mass of coagulated gore covered the man’s stomach. He spoke to the old man. “How did this happen? What made this wound?”
    The man made a small shrug. “A bullet, perhaps. Maybe the artillery.”
    Mercado said to Vivian and Purcell, “We’ll have a look at it in the morning. There’s nothing we can do now. Let him sleep.”
    Purcell thought a moment. “He may be dead in the morning,