The Quest: A Novel

Henry. Then we’ll never know. Talk to him.”
    “I can see why you were put up for a Pulitzer, Frank. Let the old duffer rest.”
    “There’s all eternity for him to rest.”
    “Don’t write him off like that,” said Vivian.
    The old man moved his head from side to side as if trying to follow the conversation.
    Mercado looked at him. “He seems alert enough, doesn’t he? Let’s get his name and all that—just in case.”
    “Proceed,” said Purcell.
    Vivian moved next to Purcell again and put her head beside his.
    Mercado began in Italian, “We cannot give you more to eat because of the stomach wound. Now you must rest and sleep. But first, tell us your name.”
    The old man nodded. A thin smile played across his lips. “You are good people.” He asked, “Who are you?”
    Mercado replied, “Journalists.”
    “Yes? You are here for the war?”
    “Yes,” Mercado replied, “for the war.”
    The old man asked, “Americano? Inglese?”
    Mercado replied, “Both.”
    The old man smiled and said, “Good people.”
    Mercado laid his hand on the old man’s arm and asked, “What is your name, please?”
    “I am—I am Giuseppe Armano. I am a priest.”
    A long silence hung in the darkness. Outside, the sounds of battle died slowly, indicating that everyone was satisfied with the night’s carnage. Occasionally a flare burst overhead and gently floated to earth, and as it fell, the crisscrossed steel reinforcing rods of the collapsed concrete ceiling cast their peculiar grid shadows over the floor, and the room was bathed in blue-white luminescence. But the small corner of the big chamber remained in shadow.
    Mercado took the old priest’s hand and squeezed it. “Father. What has happened to you?”
    The old priest winced in pain and did not respond.
    Mercado gripped the priest’s hand tighter. “Father. Can you talk?”
    “Yes… yes, I can. I must talk. I think I am dying.”
    “No. No. You’re fine. You’ll be—”
    “Be still and let me speak.” The old priestly authority came through his weak voice. “Put my head up.” Mercado slid a piece of stone under the sleeping bag. “There. Good.” The old priest knew when he was in the presence of a believer and again became the leader of the flock—a flock of one. Vivian moistened his lips with a wet handkerchief.
    He drew a deep breath and began, “My name is Father Giuseppe Armano and I am a priest of the order of Saint Francis. My parish is in the village of Berini in Sicily. I have spent the last… I think, forty years, since 1936… what year is this?”
    “It is 1974, Father.”
    “Yes. Since 1936, almost forty years. I have been in a prison. To the east of here.”
    “Forty years?” Mercado exchanged a look with Purcell. “Forty years? Why? Why have you been in prison forty years?”
    “They kept me from the world. To protect the secret. But they would not kill me because I, too, am a priest. But they are the old believers. The Copts. They have the sacred blood and the…” His voice trailed off and he lay still, staring up at the sky.
    Mercado said to the priest, “Go on. Slowly. Go slowly.”
    “Yes… you must go to Berini and tell them what has happened to me. Giuseppe Armano. They will remember. I have a family there. A brother. Two sisters. Could they be alive?” Tears welled up in the old priest’s eyes, but he insisted on continuing. He spoke more quickly now. “I left my village in 1935. August. It was a hot day. A man came and said I was in the army. Il Duce needed priests for his army. So we went… some other priests, too… and many young boys. We walked in the sun and reached Alcamo. There was a train for us in Alcamo and then a boat from Palermo. I had never been on a train or boat and I was frightened of the train, but not so much of the boat. And the boys, peasants like myself, some were frightened, but most were excited. And we sailed in the boat to Reggio. And there was a train in Reggio and we went north to Rome…” He lay back and licked his dry lips. Vivian moistened them again as she translated for Purcell.
    The old man smiled and nodded at the kindness. He again refused Mercado’s offer to sleep. “I am very sick. You must let me finish. I feel the burning in my belly.”
    “It’s just the food, Father. It has made the acid. You understand?”
    “I understand that I am dying. Be silent. What is your name?”
    “Henry Mercado.”
    “Henry… good. So we went to Rome, Henry. All my life,