The Quest

“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, I wished to go to Rome. Now I was in Rome. What a city… have you seen it? Everyone should go to Rome before he dies… You are a Catholic, Henry?”

“Well, yes, sort of. Yes.”

“Good.” The priest stayed silent awhile, then continued. “We were taken to the Vatican… all the priests from Sicily… there were twelve of us, I remember… to the Vatican, some place in the Vatican. A small building near the Sistine Chapel. There was a cardinal there dressed all in white. He did not give his name and I remembered thinking that this was ill-mannered, but what was I going to say to a cardinal of the Sacred College? We sat in chairs of fine fabric and we listened. The cardinal told us we would go with Mussolini’s army. Go to war in Ethiopia. We listened sadly, but no one spoke. The cardinal showed us an envelope, a beautiful envelope of hard paper, colored like butter. On the envelope was the seal of His Holiness… the ring of the fisherman…” The old priest stopped, and Vivian finished her translation.

Purcell thought he had passed out, but then he opened his eyes and asked, “Who sits on the throne of Saint Peter, now? How many since Pius?”

“Three, since Pius, Father,” Mercado replied.

Purcell said to Mercado, “The guy is near dead and he wants to know who his boss is. Listen, Henry, he is going to ask you a thousand irrelevant questions. Get him back to the story, please.”

“He is telling the story in his own way, Frank. The man has suffered. You and I know how he has suffered. These questions are important to him.”

Vivian put her hand on Purcell’s arm and said softly, “Let Henry handle it.”

Purcell grunted. Mercado spoke again in Italian. “After Pius XI was Pius XII. Then John XXIII. You would have liked him, Father. A good man. He died eleven years ago. Now Paul VI sits on the throne of Saint Peter. A good man also,” he added.

The old priest made noises that sounded like quiet weeping. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Yes. All good men, I am sure. And Il Duce? Is he still alive?”

Mercado replied, “There was a war. In Europe. Mussolini was killed. Europe is at peace now.”

“Yes. A war. I could see it coming, even in Berini. We could see it.”

Mercado asked, “Father, did you see what was in the envelope? The one the cardinal showed you?”