Chapter 39
Mercado directed the driver to the Italian-built piazza in the center of Gondar. They stood in the cool sunshine and looked around at the shops, cinema, and public buildings designed by Italian architects in 1930s modern Fascist style.
Mercado said, “This looked better in 1941.”
“So did you,” Purcell pointed out.
Mercado ignored that and said, “Gondar is where the Italian Army made its last stand against the British in ’41.” He stayed quiet awhile, then continued, “I was traveling as a war correspondent with the British Expeditionary Force by then… we’d taken Addis from the Italians six months before, and Haile Selassie was back on the throne.”
Purcell looked at Henry Mercado standing in the piazza. The man had seen a great deal of life, and death, and war, and hopefully some peace. He had, in fact, seen the twentieth century in all its triumphs and disappointments, its progress and failures.
It was a wonder, Purcell thought, that Mercado had anything left in him. Or that he could still believe in something like the Holy Grail. Or believe in love.
Purcell glanced at Vivian, who was looking at Henry. Purcell hadn’t meant to take Henry’s lady.
Mercado nodded toward the cinema. “The British soldiers watched captured Italian movies, and I stood on the stage and shouted the translations.” He laughed. “I made up some very funny sexual dialogue.”
Vivian laughed, and Purcell, too, smiled.
Mercado pointed to a large public building. “That was where the British Army put its headquarters. The Union Jack used to fly right there.” He informed them, “Gann told me he was here as well, but we never met. Or if we did, it was in a state of intoxication and we don’t remember.”
Purcell wondered if thirty-five years from now he’d be here, or in some other place from his past, telling a younger companion about how it was way back then. Probably not. Henry had been exceedingly lucky at cheating death; Purcell felt lucky, too, but not that lucky.
Mercado continued, “The Italians carried on a surprisingly strong guerrilla war in the countryside against the Brits for two more years before they finally surrendered this last piece of their African empire. By then I was traveling with the British Army in North Africa.” He stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I always meant to come back to Ethiopia, and especially to Gondar. And here I am.”
Vivian said to him, “Show us around, Henry.”
They left the piazza and walked into the old city, which was as otherworldly as it appeared from the air: a collection of brick and stone palaces, churches, fortifications, an old synagogue, and ruins. It looked almost medieval, Purcell thought, though the architecture was unlike anything he’d seen in Europe or elsewhere.
Vivian took photographs as Mercado pointed out a few buildings that he remembered. He observed, “There seem to be fewer people here than I remember.” He informed them, “Gondar and the surrounding area is where most of the Jewish population in Ethiopia lives. I think, however, the Jews have left, along with the nobility, the merchant class, and the last of the Italian expats.”
Vivian pointed out, “If you lived where General Getachu lived, you’d get out, too.”
Mercado also told them, “The Falashas, along with the last of the Royalists, and other traditional elements in the surrounding provinces, have formed a resistance against the Marxists. So Getachu is not completely paranoid when he sees spies and enemies all around him.” He added, “The countryside is unsettled and dangerous.”
Vivian asked, “Does that include the area where we will be traveling?”
“We will find out.”
Most shops and restaurants were closed, including an Italian restaurant that Mercado remembered. Soldiers with AK-47s patrolled the nearly deserted streets and looked them over as they passed by.
Vivian said, “This is creepy.”
Purcell suggested, “Tell them you know General Getachu.”
They found a food shop that sold bottled water and packaged food and they noted its location for when they needed to buy provisions.
There was an open outdoor café in a small square near a church, and they would have stopped for a beer, but six soldiers, who were undoubtedly Cuban, were sitting at a table watching them approach. One of them called out to the senorita, and Vivian blew them a kiss. They all laughed.
Purcell wanted to find the English missionary school where young Mikael Getachu got his ass whipped, but an old man who spoke Italian told Mercado, “It is now the army headquarters.”
Mercado suggested they skip that photo, and Purcell said, “Mikael is trying to work through some childhood issues.”
Inquiries about the best hotel in town led them to the Goha, near the Italian piazza. They asked for an English- or Italian-speaking person, and were escorted into the office of the hotel manager, Mr. Kidane, who spoke both languages.
They inquired about rooms for the near future, though the hotel seemed deserted, and also asked about renting a cross-country vehicle. Mr. Kidane informed them he could get his future guests a British Land Rover, but unfortunately, due to the unsettled situation, the price would be two hundred dollars American, each day. A driver and security man would be extra, and he recommended both. Mr. Kidane also required a two-thousand-dollar security deposit in cash—just in case the vehicle and his guests never returned, though he didn’t actually say that.
They took Mr. Kidane’s card with the Goha’s telex number. Purcell gave him a twenty-dollar bill for his trouble, and Mr. Kidane called them a taxi.
Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado headed back to the airport.
Vivian said, “That was fascinating.”
Mercado replied, “Someday, Gondar will be a tourist attraction. Now it is Getachu’s prize, if he can hold on to it.”
Purcell said, “It looks like we have our vehicle, and we can also get provisions in Gondar. But we have to act fast in case the fighting starts again.”
Mercado agreed. “These mountains have always been a place of desperate last stands.”
Purcell suggested, “We’ll make one more recon flight tomorrow or the next day, and if we still haven’t heard from Gann, we need to decide our next move.”
Everyone agreed, and they continued on to the airport, where Captain Sharew awaited them.
The Navion was still there, but Captain Sharew was happily not, so another kleptocrat took their fifty-thousand-lire takeoff fee, which Mercado paid while Purcell quickly filled out the flight plan.
Purcell didn’t mind the bribes; it was when the authorities stopped taking bribes that you had to worry.
The new officer wrote their takeoff time as 1:30 P.M., and advised them, “Do not deviate.” He then presented them with an outrageous bill for fuel, which needed to be paid in Western currency. Purcell said, “Your turn, Vivian.”
They got quickly into the Navion and noticed that two bags of coffee beans were missing, as well as the urine-filled carafe. Purcell hit the ignition switch and said, “I hope they left the spark plugs.”
The engine fired up and he taxied at top speed to the north end of the runway. He got a green light from the tower and pushed the throttle forward.
The Navion lifted off and he continued south, toward Addis Ababa.
A half hour out of Gondar, he took an easterly heading and said to Mercado, “Pass me the map that shows Shoan.”
“I do not want to be late into Addis.”
“We have tailwinds.”
Mercado passed him the map and Purcell studied it. He asked Mercado, “Do you have any interest in flying over Mount Aradam?”
Mercado did not reply, and Purcell did not ask him again.
Purcell found Shoan on the map, and looked at the terrain below, then turned farther east. He picked out the single-lane north-south road that they’d used when they were looking for the war and found the spa. He noticed on the map that Shoan was only about thirty kilometers east of the road, located on high ground that showed on the map as agricultural, surrounded by dense vegetation. If Gann was correct about the village supplying the black monastery with candles and sandals, then Shoan should be a day or two’s walk to the meeting place. The monastery, too, could be a day or two’s walk to this meeting place. Therefore, Shoan could be a four-day walk to the monastery. But in what direction?
He looked again at the terrain map. They had narrowed it down a bit, but the area was still thousands of square kilometers, and most of it, according to the maps, was covered with jungle and forest.
Vivian asked, “What are you looking at?”
“I’m looking for a black dot in a sea of green ink.”
“It’s down there, Frank. And we will find it.”
“We could walk for a year and not find it. We could pass within a hundred yards of it and miss it.”
“I’ll have the photographs developed and enlarged before noon tomorrow.”
“Good. And if we don’t see anything… then we need to start at a place we can easily find. Shoan.” He looked out the windshield. “In fact, there it is.”
He made a shallow left bank and began to descend.
As they got closer, they could see white farmhouses with corrugated metal roofs sitting in fields of crops. There were also what looked like fruit orchards, and pastures where goats roamed and donkeys grazed. There was also a horse paddock built around a pond. It looked peaceful, Purcell thought, an island of tranquility in a sea of chaos.
The village itself was nestled between two hills, and they could see a cluster of houses around a square. There were a few larger buildings, one of which Purcell thought could be the synagogue. Another large building at the edge of the village was built around a courtyard in which was a round pool and palm trees.
Mercado was looking through his binoculars and said, “Amazing.”
Purcell asked, “Do you see any people?”
“Yes… and I see… a vehicle… looks like a cross-country vehicle… maybe a Jeep or Land Rover.”
“Could it be military?”
“I really can’t say, Frank. Get closer.”
He glanced at his watch, then his airspeed. The phantom headwinds he’d reported on the northbound flight were real now, and they needed to get back to the flight plan and head directly toward Addis. “We’re heading back.”
He looked at his chart and compass and took a direct heading toward Addis Ababa with the throttle fully opened. He said, “If there’s a vehicle in the village, then there is a passable road into the village. Probably from the one-lane road we took.”
Mercado replied, “I don’t remember seeing any road coming off that road.”
Purcell said, “There wouldn’t be a road sign saying, ‘Shoan, population a few hundred Jews.’ ” He speculated, “The road might be purposely hidden.”
Mercado agreed. “They don’t want visitors.”
“Well, they are about to get three.” He said, “From what I see below, and from what we’ve experienced ourselves, most of this terrain is impassable, even for an all-terrain vehicle. What I suggest is that we have a driver in Gondar take us as far as the spa, and from there we’ll walk to Shoan. Should be a few hours.”
No one replied.
“I suggest we use Shoan as our base of operation and explore out from there.”
Mercado said, “I’m not sure the Falashas would welcome our intrusion, old man. Nor would they be keen on us looking for the black monastery.”
“Gann was telling us something. And I think what he was saying was, ‘Go to Shoan.’ ”
Mercado informed him, “The English are not that subtle, Frank. If he wanted us to go to Shoan, he would have said, ‘Go to Shoan.’ ” He further informed Purcell, “That’s the way we speak.”
“What is clear to me is that we should avoid all human contact as we’re beating about the bush. Nothing good can come of us trying to get help from friendly natives.”
“I hear you, Henry. But as we both know, you can usually trust the outcasts of any society.”
“The Falasha Jews are not outcasts—they are people who just want to be left in peace as they have been for three thousand years.”
“Those days are over.”
“Apparently, but if Sir Edmund is correct about the Falashas and the monks, and if we engage the Falashas, we may find ourselves as permanent residents of the black monastery.”
“There are worse places to spend the rest of your life, Henry.”
Vivian had stayed silent, but now said, “I think you are both right to some extent.”
“Meaning,” Purcell replied, “that we are both wrong to some extent.”
She pointed out, “We could clear this up if Colonel Gann shows up.”
No one responded to that.
They continued south, toward Addis.
Vivian said, “I think we are missing something.”
“The carafe?”
“There was something that Father Armano said… He gave us a clue, without knowing it.”
Purcell, too, had had the same thought, and he’d tried to drag it out of his memory, but couldn’t.
Vivian said, “It’s something we should have understood.”
Mercado reminded them, “He didn’t want us looking for the black monastery or the Holy Grail, so he wasn’t giving us an obvious clue to where the monastery was located. But Vivian is correct and I’ve felt that as well. He told us something, and we need to understand what it was.”
No one responded to that and they fell into a thoughtful silence. The engine droned, and the Navion bounced and yawed in the highland updrafts. Purcell scanned his instruments. This aircraft burned or leaked oil. The engine probably had a couple thousand hours on it, and the maintenance was probably performed by bicycle mechanics.
He glanced up at the Saint Christopher medal, which may have been the only thing that worked right in Signore Bocaccio’s aircraft.
He tried to figure out if he’d taken leave of his senses, or if this search for the black monastery and the so-called Holy Grail was within the normal range of mental health. A lot of this, he admitted, had to do with Vivian. Cherchez la femme. His libido had gotten him into trouble before, but never to this extent.
And then there was Henry. He not only liked Henry, but he respected the old warhorse. Henry Mercado was a legend, and Frank Purcell was happy that circumstances—or fate—had brought them together.
And, he realized, the sum was more than the parts. He wouldn’t be here risking his life for something he didn’t believe in with any other two people. Also, they all had the same taste in members of the opposite sex. That ménage, however, was more of a problem than a strength.
Vivian was sleeping, and so was Henry, curled up on the remaining two coffee bean bags.
Within three hours of leaving Gondar, he spotted the hills around Addis Ababa, then saw the airstrip. The southern African sky was a pastel blue, and streaks of pink sat on the distant horizon.
Vivian was awake now, and she glanced in the rear to see Mercado still asleep. She said to Purcell, “I had a dream…”
He didn’t respond.
“You and I were in Rome, and I was the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“Did we have the Grail with us?”
“We had each other.”
“That’s good enough.”
He throttled back and began his descent.
