The Quest: A Novel (29 page)

Henry continued with his travel advice, and it occurred to Purcell that he might be lonely. He obviously knew people in Rome, including his colleagues at the newspaper as well as every bartender and waiter on the Via Veneto. And there was also the mysterious lady whose name was not Jean. But Purcell could detect the loneliness—he’d experienced it himself. In a rare moment of empathy, Purcell understood that Henry had lost more than a lover in Ethiopia—he’d lost a friend. Or, considering the age difference, he’d lost a young protégée—someone he could teach. Or was it manipulate?

He looked at Vivian as Henry was going on about Perugia or something, and it seemed to Purcell that Vivian had lost the stars in her eyes for Henry. In fact, Vivian, like himself, had been transformed by her experience in Ethiopia. She had seemed then, to him, a bit… immature, almost childish in Addis and on the road to the front lines, not to mention the mineral baths or Prince Joshua’s tent. But she’d grown up fast, as people do who’ve been traumatized by war. He knew, too, that the encounter with Father Armano had affected her deeply, as had her recent romantic complications. It was a mature decision to get herself to a nunnery, and though he loved the woman who’d left him in Cairo, he liked the woman who’d met him in Rome.

Henry, on the other hand, seemed to be regressing. But Purcell was not going to underestimate the old fox.

Henry had moved on to Milan, and Vivian was nodding attentively, though her eyes were glazing over.

It occurred to Purcell, too, that Henry must hear time’s wingèd chariot gaining on him. So for Henry, a return to Ethiopia was a no-lose situation; if he died there, he wasn’t missing much more of life. But if he returned—with or without the Holy Grail—he would have stories to tell for the rest of his life. Hopefully to a nice woman, but anyone would do.

For Vivian and Purcell, however, the timeline was different. Especially for Vivian. Henry Mercado was at the end of that timeline, while he, Purcell, was somewhere in the middle, and Vivian was just beginning her life and her career as a photojournalist. By now, she’d figured out that it wasn’t easy or glamorous, but it
was
exciting and interesting. Unfortunately, the exciting parts were dangerous and the interesting parts had nothing to do with the job. And it was often lonely.

He didn’t know if Henry had ever had this conversation with Vivian, and he would advise against it in any case. Frank Purcell was not going to give her The Lecture. She’d figure it out on her own. Meanwhile, Vivian thought they had something together, and they did, but the future was something else. He’d had a few Vivians in his life, and the odds were that Vivian would have a few more Frank Purcells in her life, and maybe one or two more Henry Mercados.

Or Ethiopia would join them together forever, one way or the other.

“Frank?”

He looked at Henry.

“Are you mentally attending?”

“No.”

Mercado laughed. “Learn to lie a bit, old man. You’re offensive when you don’t.”

“I’m learning from a master, Henry.”

“That you are.” He said to Purcell, “I was just telling Vivian the terms of her employment. All expenses paid, but no pay.”

“Right. Money is tight at the Vatican.”

Henry laughed, then informed him, “We try to keep the newspaper self-sufficient.”

“Sell tobacco ads.”

“The assignment is for one month.” He looked at both of them and said, “That should be enough time… one way or the other.”

Neither Purcell nor Vivian replied.

Mercado said, “I have a contract for each of you to sign.”

Purcell informed him, “I stopped signing contracts in bars years ago.”

Mercado laughed. “They’re in my office, old man. Not here.” He let them know, “Anything you write—or photograph—becomes the exclusive property of L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Who gets to keep the Holy Grail?”

“We will see.”

The waiter brought another round along with a plate of canapés. Main course.

Mercado announced, “By the way, I’ve informed the Vatican, by letter, of the death of Father Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily, with copies of my letter to several Vatican offices, which is what one does in a bureaucracy, and a copy to the Ministry of War because the deceased was in the army serving the fatherland in Ethiopia.”

Purcell asked, “Have you had a response?”

“No.”

Vivian asked, “Did you relate the circumstances of his death?”

“Yes, of course, but I neglected to mention the black monastery or the Holy Grail.”

Purcell asked, “Did you use our names in the letter?”

“I did.” He explained, “I didn’t want them thinking I was hallucinating at the sulphur baths.”

Purcell said, “We’d like to see a copy of the letter.”

Mercado took a photostated page out of his pocket and handed it to Purcell. Purcell read it and saw it was a fairly straightforward account of what had happened that evening, though Father Armano’s tale had been condensed to a few lines about his capture by Ethiopian forces—though he’d actually been captured by Coptic monks—and his forty-year imprisonment in a Royal Army fortress. Purcell noticed, too, that Henry had not mentioned the nude bathing.

He passed the letter to Vivian and said to Mercado, “I would think someone would have replied to this.”

“Communication with the Vatican is usually one-way. Same with government ministries.”

“Yes, but they’d want more information.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How about a thank-you?”

“A good deed is its own reward.” He popped a canapé in his mouth, then said, “I wasn’t actually sure whom to notify, so I copied six Vatican offices, and I admit I am a bit surprised myself that no one from the Vatican has gotten back to me—though someone else did.”

“Who?”

“The order of Saint Francis. And they have no one in their files or records by the name of Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily.”

Vivian looked up from Mercado’s letter.

Purcell asked him, “What do you make of that?”

“I’m not sure. Certainly Father Armano existed. We saw him. Or we saw someone.”

Vivian said, “A man lying on his deathbed does not make up a lie about who he is.”

Mercado agreed and said, “It gets curiouser.” He continued, “I called the Franciscans in Assisi to follow up and someone there said they’d get back to me, though they haven’t. Then I tried the Ministry of War, and some maggiore informed me that the 1935 war in Ethiopia was not his most pressing problem. He did say, however, that he’d make internal inquiries.”

Purcell thought about all this, then said to Mercado, “Things, I’m sure, move slowly in the Vatican bureaucracy, but you may hear back soon.”

“What is the date of my letter?”

Vivian looked at it and said, “Ten November.”

“Which,” Mercado said, “is less than a week after I arrived in Rome from London, and which is why, as you’ll see in the letter, I didn’t apologize for any delay in reporting this death to whomever I thought were the proper authorities.”

Purcell reminded him, “You told me you didn’t notify the Vatican.”

“I lied.” He smiled. “I didn’t like you then.” He added, “Now we
are friends and partners in this great adventure and we have sealed our covenant with blood. Well… cheap wine. And we are, as they say, putting all our cards on the table.”

Purcell thought Henry was still holding a card or two. He asked, “What do you think is actually going on?”

Mercado drained his gin and tonic and replied, “Well, obviously, something is going on. Someone, perhaps in the Vatican, instructed the Franciscans to post a reply, and further instructed them to say there is no Father Armano.”

“Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, old man.”

Vivian said, “The Vatican knows who Father Armano is, and they know what Father Armano was doing in Ethiopia. And now they’re wondering how much we know.”

“That’s very astute, Vivian. And they will continue to wonder how much we know—what Father Armano’s last words were to us.”

Again Purcell thought about this. He wasn’t a believer in grand conspiracies or a fan of those who did believe in them. But Father Armano had, in effect, spelled out a Vatican conspiracy to steal the Holy Grail. It would follow, then, that there still existed a conspiracy of silence regarding what seemed to be an ongoing Vatican mission to relieve the Coptic Church of their Holy Grail.

Vivian asked Mercado, “Will you do any further follow-up?”

“That would not be a wise thing to do.”

She nodded.

Purcell commented, “It would have been wiser for someone in the Vatican to just say, ‘Thank you, we will notify next of kin, and God bless you.’ ”

Mercado nodded. “That would have been the wise thing for them to do. But I suspect my letter caused some worry and they decided to… what is the expression? Stonewall it.”

Purcell also pointed out, “Maybe you shouldn’t have sent the letter at all.”

“I thought about that. About not tipping my hand. But then the job in Rome came up with L’Osservatore Romano, and I thought ahead to writing about this, so I couldn’t very well reveal this story
in an article months or years later without having to explain why I’d kept this information to myself.”

Purcell suggested, “Your letter to the Vatican may actually be the reason you’re working in and for the Vatican.”

Mercado looked at Purcell. “Interesting.”

“And,” Purcell pointed out, “why Vivian and I are now working for the Vatican.”

“Actually, you’re working for the Vatican newspaper, Frank, but I won’t split hairs with you.”

Vivian was taking this all in, then said to Mercado, “You did the right thing, Henry, by reporting Father Armano’s death.”

“Yes, you can never do wrong by doing right.” He suggested, “Let’s put conspiracy aside and think this could be typical bureaucratic indifference, coupled with bad record-keeping in all departments.” He added, “The Italians, like the Germans, would just as soon not be reminded of the 1930s and ’40s.”

Purcell replied, “That could explain the indifference of the Ministry of War. But not the Vatican.”

Mercado did not reply.

Vivian said, “Father Armano was real, and we are going to make sure that his suffering and death are acknowledged by the people who sent him to war.”

Mercado looked at her, and it seemed to Purcell that Henry was just noticing the change in his former playmate.

Vivian continued, “We will go to Berini and find his family.”

“That is the plan,” Mercado agreed, and ordered another round.

Vivian had two full glasses of red wine in front of her, and Purcell was still working on his last Jack Daniel’s, and he wondered where Henry put all that gin.

They spoke awhile about the timing of their trip to Berini, then Ethiopia, and how they’d approach the problem of covering their assignments while actually trying to find the black monastery, which was in Getachu territory.

Vivian surprised everyone and herself by saying, “I hope Getachu gets arrested and shot before we get there.”

Mercado informed her, “Men like that do not get eaten by the revolution. They do the eating.”

Vivian nodded, then said, “Maybe we should not be asking Colonel Gann to come with us.”

Mercado suggested, “Let’s discuss that further when we see him.”

Vivian got up to use the ladies’ room and Purcell said to Mercado, “As I mentioned to you in your office, these entry visas are not necessarily exit visas.”

“And as I said to you, save your paranoia for Ethiopia.”

“I’m practicing.”

Mercado changed the subject and said, “She looks very happy.”

Purcell did not respond.

“I told you, old man, I’m over it, and I’m over the anger as well.” He asked, “Can’t you tell?”

“We don’t need to have this conversation.”

“It’s not about us, Frank. And it’s not even about her. It’s about our… assignment.”

“We all understand that. That’s why we’re here.”

“I’d like us to be truly friends.”

“How about close colleagues?”

“I didn’t steal her from you, old boy. You stole her from me.”

“You sound angry.”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I’m hanging there from a fucking pole, and what do I see?
Fucking
.”

“You’re drunk, Henry.”

“I am… I apologize.”

“Accepted.” Purcell stood. “And if you mention the name Jean one more time, I am going to clock you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

Mercado stood unsteadily and offered his hand to Purcell. Purcell saw Vivian coming back, so he took Mercado’s hand.

Vivian asked, “Are we leaving?”

“We are.”

She said to Henry, “We had a long drive from Florence. Thank you for drinks.”

“Thank our newspaper.”

She looked at him and suggested, “You should turn in.”

He leaned toward her, she hesitated, then they did an air kiss on both cheeks. “Buona notte, signorina.”

“Buona notte.”

Purcell took Vivian’s arm and they left.

As the doorman signaled for a taxi, Vivian said, “I’ve never seen him so drunk.”

Purcell did not respond.

She glanced at Purcell. “Well… I only knew him a few months.”

The taxi came and they got in. Purcell said, “Hotel Forum.”

They stayed quiet on the ride to the hotel, then Vivian said, “If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Purcell lit a cigarette.

She took his hand. “Did something happen when I was gone?”

“No.”

“I love you.”

He took his hand out of hers and put his arm around her shoulders. He said to her, “You once told me to go to hell.”

“I was so angry at you.” She mimicked him: “I think I could have done this on my own. Can we save this for the Hilton bar?” She said, “Bastard.”

He drew her closer and she put her head on his shoulder. She said, “It was my idea to invite you along.”

“I thought it was God’s plan.”

“It was. I just went along with it.”

“What’s the rest of the plan?”

The taxi stopped. “Forum.”

She said, “To get upstairs and get our clothes off.”