The Quest: A Novel (21 page)

Purcell ordered another Jack Daniel’s and another red wine for the lady. The bar was full—best view in Rome—but the dining tables were almost empty—not the best food in Rome.

Jean, aged about forty, was a blonde Brit, and looked nothing like Vivian, but she made him think of Vivian because she was a woman. She was interesting and interested, and they were both staying at the Forum, alone, and what the hell, it was Christmas in Rome. Coffee and
cornetti
in bed. A wonderful memory.

She observed, “Your friend is late.”

“He’s always late.”

“He must be Italian.”

“No. But when in Rome.”

She laughed, then informed him, “Did you know that this hotel was once a convent?”

“I’m checking out tomorrow.”

She laughed again and returned to her guidebook.

His mind went back to Addis Ababa. The week at the Hilton after their release from prison had been intense and tense as they waited for news of Henry and Gann, and also waited for a midnight knock on their door, or a call or visit from their respective embassies telling them they were free to leave Ethiopia. That was the tense part. The intense part was their lovemaking, knowing or believing that this was all coming to an end, one way or the other.

He thought that if they’d left it there—if they’d separated at the airport in Cairo, as they said they would—then that would have been the end of it. She’d be with Mercado now, and they’d all be going to London to see Gann. But they had decided to spend a last night together in Cairo at the Grand Nile. Then they found a furnished sublet together.

Cairo, as he knew from previous experience, was not Paris, or London, or Rome; Cairo was a challenge, and whatever romance it had in its streets and its stones was overshadowed by its repressive atmosphere.

Despite that, and despite the rumors of war, and the unpleasant memories of Ethiopia, he and Vivian had had a very good month in Cairo before she announced her departure for Geneva, where she had, she said, business and family.

In retrospect, he should have asked her to be more specific about her plans to return to Cairo, but it never occurred to him that she wasn’t coming back. He had no phone number for her, and the return address on her single letter was a post office box. His reply letter, as he recalled, had been short and not filled with love or longing, or understanding. In fact, he was angry, though that didn’t come through either. This was not the kind of writing he was good at, and his note may have sounded terse and distant. And that was the end of the letters, and presumably the end of the affair. And that was what he’d implied to Mercado, and that was the truth—or the truth as it stood at this time.

Also, in retrospect, he realized that the good news they’d gotten from the British embassy in Cairo—that Henry Mercado was about to be released—had something to do with her departure. He’d had a brief thought that she had left to find Henry, but if that were the case, she’d have told him to his face in Cairo. Vivian was forthright and honest, and brave enough to say, “It’s over. I’m going back to Henry.”

But Vivian knew that despite Henry’s forgiving her for her one-night indiscretion when they thought they were about to be shot, he would not forgive her for her week with Frank Purcell in Addis or for their month together in Cairo. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t stay in Cairo with him after Henry was free. He sort of understood that, but he also understood that she wanted the three of them to be together again, in some fashion or another, and to go back to Ethiopia together.

Jean asked, “Is that your dinner date?”

He looked at the entrance, where Mercado was standing, scanning the bar. Purcell caught his attention, and Mercado headed toward him. Henry still didn’t have a topcoat, and he was wearing what he’d worn last evening, except he’d added a scarf.

They didn’t shake, and Purcell introduced him to Jean, whose last
name Purcell didn’t know, along with not knowing her room number. They made small talk for a minute, and Purcell noted that Henry seemed to be in a better mood, and also that Henry could be charming to an attractive lady. He pictured him in the Addis Hilton bar, chatting up Vivian for the first time.

Under normal circumstance Purcell might have asked Jean to join them for dinner, but tonight he needed Henry to himself, without Jean, and without the absent presence of Vivian. He said to Jean, “Try the Piazza Navona tonight.”

Henry suggested, “Trastevere would be better.” He gave her the name of a restaurant.

Jean thanked them and went back to her guidebook.

Purcell led Mercado to a reserved table near the window and they sat.

Mercado said, “I’m not actually staying for dinner. But let’s have a bottle of good wine.”

“Whatever is your pleasure.”

Mercado scanned the wine list, summoned a waiter, and they discussed vino in Italian.

Purcell lit a cigarette and looked out at the city. He never quite understood why Peter, and then Paul, had traveled all the way from their world to Rome, the belly of the beast. Surely they knew that was suicidal.

Mercado said, “You got off easy with a 150,000-lire bottle of amarone.”

“I thought you were buying tonight.”

“Let’s first see what you’re selling.”

“Right.” Purcell pointed to the Forum. “What’s that building?”

“That’s where the Roman senate sat and debated the affairs of the empire.”

“Amazing.”

“Truly the Eternal City. I think this is where I will end my days.”

“Could do worse. Which is what I want to talk to you about.”

“I am not going to Ethiopia.”

“Okay. But hypothetically… if we could get back in, legally, as accredited reporters, would you consider it?”

“No.”

“Let’s say you said yes. Would you feel comfortable with the three of us going?”

“I do not want to see her—or you—again.”

“We’re making progress.”

“Frank, none of us will ever be allowed back. So even if I said yes, it’s moot.”

“Right. But if we could swing it—”

“I’m facing a five-year prison sentence the moment I set foot on Ethiopian soil.”

“Okay. Maybe we should sneak in.”

“Maybe you should just step out into Roman traffic and save yourself some time and effort.”

The waiter brought the wine, Mercado tasted it and pronounced it
meraviglioso
, and the waiter poured.

Purcell held up his glass and said, “To Father Armano, and to God’s plan, whatever it is.”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“It’s coming to me.” Purcell informed him, “I actually have a private pilot’s license. Single-engine. Did I ever mention that?”

Mercado swirled his wine.

“If we could rent a bush plane in Sudan—”

“You’re not making God’s plan sound attractive.” He asked, “What do you think of the wine?”

“Great. So let’s think about false IDs. I have several sources in Cairo.”

Mercado pointed out, “You don’t actually need me along. It would be easier for you to just apply for a visa and see what happens. The new regime may let you in.”

“I want you with us.”

“By
us
, I assume you mean Vivian as well.”

“Right.”

“But she’s left you, old boy. Or at least that’s what you seemed to have told me last night.”

“Right. But I also told you she wants us to go back to look for the black monastery.”

Mercado mulled that over, then said, with good insight, “There are easier ways for you to regain her affection.”

Purcell did not reply.

“If you, Mr. Purcell, want to go back, you need to go for the right reason. Your reason is not the right reason.”

Purcell thought a moment, then replied, “I’m not going to tell you that I believe in the Holy Grail. But I do believe there is a hell of a story there.”

“But Vivian, dear boy, believes in the Grail. You need to believe in it as well if you’re going to drag her back there—or if she’s dragging you back.”

Purcell asked, “What do you believe?”

“I believe what Father Armano told us.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Then how can you
not
go back?”

He reminded Purcell, “Father Armano seemed to think that the Grail should be left where it was in a Coptic monastery—and he’s a Catholic priest who was under papal orders to find it and take it for the Vatican.”

“I’m not suggesting we should steal it. Just… look at it. Touch it.”

“That would probably end in life imprisonment. Or death.”

“But if you really believe, Henry, that we’re going back to find the actual Holy Grail, what difference does death make?”

Mercado looked closely at Purcell.

“Father Armano risked death by going on that patrol to find the black monastery. Because he believed in the Grail, and he believed in eternal life.”

“I understand that. But…”

“The Knights of the Round Table risked their lives to look for the Grail—”

“Myth and legend.”

“Right. But there’s a moral to that myth.”

“Which is that the Grail will never be found.”

“Which is that we should never stop looking for what we believe in. Death is not the issue.”

Mercado did not reply.

“Why did Peter come to Rome?”

Mercado smiled. “To annoy the Romans with his arguments, as you are annoying me with yours.”

“And to bring them the word of God. And why did Peter return to Rome?”

“To die.”

“I rest my case.”

Mercado seemed lost in thought, then said, “Look, old man, get a good night’s sleep”—he nodded toward Jean who was still at the bar but settling her bill—“and if you’re still suicidal in the morning, give me a call.” He put his business card on the table and stood.

Purcell stood and said, “Henry, this is what we have to do. We think we have a choice, but we don’t.”

“I understand that. And I also understand that you’re not as cynical as you think you are or pretend to be. You are not going to risk your life for a good story—or for a woman. You’re not
that
much of a reporter or that romantic. But if you believe in love, then you believe in God. There may or may not be a Holy Grail at the end of your journey, but the journey and the quest is itself an act of faith and belief. And as we Romans say, ‘Credo quia impossibile.’ I believe it because it is impossible.”

Purcell did not reply.

They shook hands and Mercado went to the bar, spoke to Jean, then left.

Jean walked toward his table, smiling tentatively. Purcell stood, and thought: Good old Henry, up to his old tricks again, sticking me with the bill, the lady, and the next move.

R
ome was always crowded at Christmas with visiting clergy, pilgrims, and tourists, and even more so this year in anticipation of the pope’s Christmas Eve announcement of the coming Holy Year. The taxi driver was swearing at the holiday traffic and at the foreign
idioti
who didn’t know how to cross a street.

Purcell had decided to stay in Rome for Christmas and he’d sent a short telex to Charlie Gibson in Cairo telling him that. The return telex, even shorter, had said,
YOU’RE FIRED. HAVE A GOOD CHRISTMAS.

He’d hoped that would be Charlie’s response, and he dreaded a second telex rescinding the first. But if war broke out, as it might after all the Christian tourists left Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Nazareth, then the Cairo office would want him back. In the meantime, he was free to pursue other matters. Also, as it turned out, Jean needed to get back to England for Christmas, which further freed him to write, and to think about what he wanted to do about the rest of his life.

He hadn’t called Henry the morning after as Henry had suggested, and Henry hadn’t called him, nor would he ever. So now, three days later, Purcell had made the call to
L’Osservatore Romano
that morning and he had a 4
P.M.
meeting with Signore Mercado. It was 3:45 and the traffic was slower than the pedestrians, so Purcell asked the driver to drop him off at the foot of the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele, and he walked across the Tiber bridge.

It was windy, and the sky was dark and threatening with black clouds scudding across the gray sky, and the Tiber, too, looked black and angry.

Saint Peter’s Square was packed with tourists and with the faithful who were praying in large and small groups. In the center of the square stood the three-thousand-year-old Egyptian obelisk, and at the end of the square rose the marble mountain of Saint Peter’s
Basilica, beneath which, according to belief, lay the bones of the martyred saint, and Purcell wondered if Peter, dying on the cross, had regretted his decision on the Via Appia.

Purcell did not enter the square, but walked along the Vatican City wall to the Porta Santa Rosa where two Swiss Guards with halberds stood guarding the gates of the sovereign city-state. He showed his passport and press credentials to a papal gendarme who was better armed than the Swiss Guards, and said, “Buona sera. L’Osservatore Romano, Signore Mercado.”

The man scanned a sheet of paper on his clipboard, said something in Italian, and waved him through.