She said to him, “Thank you for doing that.”
“That’s what you wanted.”
“Was it… awkward?”
“It was, but we moved on to bigger issues.”
“I knew you would both be mature.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She smiled, then leaned over and kissed him at the bar, and the slick bartender said, “Bellissimo.”
During the day they walked the city and he took her to out-of-the-way places, including the Chapel of Quo Vadis, where Vivian was intrigued by Christ’s footprint in the paving stone, and she said, “This could be real.”
“You never know.”
A call to Henry had gotten them put on the visitor’s list at Porta Santa Rosa, and they walked the hundred acres of Vatican City, and Purcell showed her Henry’s office building, and also the Ethiopian College where black-robed monks and seminarians entered and exited. Vivian asked, “Will I be allowed in there?”
“Good question. I don’t think it’s coed. But we’ll try.”
“I’ll wear your trench coat.”
“They’re celibate, Vivian, not blind.”
Henry had gotten them passes to Saint Peter’s for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and they met Henry at Porta Santa Rosa at eleven and walked to the basilica without having to go through the throngs in Saint Peter’s Square.
The Mass looked to Purcell as it had looked on television when he’d seen it sitting in a New York bar one Christmas Eve.
Vivian, as expected, was moved by the pageantry and the papal address, and the pope’s announcement that 1975 would be a Holy Year. Purcell, though he spoke neither Italian nor Latin, was also impressed by the history and the grandeur of the Roman Mass. He wondered if they’d keep the Holy Grail at the altar of the basilica or in the Vatican Museums. He’d suggest the altar, and maybe he would make that part of the deal. He smiled at his own absurd thoughts and Vivian whispered to him, “It’s good to see you happy.”
Henry had secured late supper reservations in the Jewish ghetto, explaining, “There is nothing else open in Rome tonight.”
And there were no taxis or public transportation either, so they walked along the Tiber to the ghetto and entered Vecchia Roma on the Piazza di Campitelli.
The restaurant was standing room only, but the hostess seated them immediately, and Henry confessed, “I promised them a four-star review in L’Osservatore Romano.”
Vivian asked, “Do you do restaurant reviews?”
“No, and neither does the paper.”
Vivian and Purcell exchanged glances.
Henry asked, “Red or white?”
“Both,” Purcell replied. He looked around at the fresco walls, seeing nothing that looked particularly Jewish. In fact, the restaurant was decorated for Christmas.
Mercado commented, “The Jews have been in this ghetto since before the time of Christ and I’d say they are more Roman than the Romans.” He added, “I’m sure Peter and Paul found comfort here among their fellow Jews.”
Vivian said, “Amazing.”
The wine came and Henry toasted, “Merry Christmas to us.”
Vivian added, “And a happy, healthy, and peaceful New Year.”
Purcell didn’t think their immediate plans for the New Year included any of that, so he also proposed, “To a safe and successful journey.”
Vivian said to Henry, “And thank you for this night.”
Purcell offered, “We’ll split the bill.”
“No, no,” said Mercado. “This is my Christmas gift to you both.”
“Thank you,” said Vivian.
Purcell noticed that the table was set for four, and he wondered if Mercado’s lady friend was joining him, but he didn’t ask. Henry, however, brought it up. “I have an old friend in Rome—Jean—whom I mentioned to Frank, but she couldn’t join us.”
Purcell doubted if the lady was named Jean, and he looked at Henry, who smiled at him. Bastard.
Vivian said, “We’d like to meet her.”
They looked at the menus and Vivian noted that the food didn’t seem much different than traditional Italian, but Mercado assured her that there were subtle differences, and he offered to order for everyone, which he did. Mercado then held court for the rest of the evening, and if Purcell didn’t know better, he’d think that Henry was trying to re-impress Vivian, who handled the balancing act well, giving equal time to her host and former lover and to her new beau.
They left the restaurant at 3 A.M. and Mercado walked with Vivian and Purcell part of the way to their nearby hotel, then wished them Merry Christmas and continued on to the Excelsior.
Purcell and Vivian strolled hand in hand through the quiet streets and Vivian said, “I didn’t know Henry had a lady friend in Rome.”
“I’m sure Henry has a lady in every city.”
“And you?”
“Only four—Addis Ababa, Cairo, Geneva, and Rome.”
She leaned over and gave him a kiss. They continued on and Vivian said, “Wasn’t that a beautiful Mass?”
“It was.”
“Could you live in Rome?”
“I would need a job.”
She pointed out, “If we find the Holy Grail, you probably won’t need a job.”
“Right. Let’s ask ten million. Dollars, not lire.”
“We’re not going to steal the Grail or sell it. But you and Henry will write a book, and I’ll supply the photographs, and we’ll all be famous.”
“Don’t forget your camera.”
On the subject of money, Purcell had informed Vivian in Cairo that the AP, which he’d been working for when he went missing inside a Khmer Rouge prison camp, had generously given him a year’s back pay on his release. As with Henry’s back pay after four years in the Gulag, it wasn’t the easiest money Purcell had ever made, but the lump sum came in handy when he’d collected it in New York. He still had most of it, and this was paying for his Roman Holiday, and L’Osservatore Romano would pay the expenses for his Ethiopian assignment, sans salary. He assumed Henry would work out something similar for his photographer.
As for Vivian’s finances, she’d told him in Cairo that she had a small trust fund, though she never mentioned its source or anything about her family. All he knew about her past was that she’d gone to boarding school in Geneva. If there was anything more she wanted to tell him, she would. Meanwhile they were in Rome and in love. La dolce vita.
Most of the restaurants in Rome were closed on Christmas Day, but the concierge booked Christmas dinner for them at the Grand Hotel de la Minerva because he said Vivian was as beautiful as the goddess Minerva. That cost Purcell thirty thousand lire, but Vivian paid for dinner, which was her Christmas gift to him. His to her would be a trip to Tuscany.
Purcell rented a car and they drove to Tuscany and spent the week touring, staying at country inns, then they drove up to Florence for New Year’s Eve, where they joined the crowd in the Piazza della Signoria and celebrated the arrival of the New Year on a cold clear winter night.
They drove back to Rome on New Year’s Day and returned to the Hotel Forum in midafternoon.
There was a handwritten message at the desk from Henry that said, “Col. Gann will arrive at Fiumicino Jan. 4. Staying at Excelsior. Dinner at Hassler Roof 8 P.M. Call me when you’ve returned. Can you go to Berini next week? Good news about our visas.” It was signed, “Love, Henry.”
Purcell said, “Well, it seems that we are going to Ethiopia.”
Vivian nodded.
They returned to their room and Purcell called Henry at the office. “Happy New Year,” Purcell said.
“And to you. Are you in Rome?”
“We are. Got your message.”
“Good, come join me for cocktails and we’ll catch up. Excelsior, say five.”
“Six. See you then.” He hung up and said to Vivian, “I can go alone.”
“I’ll come. Lots to talk about.”
“There always is with Henry.”
/> “Now that it’s becoming real… I’m getting a little apprehensive.”
He looked at her. “I always feel that way before an assignment into a hostile area.” He assured her, “It’s normal.”
“Ethiopia was my first time in a war zone.” She smiled. “I was excited and clueless.”
“Now you’re an experienced veteran.”
“God will watch over us. He did last time.”
Purcell thought that God’s patience with them might be wearing thin, and he didn’t reply.
Chapter 24
The Excelsior bar and lounge, Purcell guessed, was probably Old World when it was brand-new, and Henry was at home here, and everyone seemed to know him. Someday they’d name a drink after him.
They were escorted to a good table by the window, and they gave their orders to a waiter, Giancarlo, who had greeted Signore Mercado by name, of course, and knew what he was drinking.
Purcell thought back to Harry’s Bar when Signore Mercado had told him never to darken his doorstep at the Excelsior. They’d come a long way. Purcell noted that Henry was wearing a sharp blue suit with a white silk shirt, and what looked like an Italian silk tie. Apparently Henry had gone shopping. Vivian, too, had gone shopping, in Florence, and she looked good in a white winter silk dress, which Henry complimented.
Purcell was feeling a bit underdressed in the only sport jacket he’d brought from Cairo. He would have gone shopping, too, but they weren’t going to be here long.
It was New Year’s Day evening, a quiet night back in the States, Purcell recalled, but the Excelsior bar and lounge was full, and Mercado informed them, “The Italians will take the rest of the week off.”
Purcell inquired, “And you?”
“The printing presses never stop, as you well know.” He added, “I’ll do half days.”
Vivian asked, “Will Jean be joining us?”
Mercado replied, “She had to go to London.”
Purcell lit a cigarette.
Vivian asked him, “So do we have our visas?”
Mercado pulled two passports from his inside pocket and handed the blue one to Purcell, then opened Vivian’s red Swiss passport and said, “This photo never did you justice.”
Vivian reached across the table and Mercado gave her her passport.
By this time, Purcell thought, he’d have clocked the guy, who was pissing him off, but he decided to see if Henry continued to be an asshole, then take it from there.
Henry said, all businesslike now, “Same as last time, the visas are stamped inside.” He drew two sheets of paper from his pocket. “And these are copies of your visa applications, signed and stamped by the consul general.” He handed a visa to each of them.
Purcell glanced inside his passport and saw that the new visa stamp, unlike his last one, had been altered by someone, who’d scratched out the Lion of Judah in red ink. His visa application had the same rubber stamp, similarly altered to show that things had changed in Ethiopia.
Their drinks came and Henry informed them, “Tonight is on L’Osservatore Romano.”
They touched glasses and Purcell asked, “Do you have our press credentials?”
“I do.” He handed each of them a press card, and also a larger document written in several languages, including Amharic, Arabic, and Tigrena, which he said was sort of a journalist’s safe-conduct pass. He smiled.
Neither Purcell nor Vivian returned the smile.
The waiter brought over an assortment of nuts, olives, and cheese, which Purcell suspected was Henry’s dinner on most nights.
Purcell asked, “Any good news about the Ethiopian College?”
“Not yet.” Mercado explained, “The college is closed until the Epiphany.”
“Good time to break in.”
Mercado looked at him, but did not respond.
Vivian, too, had nothing to say about that, but she asked, “Will I be allowed in?”
“No.”
Purcell inquired, “What do you make of this refusal to let us see their library?”
Mercado pondered that, then replied, “That depends on your level of paranoia.” He informed them, “The Ethiopian College is a very cloistered place. I’m sure there is nothing strange or secretive going on there, but they like their privacy.”
“We all do, Henry, but this place is not a monastery on a mountain—or in the jungle. It’s on Vatican City property, under the authority of the papal state. Who makes the rules? Them or the Vatican?”
“They are semi-autonomous.” He let them know, “I’m pushing our cover story that we want to do some research for our Ethiopian assignment—which is actually true. But I’m not pushing so hard that someone would think there is more to my interest.”
“All right.” He asked, “Is this library worth the trouble?”
“I think the maps will be invaluable. But I may be wrong.”
Purcell nodded. Henry’s time in the Vatican Library and his request for access to the Ethiopian College were well within his needs as a reporter for L’Osservatore Romano. On the other hand, if someone in the Vatican hierarchy was putting the pieces together—including Henry asking to go back to hell with the same reporter and photographer he’d been with in prison—then a picture was taking shape. Actually, two pictures: one that looked like a reporter doing his job, and one that looked like a reporter who was getting nosy about something he wasn’t supposed to know. The thing that would put the picture in focus would be Henry’s notifying the Vatican of Father Armano’s death, saying in effect that he’d heard the dying words of Father Giuseppe Armano, who once had a papal letter in his pocket telling the good father to grab the Holy Grail from a Coptic monastery.
Mercado asked, “What’s on your mind, Frank?”
“Our cover story.”
“The beauty of our cover story is that it is real.”
“Right.” Up until the point where they went off into the jungle. And even then, they were on assignment, though not necessarily for L’Osservatore Romano.
Also, Purcell thought, Henry was driving this bus with a lot more enthusiasm than he’d shown at Harry’s Bar. He’d been touched by the Holy Spirit, or he just smelled a good story—the Holy Grail of stories. Plus, of course, Henry wanted to make up for his past poor performance in Ethiopia. It was important to him that neither Vivian nor Frank Purcell thought he had lost his nerve. Henry should take his own advice about going to Ethiopia for the right reasons.
Henry seemed to be done with business, and he inquired about their trip to Tuscany, and Vivian provided most of the answers. Henry said it sounded like a wonderful trip, and added, “If you are still here in the spring, or the fall, Tuscany is at its best.” He further advised, “But stay away in the summer. It’s overrun with Brits.” He smiled and said, “The Italians call it Tuscanshire.”
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.”