Nelson Demille - The Quest

The consulate officer’s parting advice, which Vivian translated, was, “If you are denied visas, do not apply again. If you are accepted as journalists, you must refrain from all other activities in Ethiopia.”

Vivian assured him they understood and wished him, “Buongiorno.”

They spent the next few days before Christmas exploring the city. Vivian said she’d been to Rome twice on school trips, but she didn’t know the city as an adult, so Purcell showed her Rome by night, including Trastevere and the fading Via Veneto, where he pointed out the Excelsior where Henry was living and presumably drinking. They didn’t go into the hotel bar, but he did take her to Harry’s, and after they’d had a drink at the bar, he told her about finding Henry there.

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.