The Quest: A Novel

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 lastname 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,