The Quest: A Novel

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