The Quest

Purcell looked at the items. There were a few objects carved out of what looked like teak and ebony, some beadwork, and a few sculptures carved from jet black obsidian, polished to a high gloss, including a model of the distinctive octagon-shaped Saint George Cathedral in Addis Ababa. He smiled. “We’ve found the black monastery.”

“Frank, that’s Saint George in Addis.”

“Looks smaller than I remember.”

A lady was selling embroidered shammas and Purcell suggested, “Let’s wear these to lunch.”

Vivian surprised him by saying, “The last time Henry saw us in shammas, he didn’t like what he saw.”

Purcell had no comment on that. He walked over to another blanket covered with bronze ware, and he spotted a wine goblet that reminded him of the goblets in Prince Joshua’s tent. The vendor wanted fifty thousand lire, Purcell offered ten, and they settled on twenty.

Purcell moved back to Vivian, who was negotiating the price of Saint George’s, and held up the goblet. “I have found the Holy Grail.”

She laughed.

“Here. Give it to Henry and tell him mission accomplished.”

She examined the goblet of hammered bronze, which looked ancient, but was probably made last week, and asked, “How will we know?”

“The thing will speak for itself.”

She nodded, then handed it back to him, saying, “You give it to him.”

The polizia were doing a scheduled sweep through the Termini area, chasing off the street vendors, who rolled up their blankets and wares and moved a few meters behind the sweep, then set up again on the pavement. No one seemed to take things too seriously here, he noticed, and maybe Henry had found the right place to live and die, if he didn’t die in Ethiopia. Same for him and Vivian.

Purcell asked a policeman for directions to Via Gaeta, and he walked Vivian part of the way. They stopped and he said, “See you in half an hour.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I might be early.”

She smiled, then said seriously, “If he’s willing to forget the past, and get over his anger, and be with us under these… I guess, awkward circumstances, then you-”

“I get it.”

“All right…” She gave him a quick kiss, turned, and walked off.

Purcell checked his watch, then wandered the streets around the Termini. He found a taverna and went inside. The clientele was mostly black, though the taverna itself seemed to be traditional Roman.

He sat at the small bar and ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and asked for a vino rosso.

Henry Mercado had a flair for drama and stage setting. He was, in fact, a performer. An illusionist. Purcell could see it in some of Henry’s writing. There were never any hard facts-just suggestions of fact, mixed with his profound insights. Henry manipulated words the way he manipulated people. Purcell had no doubt that Henry’s epiphany in the Gulag was real, but Henry’s inner pagan had remained the same. If Henry Mercado wasn’t a Catholic journalist, he’d probably be a magician or a wizard. Purcell didn’t think that Vivian would again fall under his spell, but Henry would use her guilt to his advantage.

He had a second wine and looked at the patrons in the bar mirror. Ethiopia was disgorging large chunks of its population, especially the entrepreneurs and the professional class, and also the old aristocracy who had escaped hanging and shooting, as well as the Coptic and Catholic clergy who felt threatened by the godless revolutionaries. Ethiopia was, in fact, a replay of the French and Russian revolutions; an isolated ruling elite had lost touch with the people, and with reality, so the people had brought reality to the palaces and churches. The three-thousand-year-old established order was crumbling, and for this reason, the Holy Grail was up for grabs.

It was only a matter of time, he thought, before the revolutionaries located the black monastery; it was well hidden, but nothing can be hidden forever, though he knew that the lost cities of the Mayans had remained undiscovered for hundreds of years in jungles far smaller than those of Ethiopia.

But no matter who found the monastery, he was sure that the Holy Grail, or whatever else was there, would be spirited away before the first intruders got over the walls. And yet…

He took the bronze goblet out of his trench coat and looked at it.

The proprietor, an Italian, looked at it also, then nodded toward his clientele and said in English, “Ethiopian junk.”

Not wanting the man to think he was a gullible tourist, Purcell informed him, “This is the Holy Grail.”

The proprietor laughed. “What you pay for that?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Too much. Ten.”

“This can turn wine into the blood of Christ.”

The proprietor laughed again, then said, “Okay, for twenty is good.”

Purcell left a ten on the bar, walked out into the sunshine, and headed for Etiopia.

Chapter 22

Purcell spotted Vivian and Mercado sitting in the rear of the dark restaurant. They weren’t tête-à-tête, but they did seem at ease, talking and smiling.

He brushed past the hostess, walked to the table, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”