Chapter 14
Hello, Henry.”
Henry Mercado didn’t turn toward the voice behind him, but he did glance into the bar mirror.
Frank Purcell took the empty stool beside Mercado and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He said, “You look well.”
“Is this an accident?”
“I heard you were in Rome.”
Mercado did not reply.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I was just leaving.”
The bartender poured Purcell’s drink and he raised his glass. “Centanni.”
Mercado called for his tab.
Purcell stirred his drink and said, “I left you a note at the Addis Hilton.”
“I was taken directly from the prison to the airport.”
“Vivian left you a note, too.”
He didn’t reply.
Mercado’s bill came and he put a twenty-thousand-lire note on the bar, which Purcell reckoned was about three drinks at Harry’s Bar prices.
It was four in the afternoon, and the quiet, elegant bar was not yet in full swing. A few perfunctory but tasteful Christmas decorations were placed here and there.
Outside, the Via Veneto was crowded with cars and people as always, but maybe more so, thought Purcell, because of the Christmas season. The sky was low and gray, and the air was damp, so he wore a trench coat, but he noticed that Mercado was wearing only a tweed sports jacket, which seemed too big for him. In fact, Henry did not look well and there was a lot of space between his neck and his collar and tie. They’d both lost their Ethiopian tans, and Mercado’s skin looked as gray as the winter sky.
Mercado slid off his stool and said, “I’m living at the Excelsior, and usually at the bar there.”
“I know.”
“Then you also know not to run into me there.”
Purcell nodded and said, “Merry Christmas, Henry.”
Mercado turned toward the door, then turned back and said, “All right, I will ask you. How is she?”
“Where is she might be a better question.”
“All right, where is she?”
“Don’t know. She left me in Cairo, end of October. Said she had business in Geneva, and she’d be back in two weeks. What’s today?”
Mercado stood there awhile, then asked, “How long have you been here?”
“Two days. Let me buy you a drink. I came to Rome to see you.”
“Why?”
Purcell slid off his stool and took Mercado by the arm. “I need ten minutes of your time. I have some good news about Colonel Gann.”
Mercado hesitated, then let Purcell steer him to a table by the window. Purcell called out to the bartender, “Another round, please.”
They sat across from each other, and Mercado glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting someone at five.”
“Okay. Well, I just heard from a guy named Willis at the AP office in Addis. You know him? He says that Gann has been released from jail and will be flying to London in time for Christmas.”
Mercado nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Me, too. Only in a place like Ethiopia can you be condemned to death, then released on bail and allowed to leave the country.”
“I’m sure the British government paid dearly for their knight errant.”
“Right. Money talks, and the Revolutionary government needs money, so they sold Gann. Works for everyone.” He also informed Mercado, “The bad news is that Gann has to return to Addis after the holidays for a hearing on his appeal or he forfeits his bail.” He smiled. “I don’t think he’ll be making that trip.”
Mercado smiled in return. “If he does, he deserves a firing squad.”
“Two firing squads.”
Mercado said, “It’s important for these people to save face. Before they kicked me out, I got handed a five-year sentence for my association with counterrevolutionaries.”
“Only five? When are you supposed to report back?”
“I’m not clear about that.” He asked Purcell, “How about you?”
“I just did that week in the slammer.”
“Then a week of house arrest in the Hilton.”
“Correct.”
“With Vivian.”
“Correct.”
“You both got off easy.”
“Right.” He reminded Mercado, “You’re the one who got caught sleeping with Gann. Vivian and I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, I’m sure you did in the Hilton.”
Purcell changed the subject. “We should go see Gann in London.”
Mercado kept to the subject, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I spent a month in the foulest prison I’ve ever seen, while you and Vivian—”
“Was it that long? Well, we’ve both been in worse places.”
“Where did you go after you left Addis?”
“I went to Cairo.”
“Alone?”
“No.” Purcell explained, “It wasn’t our choice to go there… or to go together,” which was partly a lie. He said, “Cairo seems to be the dumping ground for people expelled from Ethiopia.” He asked, “Where did they send you?”
“Cairo.”
“I wish I’d known you were there.”
“I was there two hours and took the first flight to London.” Mercado asked, “Why did you stay?”
“I needed a job. So I contacted the AP office, and the bureau chief, Gibson, was looking for a freelancer.” He added, “He’s expecting another war with Israel, and I am a very good war correspondent.”
Mercado didn’t respond to that, nor did he ask why Vivian stayed in Cairo. In fact, she had told Purcell she was excited about photographing the pyramids and all that, plus she wanted to be his photographer if another war broke out. Also, they were in love.
The waiter brought their drinks and Purcell saw that Henry was still drinking gin and Schweppes. Purcell raised his glass and Mercado hesitated, then did the same. Purcell said, “To freedom.”
“And life.”
They touched glasses and sat back in their chairs and watched Rome go by.
Rome, Purcell had noticed, wasn’t as garishly decorated for Christmas as, say, London or New York. He’d like to be in one city or another for the holiday, and he had thought he’d be with Vivian, but that didn’t look likely. Christmas in Cairo would not be festive.
He thought back to Addis. The whole two weeks had a surreal feeling. They’d all been taken from the helicopter in separate vehicles, still in chains, to the grim central prison and kept in separate cells, unable to communicate. Some prosecutor with a loose grasp of English had interrogated him every day and told him that his friends had all confessed to their crimes, whatever they were, and had implicated him.
The prison had an enclosed courtyard, with a gallows, and one or two men were hanged each day. He asked Mercado, “Did you have a room with a view of the hangings?”
“I did. Hoped I’d see you.”
They both smiled.
Purcell lit a cigarette and stirred his drink.
After a week in prison, with no bath or shower, rancid food, and putrid water, a nice lady from the American embassy arrived and escorted him, still barefoot and wearing his shamma, to a waiting car and took him to the Hilton a few blocks away.
The lady, Anne, had instructed him to stay in his room, which the hotel had held for him and were billing him for. She didn’t suggest a bath, but she did suggest he call a doctor to his room for a checkup. In answer to his questions about Vivian, Gann, and Henry Mercado, she replied, “Miss Smith is here. The others remain in custody.”
She offered to walk him to the front desk, but he declined, and she handed him his passport and wished him luck.
He walked barefoot in his shamma to the front desk, where the clerk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Purcell,” and gave him his key.
His room had been searched and most of his possessions had been taken, including his notebooks, but that was the least of his problems.
He had waited a full day before calling Vivian, and they met in her room for drinks because they were both confined to quarters, and in any case neither of them wanted to run into their colleagues in the bar, or the security police in the lobby.
Vivian, too, had had her room ransacked and all her film had been taken, which made her angry, but she, too, understood that their real problem was getting out of Ethiopia.
As he’d finished his drink, she’d reminded him, “As I said, nothing is going to happen between us here.”
“I understand.”
Later, in bed, she told him, “When they release Henry…”
“I understand.”
“Sorry.”
“Me too.”
But they didn’t release Henry, and a week later Purcell and Vivian were officially expelled from Ethiopia and found themselves on an EgyptAir flight to Cairo.
Purcell said to Mercado now, “Vivian and I made daily inquiries to the British embassy about you and Gann, and they assured us you were both well, and they were working on your release.” He added, “We were worried about you.”
“And you didn’t want me showing up unexpectedly.”
Which was true, but Purcell stuck to the subject and said, “I was sure they were going to shoot Gann. Or hang him.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
“Right.” Purcell looked out at the Roman wall that surrounded the city. He realized that the bricks of the ancient city wall looked exactly like the bricks of the Italian-built prison in Addis. He pointed this out to Mercado and said, “The Italians know how to build.”
“Those mineral baths were impressive.”
“Don’t get nostalgic on me, Frank.”
“Henry… have you thought about going back?”
Mercado stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “I have, actually. But it’s obviously too risky.”
“Well, if you decide to go back, let me know.”
“You’ll be the last to know.”
The waiter came by and Purcell ordered two more. He asked Mercado, “Did you hear the news out of Ethiopia today?”
“I did not.”
“Well, a guy named General Banti took over the military council and announced a new government. Same group of thugs in the Derg, but with different leaders, and I’m thinking it may be possible now to go back if these new guys are not as crazy as the last bunch.”
“Speaking of crazy.”
“Just a thought.” He informed Mercado, “The big story is the Mideast. The canal is still closed and Sadat is saying things like, ‘Mideast time bomb.’ He’s pissed off at all the Russian Jews immigrating to Israel. It really looks like there could be another war.”
“If there is, cover this one from Cairo.”
“Right. Those safe-conduct passes to the front don’t work that well.” He smiled, then said, “I hear you’re working for L’Osservatore Romano.”
“Yes. I’m doing some English-language stuff for them on the coming Holy Year. Mostly press releases.”
“Bored?”
“I like Rome.”
“Cairo sucks.” He asked, “Are you working on anything else?”
“You mean like our Ethiopian adventure?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“No, I’m not. But I expected to see something from you about that.”
“I’m holding off,” Purcell replied. “I wanted to speak to you first.”
“You don’t need my permission or my collaboration.”
“I thought we’d do something together.”
“Really?”
Mercado thought a moment, then said, “If you—we—wrote about this, then not only Getachu but a lot of other bastards and idiots would be smashing through the jungle looking for the black monastery.”
Purcell nodded. He’d certainly thought about that. He said to Mercado, “Getachu may have already found it.”
“Perhaps. But if he did, I think we’d have heard that an important religious object was for sale.”
“A lot of that stuff is sold privately,” Purcell reminded him.
“True. And this one goes to the Vatican.” He added, “Or perhaps the monks have spirited it away.”
“Well, we could go check.”
“Not interested.”
“All right.” He asked Mercado, “Did you report Father Armano’s death to the Vatican?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I… there doesn’t seem to be any urgency. I’ll get around to it.”
“Your offices are in Vatican City, Henry.”
“I’ll get around to it.”
“Good. Maybe we should go to Berini and look up his family.”
“Why?”
“He asked us to do that. He also asked us to tell his story to someone in the Vatican. Or you can tell your people at L’Osservatore Romano.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
“I’m not quite understanding, Henry, why you’re sitting on this.”
“Why have you sat on it?”
“I told you. I wanted to speak to you first.” He reminded Mercado, “We made sort of a pact.”
Mercado asked, “What does Vivian think?”
“She wants to go back and find the Holy Grail. That’s what she thinks.”
“Insane.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your enthusiasm for this, Henry.”
“I’m sorry you’ve found it.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Try not to do that.”
“It’s a great story, Henry.”
“It seemed so at the time.”
Purcell looked at him and asked, “Have you been snooping around the Vatican archives? Like, on your lunch hour?”
“Yes… to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”
“Find anything?”
“I’ll get you a pass and you can do your own research.”
“May be a language problem.”
“You can hire translators there.”
“I need to get back to Cairo in a few days.”
“Forgive my curiosity, Frank, but I don’t understand why you’re not going to Geneva.”
Purcell ordered another round, and Mercado did not object.
Neither man spoke for a while, then Purcell said, “I received one letter from Geneva telling me… well, telling me that she felt awful about leaving you in Addis, and that she was feeling guilty because of what happened and how it happened.”
“And well she should.”
“Right. Me too.”
Mercado stared into his drink, then said, “I’ve gotten over this, Frank. Except for the anger. You both behaved badly.”
“We know that.”
“And I did too… that moment in Getachu’s tent… when he asked me—”
“You are forgiven.”
Mercado looked at him. “Thank you for that.”
“Vivian never once mentioned it.”
“I’m sure she thought about it.”
“We all need to move on.” He smiled and said, “Avanti.”
“I need to go.”
“Some news, too, about Prince Joshua. They executed him in Addis.”
“It was.” He asked Mercado, “Did you read about the mass executions at the end of November?”
“I’m not really following Ethiopia.”
“You should.”
Mercado asked, “What happened?”
“Well, they shot another bunch of guys from the old regime. The former premier, Makonnen, a general named Aman who was former chief of staff or something, another former premier named Wolde, and Rear Admiral Alexander Desta, a grandson of the emperor.”
Mercado nodded and observed, “The revolution lives on blood.”
“Right. And they shot fifty-six other guys, including Prince Joshua.”
“Let me know when they shoot Getachu and Andom.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the wire.”
Mercado stood and walked unsteadily to the bagno.
Purcell lit another cigarette and watched the Romans. It was almost dark now, and the cafés along the Via Veneto would be getting full.
Inside Harry’s, the bar and the tables were filling up with what looked like mostly American tourists who needed to have a drink with the ghost of Ernest Hemingway, or to experience a little of la dolce vita.
Purcell had not expected to find Henry Mercado in a place like Harry’s, but the bartender at the Excelsior said he might be here, and here he was, drinking with the tourists. But, Purcell thought, Henry was a pre-war character and he’d probably started coming here when it was the thing to do, and when it was a hangout for journalists and expat writers. Henry didn’t seem to notice that the world was changing, and Purcell pictured himself at Henry’s age—if he lived that long—staying at the wrong hotels, eating in the wrong restaurants, and getting drunk in the wrong bars with the wrong people.
He half understood Vivian’s attraction to Henry Mercado in Ethiopia, but he didn’t understand why she remained emotionally attached to him in absentia. Or why she hadn’t tried to find him. It occurred to him, though, that she wanted Frank Purcell to find Henry Mercado. In fact, her letter hinted at that. She wanted the three of them to go back to Ethiopia to find the black monastery and the Holy Grail. Well, that sounded like a trip to hell on several levels. And yet… it made him think about it. And maybe that’s why he had asked around about Henry Mercado.
Mercado returned but did not sit, and said, “I have to go. Let’s split the bill.”
Purcell stood. “You buy tomorrow night.”
“I think we’ve said what we had to say.”
“I’m staying at the Forum. Rooftop bar. Six P.M.” He put out his hand, and Mercado hesitated, then took it. Purcell said, “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“If you’re looking for forgiveness, there are nine hundred churches in Rome.”
“Let’s be happy we’re alive. We survived the camps and we survived Ethiopia. We’ll survive cocktails. See you tomorrow night.”
Mercado turned and walked out into the cold night.
Purcell watched him disappear into the crowd, then sat and finished his drink. He understood, as did Vivian, that they were not all through with each other yet. And Henry understood that, too.
