The Secret History - Donna Tartt [271]
“I thought I’d find you here,” said a voice at my elbow.
It was Henry. His gaze was steady and impassive in the dim light. Above his ear, beneath the wire stem of his spectacles, I could just make out the powder burn and the dark hole in his right temple.
I was glad to see him, though not exactly surprised. “You know,” I said to him, “everybody is saying that you’re dead.”
He stared down at the machine. The Colosseum … click click click … the Pantheon. “I’m not dead,” he said. “I’m only having a bit of trouble with my passport.”
“What?”
He cleared his throat. “My movements are restricted,” he said. “I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.”
Hagia Sophia. St. Mark’s, in Venice. “What is this place?” I asked him.
“That information is classified, I’m afraid.”
I looked around curiously. It seemed that I was the only visitor. “Is it open to the public?” I said.
“Not generally, no.”
I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him, so much I wanted to say; but somehow I knew there wasn’t time and even if there was, that it was all, somehow, beside the point.
“Are you happy here?” I said at last.
He considered this for moment. “Not particularly,” he said. “But you’re not very happy where you are, either.”
St. Basil’s, in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch.
“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, “but I’m late for an appointment.”
He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long, gleaming hall.