The Miracle (19 page)

Eight passengers disembarked at this first stop before the bus continued on to other hotels where the remaining passengers of the San Sebastian Pilgrimage were to be billeted. The last of the eight to disembark at this hotel was Mikel Hurtado.

He stood on the sidewalk, stretching his cramped muscles, inhaling the cooling night air, relieved to be free of the claustrophobic bus and his babbling pious fellow countrymen. Actually, tiresome though it had been, the journey from San Sebastian across the Basque frontier into France and then through the countryside to Lourdes had not taken too long. The ride had been no more than six hours, but Hurtado had been eager to reach his destination, do what he had vowed to do, and get out of the town as quickly as possible.

Waiting with the others for the luggage to be unloaded, Hurtado scanned the vicinity around him. There were pedestrians of every na-tionahty and age strolling along both sides of the thoroughfare, many of them browsing amid the displays of novelty and souvenir shops. Across the street, off to the left at the comer of an intersection, a massive gray granite building dominated the scene. A street light illuminated its name: hCpital notre-dame de douleurs.

Hurtado had no interest in Lourdes, except for the grotto. Having been raised in a Catholic family, he had always known something about the Lourdes shrine. He had no idea if the Bernadette story were true, and he did not give a damn. All he knew was that the grotto was Catholicism's major shrine, and that the Virgin Mary was expected to play a long-deferred encore here this week.

It had boggled Hurtado's mind that a revolutionary as hardheaded as Augustin Lopez, leader of the Basque underground movement, could actually have aborted the assassination of Minister Bueno because

Bueno had promised to negotiate Basque autonomy after the reappearance of the Virgin. Whether that peasant child Bernadette, in her day, had actually seen and conversed with the Virgin was of no importance. But to believe, in this day and age, that the Virgin would reappear in the damn grotto was too much to swallow. Even if Lopez believed in the possibility, Hurtado could not. His determination to end Bueno's stalling tactics had not wavered.

Although his young colleague and sometimes bed partner, Julia Valdez, had tried to dissuade him from his purpose, Hurtado had gone ahead with his plan. He had acted out a charade for his poor, nearly senile mother. He had been infected by a revived religious fervor after hearing the announcement of the return of the Virgin Mary to Lourdes, he told her. He wanted to be on hand in Lourdes to witness the remarkable event. But to obtain accommodations in Lourdes, he had to be a part of an official pilgrimage. There was a pilgrimage being organized in San Sebastian, and he hoped that his mother would intercede on his behalf. She had been thrilled, poor thing, by his revived passion for Catholicism, and she had seen her parish priest and succeeded in obtaining a place for him on the San Sebastian pilgrimage. He would have to use his own name—something against ETA rules -- but he had never been listed by the police, and besides it was a small risk to take for so important a job.

Hurtado noted that his brown suitcase had been set on the sidewalk with the other luggage, and he quickly snatched it up and hurried into the hotel. He was ahead of the others in his party and went directly to the reception desk. Two clerks were conferring, a woman pulling on her sweater and giving some instructions to an openly bored young man.

Interrupting them, Hurtado said, "I was told to ask for Yvonne at the reception desk."

"I'm Yvonne," said the lady receptionist. "You caught me just in time. I was just taking off. What can I do for you?"

"I have a reservation for the week. I'm with the San Sebastian pilgrimage. My name is Mikel Hurtado."

She picked up a ledger, turned a page. "Hurtado, Hurtado," she repeated, running a finger down the page. "Yes. Here you are. We've been holding 206. It's ready. Let me jot it down for you. Anatole, get me the key."

Hurtado accepted the slip as Anatole went off to the key alcove at the entrance.

"Who gave you my name?" the lady asked.

"A friend of mine in Pau. He was to leave a package for me, and told me to see Yvonne about it."

"A package? Oh yes, I do remember. Someone delivered it this afternoon. I sent it up to your room. You'll find it there."

"Thanks, Yvonne," said Hurtado, placing ten francs on the counter. Anatole had returned with the key. Hurtado took it, picked up his bag, and headed for the elevator.

lipstairs, Hurtado found room 206. About to let himself in, he saw two people emerge from the next room, an older woman and a gorgeous young woman who appeared to be blind. He heard the older woman speak of being in time for dinner and start away.

Hurtado's mind was on the package that was supposed to be in his room. The package was all that mattered. It was the reason for his trip to Lourdes.

Setting down his suitcase, he shut the door, searching for the package. He saw it resting on the table near the foot of the bed.

He almost ran to the table, yanking up a chair, sitting, drawing the package to him, as he extracted the pocketknife from his corduroy jacket and pulled open a blade. The package was tightly wrapped in heavy gray paper, held firmly in place by a hard thin rope. Hurtado severed the rope, pulled it off, ripped away the gray wrapping. Inside, the contents were surrounded by stiff corrugated paper. Hurtado tore apart the cardboard.

At last, his treasure was revealed. He handled each piece lovingly: numerous sticks of dynamite bound together; the coiled green fuse; the plastic case; the clockwork egg timer he had requested; the battery. It was a powerful time bomb he had assembled many times in his recent nocturnal career. You set the clock. When the hand reached the appropriate number on the clockface, it touched a terminal connected to the battery, which completed the circuit and sent a charge of electricity through the detonator and wire, exploding the dynamite bomb and blowing the target into a million pieces. It had worked on targets of the Basques, on automobiles, on buildings; it would work on the grotto, blow the fucking shrine to smithereens. A dozen Virgin Marys would never be able to find it. The resultant explosion was guaranteed to bring Lopez back to his senses.

Hurtado came to his feet, lifted his suitcase onto the bed, and opened it. The suitcase was half empty, and there was plenty of room. Carefully, Hurtado carted the contents of the package to the bed, and laid the parts inside the suitcase. Closing and locking it, he gave silent thanks to his French Basque colleague in Pau, an ETA sympathizer he

had once entertained in San Sebastian and whom he had telephoned a week ago to request these materials.

He had no patience for dinner now. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the half of a sausage sandwich he had not finished on the bus, and he munched it as he found in his other pocket the map of Lourdes he had received on the bus. Taking the map to the table, he unfolded it, laid it out flat, and sought the location of the grotto. When he found the spot, he realized that it was not far from the X he had made on the map during the ride to show the site of his hotel. Chewing the remnants of the sandwich, he decided to waste no more time. He wanted to see the grotto, study it, determine what problems, if any, were involved. He was sure, from photographs he had seen in a picture book, that it was an easy setup. It would not be half as difficult as the preparations to blow up Minister Luis Bueno. The only problem here might be wiring the whole thing unobserved. People would be all over the place. But most had to sleep. There had to be a time, at night, in the early morning, when the grotto was largely unattended. He had to see for himself.

Before leaving, he went to the bathroom. After cleaning up, he considered himself in the mirror, and wondered if he should affect some kind of disguise. Then he realized that a disguise was pointless, since no one in this remote town had ever seen him before or knew who he was. In fact, his very calling had made him a nonentity, both at home and in Lourdes. The single subterfuge might be to use the stone in his shoe. He'd tucked a small smooth stone— & pebble really—in a pocket of his suitcase for his visit here. He went to the suitcase, opened it again, found the stone. After locking the bag, he kicked off his left shoe and dropped the pebble inside it. Putting his foot inside the shoe, lacing it, he knew that the pebble would definitely force him to limp. Perfect for Lourdes. He would walk with a limp because he had a rheumatic or severe arthritic condition in the knee joint. He had come here to pray for a cure.

Hurtado limped out of the room and was on his way.

Fifteen minutes later, after asking directions, and then following the crowd streaming down a sloping walk, he reached the area referred to on his map as the Esplanade des Processions. Indifferent to the three churches to his left, he jerkily made his way around them toward the grotto.

Nfinutes later he stood at the far edge of a vast mob that seemed to be coming apart, wheeling away, and he heard someone cry out, 'Time for the Candlelight Procession!" As the mob dissolved, then reassembled into some kind of order -- thousands of pilgrims lurching, swaying,

tottering, striding away, many in wheelchairs, using crutches, wearing splints and braces, accompanied by priests, nuns, nurses, laymen with armbands and banners—Hurtado found the area emptying of humanity and he was able to make out his surroundings.

He was at the fringe of rows of chairs and benches, a handful occupied by pilgrims who were telling their beads, or murmuring personal prayers, but whose individual shapes were lost in darkness. What was illuminated in a yellowish hue was the grotto itself, well lighted by eighteen tiers of tall waxen candles. Higher up, he could make out a weatherbeaten, unappealing statue of the Virgin Mary, her marble hands touching as if in supplication.

The grotto itself was a surprise. When he had learned of The Reappearance Time, studied photographs of Lourdes, the grotto had loomed large in his mind. But it was smaller, much more ordinary, than he had imagined. It was hardly worth obliteration and the risk involved. Still, it was big in the eyes of Luis Bueno and Lopez, and as such must be dealt with and brought down.

He examined the grotto as best he could. A sheer stone cliff rose above it, and a wall of the Upper Basihca crowned the top of the hill. He peered to the right of the cave and immediately saw what could be done. Pilgrims and tourists were lined up, going through the grotto in a steady stream, and every nook and cranny inside was under constant observation. The dynamite could not be hidden there. But off to the right side of the grotto, just above it, there was the sizable niche that held the standing marble statue of the Virgin Mary. And around the niche grew an outburst of green shrubbery, while a small forest of trees and bushes covered an incline that offered solid footing and made the statue accessible.

At an advantageous time, when most of Lourdes slept, he would return and pretend to pray—and disappear into all that foliage. He could make his way to the niche above, plant the dynamite behind the base of the Virgin's statue, then run the green wiring—camouflaged by foliage—uphill to the detonator hidden among the trees. He could set the timer, scramble down and away, and in ten or fifteen minutes leave the area far behind. When the explosion came, he would be in a car he had arranged to rent tomorrow heading out of the city and well on his way to Biarritz and St.-Jean-de-Luz and the frontier at Hendaye before anyone realized what had happened. He smacked his lips at what would happen: The giant blast would turn the grotto into five grottos, bring down half the hillside, destroy the altar inside and artifacts everywhere, and probably release the underground spring and cause it to erupt and flood the area.

The shrine would be a mass of rubble and debris and granite boulders. Not even the Virgin Mary, if she decided to reappear, would ever find it. The site would be beyond recognition. Hurtado's grin broadened. The obliteration of the grotto was not only possible, but relatively easy.

Satisfied with his first survey, about to turn away, he felt the pressure of a hand on his left arm and heard a woman's whisper in the night. "Hi, Ken, I've been looking everywhere for you."

Hurtado whirled around to find an attractive young woman looking up at him. "I'm not Ken," he blurted. "You must be mistaken."

"Oh, dammit," the lady said, and was instantly apologetic. "Forgive me. I was searching everywhere for my husband—his name is Ken —Ken Clayton—and in the dark here, I was sure you were Ken. You're the same height. And he was wearing a corduroy jacket, too. Do forgive me.

Hurtado was amused. "My pleasure, I assure you. Your Ken is a lucky man."

She dimpled and put out her hand. "Thank you. I'm Amanda Spenser Clayton from Chicago."

"Pleased to meet you," he said, not introducing himself.

"Well," she said awkwardly, "I'd better have another look around and then go back to the hotel."

"Maybe I can help you," he said, falling in step beside her.

Amanda noticed his limp. "Are you here because of your leg?"

"An arthritic problem," he said offhandedly.

"Well, it's not fatal I'm sure—"

"Not at all fatal. Merely painful and difficult."

"But Ken's problem is fatal," she said. "It's a form of hip cancer. And it is operable, and in some cases there have been successes. Ken cancelled surgery in Chicago because of this Virgin Mary reappearance. He suddenly got religion and insisted that his best bet of finding a cure was in Lourdes."

They had emerged onto the broad Esplanade of the Rosary, her eyes seeking Ken, when Hurtado took her arm and pointed ahead. "Jesus, look at that. What's that bearing down on us?"

Amanda peered ahead with him. Coming toward them, like a massive army, enthusiastically, devoutly, were marchers as far as the eye could see.

"There must be thousands," said Hurtado, blinking.

"Over thirty thousand," said Amanda. "I heard about it, and read about it, too. The Candlelight Procession. The Virgin Mary told Bernadette—let people come in procession -- and they came, and have never

stopped coming since. There are two processions daily. One in the late afternoon, and this torchlight procession in the evening. This one begins with recital of the rosary at the grotto, then—"

"Yes, I saw them start off tonight," Hurtado said.

"—then they march down the left side of the esplanade and parade ground to the other end, and swing back toward the steps of the Rosary Basihca here."

Hurtado tugged at Amanda, and pulled her off the esplanade to one side to join the hundreds of other spectators who were respectfully watching the awesome torchlight procession.

As Hurtado observed the procession approach, splitting in two columns to march up opposite sides of the park, he could see that it was efficiently organized. The lines snaking along were made up of an incredible variety of people, some in exotic garb—group leaders carrying diocesan banners, bishops dressed in purple, priests in black, girls belonging to the Children of Mary and choir boys in white, countless believers wearing civilian dress of every color, everyone but everyone hoisting aloft flickering candles shielded by what seemed to Hurtado to be inverted cardboard hats.

"Those shields around the candles," Amanda was saying, "protect the flame from the wind. You buy them in the souvenir shops for two francs each. See, they are all raised in unison during the chorus of 'Ave, Ave Maria.' Quite a sight."

Even to Hurtado, the sight was breathtaking. At the head of each pilgrimage delegation a lay leader, or sometimes a priest, carried a placard identifying his group. The groups passing before Hurtado and Amanda now were lifting high placards imprinted Belgium ... japan . . . ALGIERS . . . METZ. Yes, there were thousands and thousands of torchbearers passing by, and their placards indicated that they had come from the far reaches of the earth.

Then, ft-om somewhere behind him, from somewhere in the trees above, amplifiers were booming out the music and the lyrics of "The Hymn of Lourdes." Hurtado listened to the words:

"We pray for God's glory May His Kingdom come. We pray for His Vicar, Our Father, and Rome.

We pray for our Mother, The church upon earth

And bless, sweetest Lady, The land of our birth.

We pray for all sinners And souls that now stray From Jesus and Mary In heresy's way.

For poor, sick, afflicted. Thy mercy we crave. And comfort the dying. Thou light of the grave.

Ave, Ave, Ave Maria, Ave, Ave, Ave Maria!"

And from 30,000 throats in procession came the repeat of the chorus:

"A-ve, A-ve, A-ve Ma-ri-aa, A-ve, A-ve, A-ve Ma-ri-aa!"

Involuntarily, Hurtado gulped, and turning away saw Amanda's face.

She sighed. "Yes, I know. Very moving."

"Very," Hurtado agreed.

"But it's ridiculous, when you think about it. Any one with any sense or intelligence knows there are no miracles. This is all a big religious circus, nothing more."

"You are obviously not a believer," said Hurtado.

"I'm a clinical psychologist," said Amanda. "I know the effects of hysteria, emotion, self-hypnosis on the human mind, and how the mind can temporarily paralyze the body and then unexpectedly cure it. If any of those invahds out there are cured, it won't be because of some so-called miraculous happening, I assure you. It'll be because they will themselves well, without knowing that was the real reason for their cure." She looked away from the procession at Hurtado. "And you?" she said.

"What about me?"

"Maybe I've been too outspoken. Are you a believer?"

Tempted as he was to agree with her dissent, he decided it would be wiser to play his chosen role. "I can only say that I was raised in the faith. That is why I am here."

"Each to his own," she said with a shrug, and turned away. "Ken's probably down in that army, marching with them. Tm going back to my hotel to wait for him."

They walked in silence up the hill, across the street, and around the comer.

"There's my hotel," she said. "Ken and I are staying at the Hotel Gallia & Londres."

"That's where I'm staying, too," said Hurtado.

When they entered the reception lobby, and took the elevator, Hurtado got out at the second floor.

"Well, good-night, Mrs. Clayton. Pleased to have met you."

"I'm pleased, too. Be sure to get some rest."

"Going right to sleep," he said.

But when he reached his room, he knew that he would not sleep long. He would set his alarm for some time after midnight, early morning, and he would go back to the grotto. There was something important to find out as soon as possible.

In the rear seat of the taxi. Ken Clayton's head rested against Amanda Spenser's shoulder. Once more, she glanced down at his face. He was sound asleep, poor dear, and he had been asleep from the moment they had entered the taxi and left Lourdes. She tried to make out the dial on her wristwatch, and as far as she could tell in the semidark-ness they had been on the road and speeding through the rolling Chalosse hills and fragrant pine forests for an hour and a half. She had been told the trip to the town of Eugenie-les-Bains should take no longer than this, and she peered out of the Mercedes window for sight of Les Pres d'Eugenie.

She had fond memories of the two days she had spent at this picturesque and chic country inn and spa on her last visit to France. She had enjoyed the baths, tennis, marvellous cuisine, and the magnificent wooded thirty-five acres of grounds surrounding it. Here Ken could find the rest he so sorely needed, and here, removed from that horrid hotel in Lourdes and those stupid pilgrims, in this seductive atmosphere, she could convince him that he must return to Chicago as soon as possible. If he stubbornly insisted upon another visit or two to that absurd grotto before leaving, she would drive him to Lourdes and back once or twice, no more.

There had been no difficulty in departing from the Lourdes hotel with him. She had moved their baggage down to the reception lobby— but had not checked out of the hovel of a room in case Ken wanted a

place to rest should he insist upon seeing the grotto again—ordered a taxi to stand by, and waited for Ken's return from the procession.

He had returned with the pilgrims, sleepy-eyed, pale, stumbling, resembling the walking dead. She had drawn him away from the others. He was half somnambulant. Yes, he admitted, he had marched the full mile's distance in the nightly procession. Perhaps he had overdone it. Now all he wanted was to he down and sleep. She told him that he could sleep in the taxi. She told him that she had found a better and roomier hotel, one that could provide more rest for him, but he had hardly heard her. He was drooping, and there was no awareness of, let alone resistance to, what she had been saying. She had ordered their bags to be taken to the taxi, and gently she had led Ken outside and into the rear of the vehicle, and he had fallen asleep at once.

"Les Pres d'Eugenie," the taxi driver announced.

Amanda squinted through the car window and could see the night illuminated by the lights from three stately buildings set back from the road.

They had parked before the tiled walk that stretched between low fountains to the outdoor terrace with its wicker chairs and hotel entrance. Amanda propped Ken up, and awakened him. His bleary eyes opened briefly as she tugged at him and got him out of the taxi.

"Where are we?" he mumbled, but sagged in a stupor, not interested in her answer.

The driver was at the trunk of the car, turning their bags over to a young bellhop. Amanda beckoned the driver and requested that he assist her in getting her husband inside. Together, they kept Ken upright, guiding him as he stumbled up the walk, past some white statue of a draped nude woman and along the rest of the path into the modest entry of the hotel. The driver held on to Ken, as Amanda went to register them.

"You have a lovely suite in the new building," the female receptionist assured her. "I hope you find it to your liking." She summoned the young bellhop. "Show Monsieur and Madame Clayton to suite Bois des lies, and their their luggage."

Amanda paid off the driver, took charge of Ken, and guided him along behind the bellhop to the outdoor elevator. They rode up to the third floor, and not far from the elevator they were shown into their modern comer suite.

It was smart and airy, the sitting room a mix of contemporary and antique furniture, old clock, fresh flowers, carved wooden animals, television, and as attractive as she had remembered it, such a relief after the cramped hovel they had left.

Holding Ken, she tried to point out the lovely decor to him, the white sofa, wicker chairs, white fireplace.

"Let's order a drink from room service," she said, "and sit down and get you relaxed, and then if you're up to it we can go down to dinner."

"I want to sleep," he said. "Let me lie down."

He was so exhausted that Amanda didn't have the heart to press him further about the amenities of their new hotel. She led him into the open-beamed bedroom. The covers on the double bed were already turned back. She undressed him down to his boxer shorts, did not bother to unpack and find his pajamas, pushed him toward the bed, and lowered him onto the soft mattress. She maneuvered him into a comfortable position, and covered him. By the time she had finished, he was sound asleep.

She could not blame his exhaustion on their trip to the resort. The trip through the French countryside had been fast and smooth. She blamed his condition on the ordeal of the procession, the endless marching with those other fanatics. That had brought him down, that and his illness, of course.

She wandered around the bedroom, intending to unpack, until she realized how hungry she was. She had not had a bite to eat since lunch on the train. Going into the carpeted bathroom, with makeup from her purse, she washed, touched up her cheeks and lips, combed her hair, and then left the suite and headed downstairs.

In the modern lounge on the ground floor, she was alone on a beige sofa and had a martini. She was more pleased with herself than ever to have managed to bring Ken to this hotel. She tried to put her first-day impressions of Lourdes out of her mind. She felt more reasonable now, more generous, and could see how a shrine like that could be psychologically uplifting to ignorant visitors who possessed real faith. But then she shuddered. To her, with her professional background, it remained a spiritual horror.

Finishing the last of her martini, she rose and headed for the treat that awaited her in the dining room. Diners were still lingering over the last of their meals, but there were a number of tables available and the maitre d' found one for Amanda in a quiet comer. She took the fancy menu, thinking how clever it was of the proprietor to furnish the dining area simply and depend on his lush menu for the real decor. Reviewing the choices on the menu— "La Carte Gourmande" or "Le Repas des Villes" or "Le Repas des Champs" —she decided to go all the way and order the full and most expensive dinner.

She made her selection from "Le Repas des Villes, " the 235-franc

dinner, plus IS percent service en sus, and when the maitre d' returned, she briskly ordered La Salade d I'Oiseau for openers, La Fine Rouelle de Turbot Sauce Simple, then a choice of two dishes and she selected Les Piccatas de Foie de Canard en Vinaigrette d'Asperges, and -- what the hell, a dessert also—for a dessert La Tourte Chaude au Chocolat Moelleux,

Dinner took the better part of two hours, and when it was done Amanda could hardly move. She felt guilty that Ken had not been able to share this hedonistic indulgence, but felt better knowing that he would be at a table with her tomorrow night. She considered forcing herself to take a stroll on the vast lawn in back of the hotel, to walk off some of the meal, but finally decided to go up to their suite in case Ken was awake by now.

Arriving at the suite on the third floor, she went inside and directly to the bedroom. In the lamplight she could see that Ken was still asleep, head deep in the down pillow, and he had not so much as budged from his original position. Clearly, he needed the rest and would not be up until morning.

Quietly, she went about unpacking her bag and his, hanging up dresses and suits in the wardrobe, and when she was done, there remained only a half dozen books she had brought along in her tote bag and their suitcase. She unzipped the tote bag, extracted the two volumes of the Zola novel, and took them—along with the chocolate-covered mint that the hotel maid had left on her pillow—into the living room. She sat down, nibbling, and poked through both volumes of the Zola novel, once more going over the passages that she had marked. Through with the books, she placed them on the coffee table, then located a memo pad and a pencil beside the telephone. Should Ken awaken and rise for breakfast before she did, he might find it fascinating to have something to read with his orange juice. "Ken darling," she wrote, "hope you are feeling better. In case you are up before I am, here is something you'll want to read at breakfast. Don't try to go through the entire novel—just look at the passages in Zola I have marked off. I love you. Your own—Amanda."