The Miracle (25 page)

"All free and ready for you," said Dominique, plucking a key from her pocket and handing it to Gisele. "You can give it back to me when I return late Sunday night." Dominique had been invited by a wealthy patron, a Lebanese Christian, to accompany him on a five-day vacation to Cannes.

"I'll be waiting for you," promised Gisele. "Right now, can you get me an espresso and a pastry? I see there's a table outside."

Buying a copy of Le Figaro, Gisele went to the outdoor table, sat down in the yellow wicker chair as Dominique came up with the coffee. Sipping her espresso, Gisele placed the Paris newspaper before her. The front page was dominated by the photographic portraits of three Russians. The heading above them posed the question: with the soviet

PREMIER SERIOUSLY ILL, WHO WILL BE HIS SUCCESSOR?

Gisele's attention went to the lead front page story. Based on a brief report from TASS, the Soviet news agency, Premier Skryabin, head of the Soviet Union, was in a Moscow hospital. His condition was regarded as serious. Although the TASS announcement made no mention of an actual successor, there was speculation that the Politburo was considering three veteran Russian politicians for the high post.

Gisele's attention shifted to the photographs of the likeliest candidates for the premiership. Two of the pictures and names meant nothing to her. But the third one gave her a flush of excitement, for she recognized his name and vaguely his face. He was identified as Sergei Tikhanov, the longtime foreign minister of the Soviet Union. Gisele remembered, during her year at the United Nations, seeing the great Tikhanov speaking to the UN members from the podium. His stolid presence and self-assurance had made a lasting impression, and briefly, afterward, she had gone with her employer and lover. Ambassador Charles Sarrat, to a cocktail reception for Tikhanov. Staying close to Sarrat, as he had gone to shake the foreign minister's hand, she had

actually seen Tikhanov from three feet away, but now remembered only his stony profile, his fat nose, and beneath it on his upper lip an oversized brown wart. And now, this man she might once have reached out and touched, could be the next ruler of the Soviet Union.

Immediately, Gisele's mind was off once more on another of its countless journeys to her stay at the United Nations, and she knew more than ever that New York was where she belonged. She vowed again to save the money for translator's school and to get another job at the UN as soon as she had her diploma. But she realized that it could not be very soon, at least not at the rate she was saving. She hoped for tips and bonuses at the end of her guided tours, but with the exception of an occasional Samuel Talley, the pilgrims and tourists who came to Loiu'des were either poor or ungenerous. It was going to be difficult, finding that extra money she needed, but she was determined.

She glanced at her watch. Barely time enough for her one more stop, to unload her suitcases at Dominique's apartment and hasten to meet up with her Nantes Pilgrimage and one more deadening tour of this tiresome city. She finished her espresso, paid her bill, stuffed the newspaper into her purse, and headed for her car and Dominique's apartment.

At last alone in the privacy of his own hotel room on the third floor of the Hotel de la Grotte, Sergei Tikhanov did not waste a moment on his surroundings, but made straight for the telephone. Taking up the white-and-red telephone book on the shelf beneath the phone, he turned to the blue pages that offered information on the PTT system. Scanning the French text, he was pleased to learn that calls inside France from Lourdes could be made automatique, meaning he could direct-dial Paris without worry that the origin of his call would be suspect or possible to trace.

Immediately, he dialed the Soviet Embassy in Paris, gave his code name, and was put straight through to the Soviet ambassador. After an exchange of amenities, Tikhanov said that he was phoning from Marseilles and was not on a safe phone and therefore would be brief and imprecise. He was just checking in, before returning to a vital meeting with their country's friends outside Marseilles. He was calling to make only two inquiries: Had the general at home tried to reach him? And how was the premier?

Tikhanov was relieved to hear that General Kossoff of the KGB had not tried to reach him, knowing that he was busy with party affairs.

"The premier has not called either. But I hear he is in his usual good health."

For a moment, Tikhanov was puzzled, then remembered the open phone line. "Ah yes, of course." Tikhanov thanked the ambassador, and was about to hang up, when the ambassador suddenly asked, "If the general should want to talk to you, can I tell him where you're staying?" Tikhanov had been ready for that. "You'll tell him I had to leave the city to meet with our friends in a place where I cannot be reached. You can tell the general I'll be done with our business by the weekend, and I'll be in touch with him directly on Monday or Tuesday."

With that, the crucial call was finished, and his disappearance protected, and Tikhanov felt better than he had at any time since his arrival in Lourdes.

Slowly unpacking, he had time now to take in the single room he had been provided with, and he pronounced it satisfactory, although he was used to luxurious hotel apartment suites. His brief confinement with the lowly Duprees in Tarbes had been depressing, and he was glad to be away. But better than that, even more of a relief than escaping them, was his freedom from the inquisitive presence of that little hustler, Gisele, who had once worked at the United Nations and who might have eventually put him in jeopardy. To be shed of her, to be on his own, was the ultimate relief.

While waiting for the order he had placed with room service -- he had not eaten enough at lunch in his concentration on Mrs. Moore—he began to pile his neatly folded shirts, undershirts, socks, pajamas into the drawers of the antique fruitwood chest on the wall across from the twin beds. Despite the crucifix hung on the wall between the beds, despite the pseudo-antique white Directoire chairs with their plastic upholstery, Ae room was acceptable. The marigold yellow drapes, and the French doors opening on a tiny balcony with a soothing view of trees, made the atmosphere lively and refreshing.

Tikhanov finished his unpacking just as the swarthy waiter arrived with his order. After the waiter had left, Tikhanov pulled a chair up to the table on which the tray rested next to the television set, unfolded the copy oiLe Figaro he had requested, and drank his double vodka on the rocks.

The first thing he saw on the front page was the picture of himself, as a candidate for the premiership of the Soviet Union, and he stared at it with mixed emotions. His immediate sensations were of surprise and pleasure, surprise that TASS had so quickly announced that Skryabin was ill beyond recovery and would have to be replaced, and pleasure in the official word made pubUc from Moscow that he, Sergei Tikhanov, was one of the choices for his nation's highest post. It did not bother

him that there were two other candidates mentioned. They were party hacks, and their mention was merely a subterfuge until the real announcement could be made, and when it was made -- as KGB head General Kossoff had assured him—there would be but one name for premier and it would be his own.

On the other hand, and this was the mixed part of his emotions, it was not wise to have his picture on the front page of a leading French newspaper while he was still lingering in France, and of all places, in Lourdes. But automatically patting his shaggy false mustache, he felt reassured that he would not be recognized. His disguise had not been penetrated and could not be. That, as well as his unlikely presence at a Catholic shrine, gave him sufficient protection.

Draining his glass of vodka, he wolfed down his salad and omelette au jambon as he read every word of the story released from Moscow. When he had finished both his meal and the story, his complacency was disturbed by a reminder of one thing. He was an ailing man, and his glory would not be long-Uved unless he could be cured in this spot so publicized for its inexpUcable cures. Actually, he had come here with no blind faith in a possible cure. What had given him an iota of hope, a trickle of faith, had been his luncheon encounter with the plain Englishwoman, Edith Moore, who had been cured of cancer by a visit here.

Cured by a visit to the baths.

It defied Tikhanov's orderly sense of logic, such a cure, yet it had taken place and been attested to by the most respected members of the medical profession. He had personaUy met the recipient of such a magical cure. This was no time for questioning or demanding logic. This was a time for beheving.

He rose from the table. The day was short, and so was his time on earth, unless he gave himself over to magic. So it was off to the baths.

Taking the elevator downstairs, Tikhanov headed for the reception and key desk. The Dupree girl's friend, the receptionist Gaston, was there engaged in a conversation with another gentleman. Tikhanov prepared to inquire of Gaston how one reached the bathing area from the hotel.

Before Tikhanov could speak, Gaston greeted him warmly. "Ah, Professor Talley, there is someone here you must meet . . . Professor, this is Dr. Berryer, the gentleman in charge of the renowned Lourdes Medical Bureau."

Briefly, Tikhanov considered the one whose hand he was shaking. Dr. Berryer had deep lines in his forehead, eyes like poached eggs, a faintly aloof and clinical air, and appeared solidly built in his old-fashioned suit.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Tikhanov.

"The pleasure is mine," said Dr. Berryer. "Gaston had mentioned your arrival. We are always flattered to have academics here. I hope you've found Lourdes to your liking."

"I haven't had time to find out yet," said Tikhanov, "but with the town's credentials, I'm sure I'll like it very much." He turned to Gaston. "In fact, I thought I would try the baths today. I'm not sure how to get there."

"You need only follow Dr. Berryer," Gaston said.

"Yes," acknowledged the physician, "I'm going in that direction right now, to the Medical Bureau. It is not far from the bathhouses. You can come along with me, just a short walk."

"Delighted," said Tikhanov.

They emerged from the hotel, and started west on the Rue de la Grotte.

"This is kind of you, Father Berryer," said Tikhanov.

Dr. Berryer offered a glacial smile. "I am not a priest. I am a layman, a physician, and a Catholic."

"Forgive me. The Medical Bureau of course. It becomes confiis-ing.

"There may be more doctors in Lourdes than priests," said Dr. Berryer. "You have come here for your health. Professor Talley?"

'To see what can be done for my muscular dystrophy."

"Umm. It is possible. Who knows? You will be in the hands of the Virgin. There have been miraculous cures in many similar cases, as you know."

"I met a miracle cure earlier today. Mrs. Edith Moore. I was extremely impressed."

Dr. Berryer nodded. "Mrs. Moore, our latest, an inexplicable cure certified by medical science. I had examined her myself. A remarkable recovery, instantaneous and complete."

"She informed me that it occurred after she had bathed in the spring water," said Tikhanov. "Therefore it encourages me to undertake the baths today."

"The baths," murmured Dr. Berryer. "You know about them?"

"I am ashamed to say, not a thing, except that since the time of Bernadette they have cured."

"True, they have," said Dr. Berryer. "You may be interested in the background, how the baths came about, before you undertake them."

"I am most interested."

As they continued to walk past the souvenir shops. Dr. Berryer launched into a subject that clearly fascinated him. "The baths had

their begiiming on February 25, 1858, when Bernadette went to the grotto and saw the Virgin Mary for the ninth time. There was a crowd of four hundred onlookers on hand to observe her. The Virgin Mary spoke to her. Bernadette recalled it after. The Lady said to me, "Go and drink at the spring and wash yourself in it." Not seeing any spring, I was going to drink from the Gave. She told me it was not there. She pointed with Her finger to the spring. I went there but saw merely a little dirty water. I put my hand in it but could not get hold of any. I scratched and the water came, but muddy. Three times I threw it away; the fourth time I was able to drink some.' Actually, Bernadette not only drank some of the muddy water, but washed her face with it. Then, as she later claimed she was instructed, she attempted to eat a handful of weeds. She tried to do this but was forced to spit them out and vomit Many spectators were revolted by her behavior, and they shouted that she had lost her mind and was insane. But by the next day the trickle of muddy water had miraculously become clear water and was coming out through a hole that was enlarging. The spring grew until it was a pool, and soon many visitors were drinking from it and washing in it, and there were numerous cures that resulted. Gradually, a series of concealed pipes were built to bring the spring water up to spigots and faucets from which pilgrims might drink and to bathhouses where the ailing might be unmersed in the water."

"But this water is known to cure?" Tikhanov inquired, wanting to be certain.

"No doubt about that," Dr. Berryer assured him. "But here we are together, a man of science and a learned scholar, so I cannot be anything but candid with you. And in candor I must tell you that chemically there is no medicinal or curative element in the spring water, none at all."

"None?"

"None. In April of 1858, Professor Filhol, a scientist at the University of Toulouse, was asked to analyze the water. He did so and reported, 'The result of this analysis is that the water from the grotto of Lourdes has a composition that may be considered as a drinking water similar to most of those found in the mountains where the soil is rich in calcium. The water contains no active substance giving it marked therapeutic properties. It can be drunk without inconvenience.' In short, the spring water was ordinary drinking water. Through the years a concern grew that the water might actually be harmful. In 1934, my predecessors sent samples of the bath water to laboratories in Anvers and Tarbes, and to a laboratory in Belgium. Each analysis report was in agreement with the other. The Lourdes bath waters were extremely