The Miracle (26 page)

polluted—yet utterly harmless, for the billions of bacilli found in the water were inert. As the aged president of the Hospitaliers, Count de Beauchamp, used to say, 'I have drunk a whole hospital full of microbes, but I have never yet been sick."

"What you are telling me," said Tikhanov, "is that the drinking and bath water at the grotto in itself contains no properties that are helpful."

"Exactly."

"Then what makes the waters curative?"

Dr. Berryer shrugged. "What can I say? As a physician I can say it is the psychological element that cures. As a Catholic I can say it is an inexphcable spiritual cure fostered by the blessed Virgin. I know this one fact. The waters have cured, do cure, will continue to cure."

"So you would recommend the baths."

"What do you have to lose with your illness? You did speak to Mrs. Moore. Surely that is enough."

Tikhanov smiled apologetically. "It is encouraging."

As they strode along, Tikhanov saw that after crossing the bridge they were no longer on the Rue de la Grotte but on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and ahead the spire of the Upper Basihca was in view.

"Let me prepare you for the baths," Dr. Berryer was saying. "About thirty thousand gallons of the grotto spring water is piped daily to the taps from which pilgrims drink and to the men's and women's bathhouses. Water is also held and released from two storage tanks. Now, you may have heard some skepticism about the cleanliness of the bath water—"

"I have heard no such thing," said Tikhanov hastily.

"No matter. The fact is that well over a hundred pilgrims bathe in the same water before it is changed at noon. There is often worry that the residue of the ailing may infect the healthy who bathe, and that this might result in a typhoid or cholera epidemic. But have no fear. There has never been an epidemic, and, to my knowledge, no one has ever been infected from water used by previous bathers. However, there have been cures, cures that I, myself, have verified. Invahds have gone into the baths for their one-minute immersions and climbed out under their own power perfectly healthy."

"Have you ever used the baths?" wondered Tikhanov.

"Me? Not ever, not once. But thank God I've had no need for a cure. I remain healthy." As they meandered down the ramp. Dr. Berryer remembered something. "But other physicians have lotioned themselves, as some call it, in the bath water. I remember particularly a predecessor of mine in the Medical Bureau, Dr. Jean-Louis Armand-

Laroche. He used the baths whenever he was in Lourdes, although he did not find them particularly hygienic. Someone asked him why then did he use the baths. Dr. Armand-Laroche rephed, 'I do it as a believer. I do it in humihty, in the spirit of penance and as a spiritual exercise.' " Dr. Berryer cast Tikhanov a sidelong glance. "But you have more in mind."

"I hope to be cured."

Dr. Berryer said, "Then try the baths."

They had crossed the Rosary Esplanade. Dr. Berryer gestured off to the left at the archway. "Past the grotto, past the second drinking fountains, you will find the baths. I must go back to the Medical Bureau, so I will leave you here. I leave you in the best of hands. Remain optimistic. Good luck."

Tikhanov watched Dr. Berryer go, at last turned in the direction of the grotto, girding himself for the strange ordeal ahead.

The baths proved easy to find. There was a low, long, austere building with a marble front, entrances on one side for males, and entrances on the other side for females. There were some portable railings about for crowd containment, and four rows of metal chairs at each of the entrances. Nearby, there was also a black-robed, bearded priest of indeterminate nationality standing in front of a group of pilgrims and saying the rosary with them.

There was a short queue at the nearest entrance to the men's bathhouse, and Tikhanov fell into line, his heartbeat quickening with the knowledge that, for his grave illness, he was at the spiritual clinic of last resort.

The line of men was shuffling forward, and Tikhanov with it. They entered the bathhouse, stood in a corridor, off which were a series of blue and white curtains. A cheerful volunteer, a brancardier, spoke to them in an Irish accent. He explained that there were 2,000 men -- and 5,000 pilgrims on the women's side—who came through here every day, so no time could be lost. Behind the curtains, he said, were the dressing rooms, and these led to the baths.

Tikhanov was directed to the first dressing room. He shoved aside the damp curtain and went into the cubbyhole. Three men, in their shorts, were seated on a bench awaiting their turns.

A French brancardier, on post at the exit curtain, called over to Tikhanov, "You are American or no?"

"American," Tikhanov answered.

The brancardier switched to Enghsh. "You will disrobe, like the others. Leave on only your undershorts."

Nervously, Tikhanov began to take off his shoes and socks, shirt

and trousers, until he was down to his maroon shorts. He had hung up his clothes, started for the bench, when he saw that it was empty. He was about to sit down, but the volimteer beckoned for him to come across the dressing room. There, the volunteer wrapped a soggy blue towel securely around his waist, then ordered him to remove his shorts underneath. "You will have them back with your clothes when you leave the bath. When you finish with the bath, do not wipe yourself with this towel. You do not dry yourself. You leave the water on your body, and put your clothes on again over it. You will dry soon enough in the sun. Now, the bath."

He took Tikhanov by the elbow and sent him past the curtain to the bath itself.

Tikhanov teetered on the edge of a long rectangular sunken stone tub, filled with water that he was positive was foul. Two husky bran-cardiers wearing rubber boots and sporting blue aprons over their shirts and trousers, took his arms from both sides and assisted him down shppery stone steps into the tepid water. One of them signaled him to wade to the far end of the tub. Tikhanov did as he was told.

Wading to the opposite end, Tikhanov found himself confronting a Madonna on the wall and a large crucifix bound in rosary beads. A robust attendant leaned over and asked him what language he spoke, then handed him an enameled metal card with lettering. "A prayer for you to say in English, and after that make your silent request to God." Tikhanov mouthed the prayer to himself, and, handing back the card, tried to think of a request to make of the Highest Power. But he could only think of the brackish water and the billions of bacilli populating the water.

The attendants' outstretched hands grasped Tikhanov's hands while he was reassuringly told to sit down in the tub. Tikhanov lowered himself into the water, which covered his white torso up to his abdomen. One attendant ordered Tikhanov to ease back in the water, to lay back, immersing himself up to his neck. Tikhanov tried to do so, sank down, the water rising to his neck, and then suddenly he slipped, and his entire head went down underwater with the rest of him. He swallowed a mouthful of the putrid water, and struggled to sit up, coming to the surface choking and sputtering and sucking for air.

The attendants solemnly reached down to help him out of the tub, and quickly he was led back to his shorts and his clothes. Tikhanov was soaking wet from the top of his head to his toes, and he wanted to dry himself, but there were no towels. With difl&culty, he got into his shorts, which clamped tight to the moisture of his torso, than yanked on shirt

and trousers, socks and shoes, everything immediately becoming soaked through by the water on his body.

And then, dazed, he was outdoors again, confronting two pahn trees, the bank of a hill, and a statue dedicated to "St. Margaret, Queen and Patroness of Scotland." He glanced about, seeking a way of escape, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the miserable bathhouse. Then he saw a way out, back to the mainstream of people leaving the baths area for the grotto. Walking uncomfortably in the sun, his clothes clinging to him, he wondered if the immersion had cured his ailment. He could not tell. He was still walking stiffly, as if on stilts, and desired only to be dry once more.

He came to a stop in an unpopulated section beside the grotto, where what was left of the sun could still be enjoyed.

He remained there a moment, absorbing the sun, still feeling sticky and constricted. He shook himself like a wet dog to loosen up the clothing plastered to his body. As he did so, something untoward and unexpected happened. Something fell against his mouth and chin and fluttered to the ground.

Puzzled, he stared down at his feet, and was instantly horrified at what he saw. Automatically, his hand went to his shaved upper lip, felt its total smoothness except for the wart. His huge shaggy mustache, loosened by his immersion in the bath water, had become unglued and fallen off. Afraid to look around, to see if he had been seen, to note if his unmasking had been witnessed, he quickly stooped, snatched up the mustache, and in a flash pasted it back on his upper lip where it belonged. When he felt it was precariously in place again, he gulped and peered around to see if anybody had witnessed his brief exposure.

He stared straight ahead, and what made his receding horror change to shock was what he saw. He saw Gisele Dupree, the bitch of a tourist guide, pointing a camera at him. His eyes widened at the sight, but then as his shock, too, receded, he realized that she might not have been focusing her camera upon him. Just before him, slightly to one side, was a grouping of pilgrims, perhaps a dozen, posing for their guide Gisele, as she shot another picture of the members of her latest tour.

Confused, Tikhanov remained rooted to where he stood across from the grotto. He couldn't decide whether Gisele had actually taken a shot of him after his mustache dropped off, or if it only seemed that she had been shooting in his direction and had actually been focused on her tour group gathered not many feet away.

He could not be certain.

He wanted only to turn and flee, but before he could do so, he saw

Gisele lower her camera with one hand as she recognized him and smiled broadly. She waved to him with her free hand.

"Mr. Talley!" she called out. "How are you?"

"Fine, fine."

"You tried the baths?"

"I did."

"You must continue to do so," she called out, "if you want to be better." She winked. "Hope to see you again soon."

She went to join her group, and Tikhanov pivoted sharply away and put her and the grotto behind him as fast as possible. Retreating, he tried to revive the words that she had spoken to him. There had not been even a hint that she had taken his picture. She had simply been surprised and pleased to see him, and that was all.

He had been reacting like the worst kind of paranoiac.

She had not seen. No one had seen.

He was safe.

And he would be cured.

Reggie Moore had attired himself in his Sunday best, the pinstriped blue suit with the vest that he had last worn on the occasion of the dinner in London celebrating his partnership with Jean-Claude Jamet. Tonight, Reggie exuberantly had reminded his wife, there was to be an even bigger celebration, the reahty of the partnership that would make them rich, the official opening of their remodeled and expanded restaurant in Lourdes. Before leaving London, Edith had packed her most expensive dress, the polka-dot purple satin, which she took out of the closet and put on.

They had been walking from the hotel for two blocks up the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Despite the pleasant evening, the thoroughfare was less crowded at this hour. It was just seven o'clock, and most pilgrims and tourists were dining before attending the nightly procession in the domain.

At five minutes after seven, Reggie brought Edith to a halt and pointed at a comer restaurant across the street. "There it is, luv," he said, "our very own pot of gold at the end of the rainbow."

Edith stared at the restaurant, freshly painted dark blue and orange, and she showed pleasure because Reggie was so proud and pleased. "It looks so three-star," she said.

"It is, it is," Reggie promised her, pulling her arm more tightly inside his as he started her across the street. "After the partnership was final, Jean-Claude didn't have much time to renovate. But he'd always had plans ready. So, with my approval, he gave it a fresh paint job

outside, a modern decor inside, and added to the cocktail lounge and second dining room. He threw it open the day we arrived in Lourdes, and business has been smashing ever since."

"I'm so glad, Reggie."

"But tonight makes it official. From tonight on there's a special cover charge and special menu."

"Will people pay?" Edith wondered.

Reggie smiled at her naivete. "They'll be glad to pay anything for a number of reasons. One, it's not merely a routine dining room connected to a cheap hotel. Two, it is one of the few separate luxury restaurants. Three, and this is most important, we have something to offer that no one else has." He was guiding her alongside the restaurant, and pointed upward. "Look."

Edith raised her eyes, and saw a tall neon sign glittering on and off over the glass entrance. The sign read: madame moore's miracle

RESTAURANT.

Reggie's eyes were on his wife, as her mouth fell open. "What—" She stood bewildered. "What does that mean?"

Reggie grinned. "There's only one Edith Moore in Lourdes and I have her."

Edith stood hypnotized by the sign. "Madame Moore's Miracle Restaurant," she read aloud with disbelief.

"Doesn't that make you happy?"

"I—I don't know, Reggie—I think I'm embarrassed. I mean, my name in lights. Maybe that shouldn't be. Maybe it's—"

"You deserve it, you've earned it," said Reggie. He tugged at the door. "But that's not all. Wait till you see what's inside."

They were inside the doorway, and Reggie watched his wife as she took in the main dining room. It was a large room, splashed in dark blue and orange, blue walls and booths, and round tables covered with orange tablecloths. Each table was adorned with a pink rose in a slender silver vase, and each table was spotlighted by a chrome bullet light overhead. The dining room was crowded, with an overflow in the cocktail lounge beyond.