The Miracle (40 page)

"I'm sorry, doctor," Esther was saying, "but we can't locate Mr. Moore anywhere. We only know that he and possibly his wife will be at a restaurant they own in Lourdes around eight this evening for dinner."

"Then we'll have dinner there, too."

"What if Mr. Moore is with his wife. What will you tell her?"

"I'll have to stall her until I've been able to inform her husband about what's happened. Make the reservation for the two of us, Esther. It won't be a digestible dinner, but make the reservation for eight-fifteen."

It was a warm evening in Lourdes, and many pilgrims were on their way to dinner, some hastily in order to eat quickly and catch the nightly procession in the domain. Among those going more leisurely, perhaps hesitantly, along the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous were Dr. Kleinberg, in a freshly pressed lightweight tan summer suit, and his nurse, Esther Levinson, wearing a striped cotton dress.

Kleinberg was noting the street numbers they passed. "We must

almost be there," he said. "Probably across the intersection, on the comer."

They crossed over to the comer. Kleinberg sought the address, and checked his watch. "Here it is," he said, "and we're just on time."

Going to the entrance, he abruptly stopped, his eyes on the sign above. He read it aloud. "Madame Moore's Miracle Restaurant." Kleinberg sighed. "Well, they'll have to change only the name—not the cuisine."

The dining room was spacious, expensive, and filled with chattering customers. The maitre d', formally attired, took Kleinberg's name, consulted the reservation list on a stand, and immediately led his guests through the room to a vacant table along the far wall.

After ordering their drinks, Kleinberg settled back and tried to size up the room's occupants. He made out the main table, and Edith Moore commanding it, at once. She was holding sway, the dominant figure, speaking animatedly to the others and fiill of obvious good cheer. Except for two empty chairs, the table was occupied by guests who were listening to her intently.

Someone, a woman, had suddenly appeared from the adjacent bar and was blocking his view. Kleinberg looked up. After an instant's blankness he recognized her, just as she identified herself. "Michelle Demaillot, your friendly press officer," she said gaily. "How are you, Dr. Kleinberg? And you, Miss Levinson?"

"Very well, and you, Miss Demaillot?" rephed Kleinberg, half rising, then lowering himself to his seat again.

"I'm glad you could find time for our favorite restaurant," said Michelle.

"Yes, very nice," said Kleinberg.

"I'm sure you've been busy at the Medical Bureau," Michelle went on. "I presume you'll have some news for us any minute?"

"Any minute," said Kleinberg uncomfortably.

"You know, of course, your patient Edith Moore is here. Her husband is one of the owners."

"I've seen her," said Kleinberg. "By the way, is Mr. Moore at the table with her?"

Michelle stepped back, half turning to take in the table. "He's there, all right. The one to her left."

Kleinberg narrowed his eyes and found the beefy, mddy-faced Englishman in the plaid sports jacket next to Mrs. Moore. To Kleinberg, Reggie Moore appeared an amiable sort, and perhaps one who would not be too difficult to deal with after dinner.

"I see him," Kleinberg said. "Do you know any of the others at the table?"

"Sooner or later I get to know everyone," said Michelle. 'The others, counterclockwise are Ken Clayton, an American lawyer, the empty seat is probably for his wife, Amanda. Next there is Mr. Talley, an American professor. He's been here every night. The French couple beside him are the Marceaus, in the wine business, they own a vineyard. Then the lovely girl is Natale Rinaldi, Itahan. Poor thing, she's blind. With her is a friend—I don't know his name -- but obviously he's Spanish or Latin American." Michelle was momentarily distracted by two tardy arrivals coming through the front door. "Ah, the two others for the table. Amanda Clayton, whom I mentioned. And her companion is one I've talked to every day. Liz Finch, an American correspondent in Paris. I know she went to Nevers early this morning."

"Why Nevers?" Kleinberg wondered. "It's a bit of a distance from here."

"Miss Finch is doing some stories about the events of the week. She most likely wanted a look at Bernadette. Our saint lies in state, visible to all, in a Nevers chapel."

"Who would want to go that far to see a corpse?" Kleinberg said.

Michelle raised her shoulders. "Americans. They must visit everything. Well, I see you have your drinks and menus. I won't hold you up. Bon appetit. And, Dr. Kleinberg, we await your confirmation with, as they say in the novels, bated breath."

Dr. Kleinberg watched Michelle return to the bar, and once more gave his attention to the Moore table. The travelers back from Nevers were being greeted. The attractive one, Amanda, was kissing her lawyer husband, Mr. Clayton, and quickly introducing her companion, the rather unattractive woman correspondent, Liz Finch, to the others around the table.

That instant, Kleinberg realized that Edith Moore, m a moment's respite, inspecting the room, had noticed him and was waving for his attention.

Kleinberg forced a weak smile of greeting.

In a silent body gesture, Edith Moore was transmitting a question. The gesture was clear: Any news yet?

Kleinberg tried to respond. With exaggeration, he mouthed one word: Soon.

He looked away, pretending to join Esther in consulting the menu she had opened.

He grunted. "Suddenly, it's a bit close in here." He indicated the

menu. "Let's order. I want to meet Reggie Moore and have it over with."

"All right," said Esther, "but this is a crazy menu, doctor. There are two set meals at fixed prices. The cheaper one is unreasonable enough. But the other one, supposedly deluxe, is really expensive— because, for its dessert, so to speak, you are guaranteed an opportunity to be personally introduced to the latest miracle woman of Lourdes, namely Edith Moore." Esther wrinkled her nose. "Such blatant exploitation. By her husband, I'd guess." She met Kleinberg's eyes sympathetically. "I'm afraid that's not going to make things easier for you."

"I knew this would be an indigestible dinner," muttered Kleinberg. "But who says I have to eat? All right, pick out the meal we're to have and let's be done with it."

An hour later, Kleinberg and Esther were almost done with it, in the middle of their coffee, when Kleinberg became aware that someone was rising at Edith Moore's table. It was, he saw, Reggie Moore apparently setting out to make the rounds of some of the other tables and exchange a few words with customers of his acquaintance.

Kleinberg set down his cup. "I'm going to speak to Mr. Moore at once, while she's not in the way. Esther, you pay up. I'll reimburse you later. Don't wait for me. See you in the hotel lobby for a nightcap."

Kleinberg was on his feet, throwing down his napkin, and heading in the direction of the affable Reggie Moore. Kleinberg slowed, waiting until Moore had left one table and was starting for another, and then he intercepted the Enghshman.

"Mr. Moore?" Kleinberg said. "I'm Paul Kleinberg, your wife's consulting physician—"

"I know. She pointed you out. Pleased to meet you. Would you like to come over to our table, say hello?"

"No, not right now."

"I know Edith's eager to hear the good news from you."

"I'll be speaking to her," said Kleinberg. "You're the one I want to speak to now."

"Oh, sure, whatever you—"

"Not here," said Kleinberg. "I'd prefer privacy. Do you mind if we take a little stroll outside?"

For the first time, Reggie's features showed puzzlement. "I can't imagine what we need to discuss in private, but—"

Kleinberg already had Reggie by the arm, and was propelling him to the door. "I'll explain," Kleinberg said, and he followed the Englishman out to the sidewalk.

They started walking. "I hope this is about Edith," Moore said.

"It is." Kleinberg saw a sidewalk cafe directly ahead. The Cafl§ Jeanne d'Arc. Most of the yellow wicker chairs at the curb were empty. "Do you mind sitting down for a few minutes?"

"Whatever," said Moore.

They were no sooner seated, than a waiter was upon them. Kleinberg ordered a pot of tea, which he didn't want, and Reggie Moore ordered a Perrier.

Reggie continued to wear a perplexed expression. "If it's about Edith, I hope it's the news we've all been waiting for."

Kleinberg girded himself. How many times, in his particular specialty, he had been the bearer of bad tidings, not exactly like this one but with the same miserable results to be announced. "Mr. Moore, I'm afraid it is not good news I have to report."

Reggie's expression of puzzlement was immediately replaced by an expression of fear. His watery eyes seemed to have frozen. "Not good news. What does that mean?"

"She has the sarcoma again. Either it's come back—or it never completely went away."

"That's insane." Reggie's cheeks began to quiver. "I don't believe it. How can you be sure?"

"Mr. Moore, my practice deals with sarcoma. It's my specialty. Her tumor is evident, at an early state, in the X rays."

Reggie had become aggressive, defensive. "She was cured, and you know it. The cure was a miraculous one. It has been attested to by sixteen doctors, leading doctors from everywhere on earth."

For Kleinberg, this was painful. He didn't want to argue with the poor bastard. But he had no choice. "Mr. Moore, they could have been wrong, overlooked something."

"You're a doctor, and you can be as wrong as you say they are."

Kleinberg tried to ignore the attack. "Or it could have been something else. Assuming she was cured, and her case history seems to support that, still each diagnosis was made previously, at another time. My diagnosis has been made today. I saw her. I saw sarcoma once more. She's ill and—"

"She's perfectly well, totally cured," Reggie interrupted, raising his voice. "You can see, she gets around perfectly. No more pain, no more trouble. She's one hundred percent okay."

"I'm sorry, but she won't be. Her condition will deteriorate. I have no choice but to tell you it will happen. I thought it would be easier all around, if I told you and you found a means of telling her, to soften the blow. As her husband you would know how to handle her."

Reggie glared at Kleinberg several seconds. "Doctor, I don't in-

tend to tell her and upset her, especially since I don't believe you. I refuse to believe you know better than the best in the medical profession."

Kleinberg held his temper in check, tried to remain low-key. "I'm not here to debate my diagnosis. I'm here to inform you that your wife is going to be very ill -- and to add that there is something you can do about it. What you can do is take your wife straight to Paris—or London, if you prefer -- and avail yourself of the latest surgical advances. There is a colleague of mine in Paris, Dr. Maurice Duval, also a specialist in this field, who has had some remarkable success with an entirely new kind of surgery encompassing genetic engineering. I don't know if he's prepared to use the technique on human beings, but if he is, Mrs. Moore would be in the best of hands and have a real chance to survive. I even put in a call to Dr. Duval before dinner to learn if he was able to get involved. But I was told that he was out of Paris, and that he'd return tomorrow early and call me back. With surgery, Mrs. Moore could have a chance."

"Have a chance?" Reggie was outraged. With effort he tried to control the pitch of his voice. "A chance for what? Don't you know my wife was totally cured here in Lourdes by a miracle and she's remained cured? She is applauded everywhere as the new miracle woman. Give her surgery, and she's like everyone else, she's nobody. Repudiate the miracle and she's ruined, I'm ruined, we'll lose everything, lose our business, every pence we have!"

Kleinberg eyed the Englishman coldly. "Mr. Moore," he said measuring his words, "the subject at issue here is not your having a nonmiracle wife -- but your having any wife at all."

Reggie leaped to his feet, furious. "Never mind that! I have a wife. I'll keep on having one. Because every expert knows she's cured. Everyone except you. The high-ups will get someone to replace you and certify Edith. They won't trust you anyway -- they can't -- they know of your—your background—"

"My religious persuasion," Kleinberg helped him.

"They won't trust you because you're a nonbeliever."

"Mr. Moore, apparently I have failed to penetrate your thick skull. If I had, you would understand that this is not a matter of religion. It is a matter of science."

"It is a matter of religion," Reggie snapped. "My wife was saved by an absolute miracle, and one incompetent doctor isn't going to make things different. Good-night to you. Dr. Kleinberg, and thanks for nothing."

He swung his barrel of a body around, stepped down into the street, and stormed off.

Kleinberg sat very still, thinking. He was sorry for the poor lady from London. If her husband didn't give a damn about her welfare, then it was his own duty, as a doctor, as her doctor, to do something about her fatal illness. He would do something tomorrow, take the whole affair into his own hands.

He reached for the lukewarm cup of tea. He needed a drink very much. But this wasn't it. He needed something much stronger. He picked up the check, put it down with some francs atop it, rose to his feet and started for the hotel and the hotel bar.

It had been an unexpectedly long evening for Gisele Dupree, yet despite the agonizing suspense, she had not minded the drawn-out prelude to what could be a high point of her life. She had likened the delay to one of those evenings in New York when she had gone to bed with Charles Sarrat and they had made love. She had wanted the pleasure of release immediately, yet had savored the extended buildup knowing that the climax would come and it would be all the more welcome and pleasurable for the waiting.

It was this kind of buildup that she had enjoyed through the long evening. Only she had not been positive that it would end in the desired climax.