The Miracle (48 page)

Reggie said, "I ordered cofifee for both of us. That all right?"

"Just what the doctor would have ordered," said Kieinberg.

Reggie guffawed and sucked at his cigar. Gradually, his face transformed into something serious. When he spoke, he was almost abject, and sounded chastened. "Sorry about that little set-to we had in town. Not like me to go around shouting at anyone."

"You had reason to be upset," said Kieinberg, who did not trust small victories like this. "You seem considerably calmer now."

"I am, I am," said Reggie.

Reggie watched while the waiter set down the coffee, cream, sugar, bill, but he did not seem interested. Kieinberg discerned that Reggie had something else on his mind. And was being unhurried about speaking his mind.

Reggie lifted the cup to his lips, pinkie finger incongruously extended, and sampled the coffee. He made a face, putting the cup down. "Hate French coffee, if you'll forgive me," he apologized.

Amused, Kieinberg said, "I don't make it."

Reggie took another puff of his cigar, and propped it neatly on the ashtray, obviously getting ready for business. "Yes," he said, "me and the Missus, we had a long talk. No second thoughts about your diagnosis?"

"None. She's in trouble unless you act."

"Doctor, what is this new surgery? Is it like any surgery?"

"Yes and no," Kieinberg answered. He tried to think of how to frame it simply. "To make it more understandable, we could call the overall process surgery, because eventually there is surgery in the way probably famihar to you—cleaning away the diseased bone, implanting new bone tissue or a ball-and-socket ceramic prosthesis, or artificial hip joint, but the genetic engineering aspect is another matter. I don't know Dr. Duval's exact procedure, but I do know this crucial part would not

require a surgical-style operation but actually would consist of transplanting healthy genes more in the manner of—let's say of a blood transfusion. Really, this part would consist of an injection or series of injections. Would you like me to explain a little about genetic engineering?"

"Well, would I—would I understand it?"

"You've heard about DNA, haven't you?"

"I—I've probably read about it," Reggie said tentatively.

From his tone, Kleinberg judged that he had not read about it and did not know if DNA was the name of a new government agency or a race horse. Kleinberg wondered how far he could go. "The human body consists of cells, and each cell contains 100,000 genes spread along some six feet of DNA, which is tightly coiled. When one cell goes bad, becomes an aberrant cell that triggers a cancer and starts multiplying, the body is in serious danger. Well, the findings in gene-sphcing research now enable speciahsts to use enzymes to slice DNA strands, and replace a defective gene with a healthy one. I'm oversimplifying, but you get the idea, don't you?"

"I think I get the idea," said Reggie, who plainly didn't. "Look, doctor, it's not necessary that I know all about it, just like I don't know how a computer or a television set works, yet I accept them and use them. Okay, genetic replacement or whatever. Fine. I take your word it's the coming thing, that it has been proved to work and cure, that it can save my Edith's life."

"Seventy percent in her favor."

"Fair enough odds for a betting man," said Reggie, taking up his cigar again, knocking off the ash, lighting a match and putting it to the cigar. "And then she'd be well?"

"Like new."

"Like new," mused Reggie, "but no longer a miracle woman, meaning a woman no longer miraculously cured."

"No, she would not be miraculously cured. She would be cured by medicine -- by science."

"That gives me a problem," said Reggie casually.

"A problem?"

"Like she told you, if I don't have a miracle wife, I'm bankrupt, we're both busted and flat on our backs."

"I'm sorry," said Kleinberg, "but of course that is out of my realm of specialization. That is something I can do nothing about."

Reggie was eyeing him shrewdly. "Are you sure, doctor? Are you sure you can do nothing about it?"

Momentarily, Kleinberg was lost. "Do nothing about what?"

"About helping us, letting us have our cake and eat it, too, as the saying goes," said Reggie. "Meaning saving Edith's life through surgery but still letting her be declared a miracle cure."

Kleinberg was beginning to see the light. The British promoter was propositioning, bargaining. "Are you saying that after the surgery you don't want me to mention it but just certify her as having been miraculously cured? Is that what you're asking?"

"Something hke that."

"Lie to them, to Dr. Berryer and the rest, not tell them the sarcoma came back, not tell them of the surgery, just validate Edith as having been cured at the grotto and baths? I'm not fanatically bound to my Hippocratic oath, but still—"

Reggie sat erect. "Doctors do things like that all the time."

Dr. Kleinberg shook his head. "I'm one doctor who can't do that. I doubt that even the staunchest Catholic doctor would consider doing it. Anyway, I certainly cannot he. I'm afraid that's impossible." Looking up, Kleinberg was startled to see Reggie's face. It was sunken with defeat and grief, and terrible aging had set in like a latter-day Dorian Gray. For the first time, Kleinberg's heart felt for the man, the human being across the table, and he tried to think of something softening to say. "Of course, I'm confined to the medical aspects of the case," Kleinberg said, stumbling along, "and I really have no stake in the religious part, the miracle part. I'm only interested in saving Edith medically, but if others are kept uninformed and someone else wants to overlook that aspect and declare her miraculously cured, I see no reason to stand in the way. I mean," Kleinberg found himself adding, "if someone in power wants to say that she's been miraculously cured, well. Dr. Duval and I won't interfere. We won't mention the operation. That's up to you and any clergyman you confide in. For my part, I'll simply fade away, get back to Paris and my work."

It was straw-grasping time, and Reggie had stirred himself alive. "Who—who would be able to give the word without your certificate? Who might consider Edith as miraculously cured?"

"Why, as I've suggested, someone in the church, of course, someone high up. Surely you know someone in the hierarchy?"

Reggie nodded vigorously. "One or two. One, especially. Father Ruland, the most important priest in Lourdes. He's the one who felt from the start that Lourdes needed Edith's miracle cure. He's been on her side right down the line."

"Very well, then see how much he's on her side now," said Kleinberg. "Have Edith speak to him. Take your gamble. If Edith will go to Father Ruland and tell him the truth, and Ruland doesn't object and is

ready to announce her as miraculously cured, I won't block it or contradict his announcement by announcing she was saved by surgery. Til just keep quiet."

Reggie's watery eyes began to shine. "You would, you really would?"

"Why not? I repeat, the religious end doesn't concern me. If Father Ruland hears what you are up to, then shuts one eye and makes believe it never happened, and is prepared to declare Edith's cure a miracle cure, then I'll shut one eye, too -- meaning I'll shut my mouth. There you have it."

Reggie had lumbered to his feet and was pumping Kleinberg's hand. "You're a good person, a good, good person for a doctor. I'll have Edith speak to Father Ruland right away, maybe go to confession, yes, that's the best way, in confession. Tell a priest all and try to get him to speak to Ruland -- get Ruland's backing, his support -- an announcement."

"What if you fail to get his support?"

"Let's turn that comer when we get to it," said Reggie, and he rushed out of the courtyard.

The fifteen-minute drive to Bartres, in her rented Renault, went smoothly for Amanda.

The only rough part of the trip was in Amanda's head.

Liz Finch's defection from their hunt for an expose of the Bernadette legend had troubled Amanda throughout the drive. When someone as savvy and experienced in research as Liz finally called it quits, it was unlikely that anyone else—certainly not an amateur like Amanda —would ever find out anything useful. What nagged Amanda, also, was that her quest for truth was taking too long and soon would be pointless. When she went to bed with Ken every night, and held and cradled him, it was obvious to her that he was on a steady decline, becoming weaker and weaker. He was even finding it difficult to drag himself outside and down to the grotto for prayer. Only a fanatical belief in the curative powers of the Virgin Mary kept him going. No logic, no pleading from Amanda, could dissuade him from his dependence on religious faith.

And here she was speeding to a village named Bartres, to see the custodian of Bernadette's sensational journal. This last-ditch effort in an attempt to learn one fact that would burst the Bernadette bubble and enable Amanda to take her beloved back to Chicago for a longshot surgery.

It was all depressing, and Amanda suspected that she was once

more on the wildest of wild goose chases. Also, it made her feel guilty wasting her time trying to undermine Ken's faith when she should be spending the same time dose to him, giving him comfort in what might be his last days.

She was on a narrow road now, passing two modern houses, then a roadside shrine—a large plaster Jesus with a bouquet of purple flowers at his feet -- and next she was spinning across a valley, climbing uphill once more, and from the rise, the typical French rooftops of the small village of Bartres lay spread below her.

Driving slowly on the descending road, with the steeple of a church in view, Amanda thought of what was waiting for her, and it did not seem too promising. She had telephoned Madame Eugenie Gautier from Lourdes and received a chilly reception. After ascertaining that Madame Gautier was, indeed, the woman from whom Father Ruland had acquired Bernadette's final journal, Amanda had requested a brief meeting with her. "For what?" Madame Gautier, sharp-tongued and a miser with words, wanted to know. Amanda said that she had come here from Chicago, lllinois, in America, and was researching a paper that she was going to write on Bernadette. Madame Gautier had snapped, "I don't want any journalists." Amanda had patiently explained that she was not a journalist. "I'm a clinical psychologist and an associate professor at the University of Chicago." Madame Gautier had said, "You are a professor? A real college professor?" Amanda had said, "Yes, Madame Gautier, I teach at the University of Chicago." There had been a prolonged pause. "What's Chicago University?" Madame Gautier had demanded to know. "I never heard of it." Amanda had assured her that it was a large and prestigious school, well-known in academic circles in America, and Amanda had quoted some statistics on the size of the faculty and the enrollment. Madame Gautier had interrupted. "When do you want to come here?" The turnabout had made Amanda stammer. "I—I—I'd like to see you as soon as possible. This afternoon, if I may." Madame Gautier had said, "I will be out until five. Come at five." Amanda had requested the address, and been given it. "Everyone knows where I hve," Madame Gautier had said. "Just past Maison Burg." She had hung up on Amanda's thank you.

Entering Bartrds, Amanda could see that it was hardly even a village. Some old houses, in disrepair, on either side of the road, no main street with shops or businesses anywhere in evidence. Keeping an eye out for someone to direct her, Amanda's eye caught the dashboard clock. The time was four thirty-two, and Madame Gautier would not be home for her until five.

Wondering how to spend the extra time, Amanda saw that she was

approaching the old church, and that directly across from it was a cafe with a sign identifying it as A la petite bergere, which Amanda translated as "At the Little Shepherdess"—still and most assuredly Bernadette country. The cafe offered a respite and an opportunity to find out how to reach Madame Gautier's residence.

Amanda parked alongside a fence that protected a schoolyard, and took an outdoor table in the shade at the cafe. A young waitress materialized, and Amanda ordered an espresso and toasted white bread with butter. She sat waiting, then sipped her espresso and munched her toast, as she tried to map her strategy for dealing with Madame Gautier, actually trying to define what she was after.

Finished, she located her check, summoned the waitress, paid up, and inquired if the young woman could direct her to Madame Gautier. The waitress pointed in the direction that Amanda had already traveled. "Around the curve of the road, not far past the Maison Burg, the farmhouse where Bernadette lived. There is a museum there now. Just beyond is Madame Gautier's place, the newest residence off the road, two stories high. The rich one is seeing you?" Amanda nodded. "I have an appointment." The waitress smirked. "You must be someone special. Otherwise she would not see you. Have an enjoyable stay."

Purse clasped under her arm, somewhat refreshed but still apprehensive of the woman she was about to meet, Amanda tucked herself into the Renault, made a U-turn, and headed in the direction that the waitress had pointed out.

Presently, driving past a cluster of buildings she identified as the Maison Burg, Amanda realized that this had been the old Lagues farmhouse. Here, once long ago, the thirteen-year-old Bernadette had sat and daydreamed of a better life—a month before returning to Lourdes and to eternal glory. Strange, strange story, Amanda reflected. Maybe she would learn more of it very soon. Slowly, Amanda kept driving.

Even without the address, Amanda would have found Madame Gautier's abode with little difficulty. It was the newest and most splendid residence in the area. The gray stucco two-story house with freshly painted green shutters was perched near the top of a small rise, and a paved driveway circled up the rise to the front entrance. Amanda ascended the driveway and left her car at the door.

The woman who answered the bell was no more than five feet tall, and she had just come from the hairdresser's. A mound of purple-white hair sat on her head like an iron wig. The thick lenses of her spectacles magnified the pupils of her eyes. Her nose was as sharp as a hawk's beak and her mouth was pinched. She was a bony Gorgon of a woman.

She opened the door only partway, sizing up her visitor. "You are Madame Clayton from Lourdes?"

"And from the United States," Amanda added. "Madame Gau-ticr?"

"Come in."

Amanda had to ease herself past the reluctantly opened door, then waited as Madame Gautier shut it, turned the deadbolt, and led her through the dark entry into an underfumished living room bearing several imitation Louis XIV pieces. There was a stiff divan, and Madame Gautier directed Amanda to it. Then she brought a low straight-backed pull-up chair in front of Amanda, and sat down in it like an inquisitor. Briefly, she scrutinized her visitor.

"Who gave you my name?" Madame Gautier wanted to know.

"Father Ruland in Lourdes."

Madame Gautier sniffed. "That one," she said without further elaboration.

"Actually, I asked for the name of the person who sold him Bernadette's journal."

"Why?"

"I—I'd visited Bernadette's old convent in Nevers. I heard from a nun there that the church had acquired only the main part of Bernadette's last journal, the part in which Bernadette had set down her account of the eighteen apparitions. I was told that the church had not bothered to acquire the earlier part of the journal, the part in which Bernadette wrote about her upbringing in Lourdes and her stay here in Bartres with your ancestor. When I mentioned that to Father Ruland, he confirmed it. I wondered if I might see the seller, and he gave me your name."

The slits behind the thick lenses were appraising Amanda. After brief consideration, the French woman spoke. "You mentioned on the telephone that you were doing a paper about Bernadette. This is a doctoral thesis?"