The Miracle (8 page)

"Are we in the Piazza San Marco yet?" inquired Natale.

"Just about. Nothing's changed. There's the Campanile, tall as ever. The four bronze horses are still over the front of the Basilica. The Piazza is—well, you know—hectic as usual, the pigeons waddling about for their maize, and fluttering off when the children chase them. It's the same, Natale. It never changes in Venice."

"Thank God," said Natale.

"You want to sit down?"

"I'm thirsty," said Natale.

"Is it still Quadri's? The music has just begun there."

"Yes, let's sit in Quadri's." Unaccountably, Quadri's with its small circular gray tables and yellow wicker chairs and the bandstand to the rear had always been her favorite outdoor cafe. Caffe Lavena, beside it, seemed to have less character, and Florian's on the opposite side, although the oldest of the Piazza cafes, built in 1720, often occupied by Lord Byron in his day, always seemed to take too much sun. But Quadri's, on her last visit, had been most restful.

They were going across the Piazza San Marco, and Natale could hear the shrieks of youngsters and the flapping rise of pigeons, and she hoped that she wouldn't step on one, although nobody ever did.

Apparently, they had reached Quadri's cafe, because Aunt Elsa was saying, "There's a free table in the shade." Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to take her hand, and lead her up an aisle.

Stopping, Natale groped for a chair, sat down, and listened to the music as Aunt Elsa ordered grapefruit juice for Natale and a Coca-Cola with a slice of lemon for herself.

They had been sipping their drinks in silence, Natale content to be in Venice, refusing to permit herself a moment's unhappiness at being unable to see it again, thinking it was just good to be alive (really only half-alive, but she put down the thought), when the metallic clanging from a nearby bell made her sit up. That would be the mechanical Moors above their heads, at the summit of the Clock Tower, hitting the big bell.

"What time is it?" asked Natale.

"Exactly one o'clock. Too late to shop on the Mercerie. Most of the stores will be closed until three. Although a few may be open."

"No," said Natale. "I want to go to Harry's Bar. I'm hungry, and it's cooler there."

While she waited for her aunt to pay the check, she heard heavy

footsteps approach her and she sensed a presence just above her. Instinctively, she looked up, as she heard a rich male baritone voice say, "Forgive me, but I thought I recognized you. You're Miss Rinaldi from Rome, aren't you?"

Bewildered, Natale nodded.

"I'm Signore Vianello," the voice was saying. "Again, forgive me, but I couldn't resist being sure and saying hello."

"Vianello," Natale repeated blankly.

"I'm a play producer from Rome, on vacation. I first saw you—I was sure you were the same actress—at a rehearsal of a Pirandello play at the Teatro Goldini several years ago. A friend had brought me along. I don't remember whom. But I could not forget you." He hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt you two—"

Quickly, Natale introduced her Aunt Elsa, then added, "Thank you."

"I expected to see you at the opening night, but you weren't in the cast," the producer went on. "I learned only that you had retired." He chuckled. "Retired? For one so young? Anyway, I was reminded, spotting you here in the Piazza." Natale meant to stop him, but this Vianello was going on. "I have a new play of my own I am planning to produce. I'll be casting in a month. There is a perfect role for you if you're interested."

Natale couldn't let this continue anymore. "Signore Vianello," she blurted. "Can't you tell? I'm blind."

"You're—?" She heard the quick suck of his breath, and knew that he was taken aback and utterly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Oh, I had no idea," he said. He stammered the rest. "You look— you look—well, better than ever. Uh, many of these things are temporary. I'm sure you will regain your—your full vision. If you do, I would certainly want you to call on me. Uh, let me leave my card. Here."

Natale held up her hand for the card, but apparently the producer had given his card to Aunt Elsa. "Thank you, Signore Vianello," said Aunt Elsa. "Perhaps things will change. If they do, I'll remind Miss Rinaldi."

"Do that, do that," said Signore Vianello. "I hope to meet you both again. Have a good vacation."

Silence followed. Apparently, Signore Vianello had fled.

Natale felt her aunt's hand on her forearm. "Let's go to Harry's Bar."

Still unnerved, Natale said, "I'm not sure I'm hungry."

"They'd have something to drink there," said Aunt Elsa, forcing Natale to her feet. "Let's go."

Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to guide her into the Piazza. She could hear the goddam pigeons.

She felt Aunt Elsa release her arm. "Wait. There's a man with Il Gazzettino. Let me buy a paper."

When her aunt was at her side again with the Venetian newspaper, and starting to lead her away, Natale said, "Where are we exactly?"

"In front of the Basihca, on the way to the Piazzetta, and there we'll turn right for Harry's Bar."

"The Basilica," Natale repeated dully. "Is it open?"

"Of course."

"I want to go inside."

"You're sure?"

"For—for a minute," said Natale. "I want to pray."

Aunt Elsa, who had no affection for churches, said in a resigned voice, "All right, if it'll help you forget that idiot."

"He did nothing wrong, Aunt Elsa. Poor man, he didn't know. Actually, I should feel good that he was still attracted by me. But, well, I just had a momentary ache at—at what I'm missing. Can we go inside the church?"

Natale stmnbled along with her Aunt Elsa in darkness, feeling the wooden planks beneath her feet, listening to the shuffling, and the hushed voices.

After genuflecting, she entered a pew and slowly knelt. Then, to herself, she prayed to the God that she could not believe ever abandoned anyone. The brief rapport with her Maker settled her nerves, made her feel peaceful once more. She pushed herself upright. "Aunt Elsa?" she whispered.

"Right here."

"Let's eat."

She accompanied Aunt Elsa out into the black daylight.

She held Aunt Elsa's hand as they strolled across the Piazzetta and swung off. Natale tried desperately to revive the scene along the canal. She spoke only once, as they passed the Giardinetti, wondering aloud, "Is the old lady with all the cats still there?"

"She's there feeding them all."

"There are nice people in this world."

As they walked on to the air terminal, around it, and over the small bridge, jostling past people hurrying from the San Marco vaporetto station, Natale kept thinking that if God could find someone to take care of stray cats, why couldn't He show mercy to her by giving

some doctor a newly discovered means of curing her? It was a rare wave of self-pity and discouragement, and by the time they had arrived at the swinging doors that led into Harry's Bar, she was ashamed and regretful of her lapse, and determined to make the best of simply being ah\e.

Inside, she was relieved to find that it was definitely cooler, and that there were no crowding bodies or jarring voices.

"Very few here for lunch today," whispered Aunt Elsa. "We have it almost to ourselves."

Natale heard the bartender from the left call out, "Good to see you again, Miss Rinaldi."

"Good to be here, Aldo," rephed Natale.

Aunt Elsa was speaking to someone, probably a waiter, saying, "We'll take that table in the comer, against the back wall."

Holding her aunt's hand, Natale went between the chairs and tables, bumping into a few. She felt a pang, remembering the little round lacquered tables and the undersized chairs, and the fascinating people she had met here, and the meals she had enjoyed.

As they were settling into the comer, the waiter said, 'This is Luigi, remember me?"

She smiled a real smile, remembering the handsome, dimpled waiter who had always been wonderfully funny and friendly.

"Luigi, I'm so glad. It's been too long."

"We heard of your illness. Miss Rinaldi," he said in a gentle undertone. "You will be better one day, believe me. We all pray for you."

"You're a dear, Luigi, and I'm grateful for your prayers."

Aunt Elsa's voice came on firmly. "I think two Bellinis are in order, Luigi."

"Immediately," promised the waiter, fading away.

Natale sat waiting for her drink of peach juice and champagne, which she needed, heard her aunt scratch a match to light a cigarette, inhaled the smoke that wafted toward her, then listened as Aunt Elsa described the few persons in the restaurant.

Natale heard Luigi return and set down the drinks. "Two Bellinis," he said. "Enjoy."

Taking up her glass, Natale drank and found the Bellini cool and refreshing. She heard her aunt unfold the newspaper. "Good old Gaz-zettino," her aunt said. "Let me read you the latest."

Normally, daily, someone, her father or Aunt Elsa read to her from a newspaper, to keep her alive, involved, part of the distracting world. Today she wasn't in the mood at all. "Not now. I'm not interested now."

"Natale, you've got to keep up," Aunt Elsa said in a mildly scold-

ing voice. "You've ..." Suddenly, her aunt's voice trailed off. She was obviously reading something in the newspaper. "Sa-ay, imagine this."

"What?" said Natale with disinterest.

'The Virgin Mary. This story from Lourdes in France. The Virgin Mary is supposed to be coming back to Lourdes."

At first, Natale did not grasp it. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Let me read it to you as it is printed." Clearing her throat, Aunt Elsa read aloud from the paper. " 'According to a secret journal kept by Bernadette Soubirous, now Saint Bernadette, late in 1878, recording the eighteen apparitions of the Virgin Mary that she had seen and conversed with at the grotto called Massabielle in Lourdes, France, the Virgin Mary had confided to the young peasant girl that she would return to the grotto in the eight days following August 14 of this year. The Virgin Mary had promised Bernadette that she would not only return to be seen by someone at the grotto but that she would also cure someone who was aflSicted. This account in Bernadette's recently discovered private journal has been fully authenticated by a newly appointed Commission of Lourdes. The announcement, which was made at a press conference yesterday by Cardinal Brunet of Paris as authorized by Pope John Paul III, electrified a huge gathering of the world press, and as soon as the announcement was made public, it caused a rush of pilgrims everywhere seeking transportation and acconmioda-tions for Lourdes for the thrilling Reappearance Time.' "

Natale had listened with a rising excitement that at first nearly suffocated her, made her heart palpitate harder, until gradually a flush came to her cheeks. "The Holy Mother coming to Lourdes again to be seen, to cure," she whispered.

"Well—"

"I believe it," Natale whispered passionately. "If the Virgin Mary promised Bernadette, it will happen."

"This may be one of those sensational newspaper exaggerations," said Aunt Elsa, trying to calm her niece.

"Read me the rest of it, all of it," Natale urged.

"It's a long article, Natale."

"Read me every word of it. Start from the beginning again. I want to hear every word."

"Well, if you insist."

"Please, Aunt Elsa."

"Very well."

In a low monotone, not wishing to disturb anyone else in Harry's Bar, Aunt Elsa read the entire newspaper account from start to finish.

Natale absorbed it as if in a trance. When her aunt had completed

her reading, Natale spoke up. "Fm going to Lourdes," she said without equivocation. "I've got to be there."

"Really, Natale—"

"I mean it. Aunt Elsa. I want to be close to the Virgin Mary, pray to Her right at the grotto. It's the chance of a lifetime. She might decide to cure me. You've just read about those thousands of cures."

"Natale, be sensible. I know your faith, and I don't contest it. But considering the number of people who have been visiting Lourdes year after year, only a minute percentage, the tiniest percentage, are ever cured, if it really is a cure. You know about my father—your grandfather. When I was your age, I accompanied him to Lourdes for a few days. His arthritic condition was crippling, and he, too, hoped for a cure. I remember him praying and praying at that grotto, but nothing happened. When we came home to Naples, he got worse. There's little chance that a so-called miracle can help you. You'll just have to be patient and wait for medical advances that will come along and one day restore your sight."

"No, you don't understand. Aunt Elsa. I've got to go to Lourdes. I believe in it."

"So does everyone else in half the world -- but most of the believers won't bother to go."

"I'm going," said Natale. "We'll have our three weeks here in Venice and then we'll fly to Lourdes for the beginning of the holy eight days."

"We'll not be flying to Lourdes," said Aunt Elsa. "I can't. You must be practical. Your parents let me take this trip with you. But I had to swear I'd be back in the shop the day after the vacation ended. Your parents need me, Natale. I can't let them down."

"Then I'll go to Lourdes alone. You put me on the plane and we can arrange for one of those volunteer helpers or whatever -- the ones mentioned in the paper—"

"Brancardiers," interjected Aunt Elsa. "Men who go to Lourdes every summer to assist the pilgrims. But women go also, like my friend Rosa Zennaro. You've met her several times. She's been going to Lourdes for the last half dozen years, to help, out of the goodness of her heart."

"All right, Rosa then. Surely she'd help me. Fix it so I can be enrolled in a tour group that has accommodations, and can help me get around. That won't get in your way. Please, Aunt Elsa, give me my chance."

Natale waited for a reply, heard her aunt emit a long drawn-out sigh, and finally surrender. "Okay, little one, no use arguing with faith.

You win. Let's have our lunch and go back to the hotel. I'll phone Rosa's family in Rome and find out how we can contact her in Lourdes. Hail Mary, you're on your way. Now let's get practical. What'll it be? A toasted prosciutto sandwich or tagliatelle verdi?"