The Miracle Part 16

"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 Ta.s.s, the Soviet news agency, Premier Skryabin, head of the Soviet Union, was in a Moscow hospital. His condition was regarded as serious. Although the Ta.s.s 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-a.s.surance had made a lasting impression, and briefly, afterward, she had gone with her employer and lover. Amba.s.sador Charles Sarrat, to a c.o.c.ktail 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 Emba.s.sy in Paris, gave his code name, and was put straight through to the Soviet amba.s.sador. After an exchange of amenities, Tikhanov said that he was phoning from Ma.r.s.eilles 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 Ma.r.s.eilles. 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 amba.s.sador, and was about to hang up, when the amba.s.sador 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 Ta.s.s 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 a.s.sured 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 s.h.a.ggy false mustache, he felt rea.s.sured 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sured 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 a.n.a.lyze the water. He did so and reported, 'The result of this a.n.a.lysis 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 a.n.a.lysis report was in agreement with the other. The Lourdes bath waters were extremely 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 G.o.d 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 ap.r.o.ns over their shirts and trousers, took his arms from both sides and a.s.sisted 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 G.o.d." 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 rea.s.suringly 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 s.h.a.ggy 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, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 b.i.t.c.h 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.