The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Tikhanov approached him confidently, and addressed him in French. "Monsieur, I am looking for the chief concierge Robert."

  The concierge peered up at him through bifocal lenses. "I am Robert, at your service."

  "Ah, good, good. I am here on the advice of a friend of yours, who sends his best regards. I refer to our mutual friend, Henri, the head concierge at the Intercontinental in Geneva."

  Without hesitation, Robert said, "Henri, yes. How is he? A fine fellow. Is he well?"

  "Never better. Henri advised me to see you about a room for this week. He said you would know better than the hotel receptionist. He realized how crowded it would be, but thought you might be able to accommodate me as a favor to him. Anything will do."

  Robert's face fell. "Henri is right. Usually there is something. But today, and for every day of this week, there is nothing, absolutely noth-

  ing. I am embarrassed, desolate, not to be able to do something for my friend. But truly, there is nothing, not even a vacant closet."

  Tikhanov reached for his wallet. "You are certain?"

  "It is no use. I am positive. The hotel is occupied to the rafters. This has never happened before. But this is an extraordinary time. After all, the Virgin has not appeared in Lourdes since 1858. Everyone wants to see her. Next week, I can probably help arrange an accommodation."

  "I have only this week."

  "Then I am sorry."

  "What can I do? Might there be another hotel, someone you know, who would have a room?"

  "None. The hotels are filled to overflow." A thought occurred to him, and the concierge held up a finger. "One possibility. In other times when Lourdes has been crowded, there have been some room rentals outside the city. There are many small towns near us, all within commuting distance, and often families decide to let their spare rooms to earn a few francs. Yes, I am sure that is happening now to take care of the overflow. That would be the best thing for you, Mr.—Mr.—"

  "Talley, Samuel Talley."

  "Yes, that would be best, Mr. Talley. Learn what private housing is available outside the city."

  "Where would I find out about that? I've never been to Lourdes before."

  Robert offered immediate help. "I can tell you exactly where to go to find out. We have what we call the Syndicat des Hoteliers de Lourdes on the Place de L'Eglise in the Old Town. Here, let me show you." He sought and found an orange-covered map with the heading, Lourdes, lieu de pilerinage, and unfolded it. He traced the route to the Place for Tikhanov, then refolded the map and handed it to the Russian.

  "This should lead you to a roof over your head. I am sorry I could not acconmiodate you here. Good luck."

  Leaving the hotel, descending the stairs, Tikhanov opened the map and handed it to the waiting driver. "There is no room here," he explained. "I must go to the Syndicat des Hoteliers. You see, the concierge drew a line to it on the map."

  The driver consulted the map, nodding, and gestured Tikhanov into the back seat once more.

  During the fifteen minute ride, Tikhanov was completely inattentive to his surroundings. His mind was turned inward, assessing his foolishness in coming here, weighing the risk involved in visiting a "holy land" of which his government and party disapproved against the growing incapacity of his body.

  By the time he had been discharged at the Place de L'Eglise, he had made up his mind that his health and its reward was worth any risk. Moreover, he felt safe behind the camouflage of his new mustache. Paying off the driver, following his directions, he gripped his bag and proceeded toward the nearby building.

  Tikhanov found the office unoccupied except for two middle-aged women at their desks. The nearest one, dark bangs, wire-rimmed spectacles, greeted him pleasantly. He introduced himself as Samuel Talley, American, recently arrived in Lourdes on a pilgrimage, but not an official one, and therefore without a place to stay for the week. A friend at the Hotel St.-Louis de France had suggested that he come here to obtain a spare room in some private household outside the city.

  The lady with the bangs looked sad. "Yes, we had a long list of accommodations earlier in the week, but those are all spoken for. I'm afraid—" She had begun to read her listings, but then halted to study a note paperclipped to the top page. "Wait, monsieur, there may be something here. You may be in luck. This note was left by one of the tour-agency guides, a local girl who lives with her parents in Tarbes. She says here that her parents have a bedroom that can be rented for the week. They would want 225 francs a day for the room and demi-pen-sion. Are you interested? If you are, I'll check to see if the room is still available."

  "Please," said Tikhanov. "Where did you say it was?"

  'Tarbes. A mere twenty minutes from Lourdes by taxi. Lovely town." She took the receiver off the hook and dialed. "Let me see." She waited as the phone rang. A voice had finally come on. The lady in bangs spoke in French. "This is the Syndicat des Hoteliers. Is Mademoiselle Dupree still there?" The lady in bangs waited a moment then spoke into the phone again. "Gisele? About the note you left this morning. The room your parents were willing to rent out, is it still free?" She listened, then said, "Good. I have a client, a Mr. Samuel Talley fi"om America. I will tell him." She put down the receiver and beamed at Tikhanov. "Good news. You have a room. I will give you the address in Tarbes. It is the home of the family Dupree. Respectable people. I have never met them, but their daughter Gisele is a lovely one, which always reflects on the parents. Here, let me write it out for you, Mr. Talley."

  Tikhanov did not get to Tarbes until early evening.

  He had lingered in Lourdes, actually in the domain area, until night was beginning to fall. The lady with bangs in the Syndicat had proved to be talkative, and she had told him what he should see in the immediate area. He had walked unsteadily on the Esplanade des Processions, covering much of its distance until he realized that he was

  going in the wrong direction, toward an exit gate. Reversing his path, he had gone slowly toward the Upper Basihca, even climbed the stairs to the entrance and observed the ornate interior. After that he had descended to seek the legendary grotto, and had seen all the worshippers standing, sitting, kneeling before a cave, but he had not joined them and had made up his mind to have a closer look tomorrow.

  What really held him back, he knew, was his feeling of being apart from this scene, a foreign stranger, not belonging to all these ecstatic superstitious people. He had to remind himself that he belonged here as much as anyone, remembering his childhood with a religious mother. What kept him at a distance, too, was that he had never liked crowds, indeed had never been a face in a crowd. From his earliest successes to his rise as the Soviet Union's foreign minister and a world figure, he had addressed crowds, as one above them, lecturing them. Or he had counseled with other world figures, premiers and presidents and kings, as one-to-one equals. Such contacts and situations were acceptable, but for him to be a nobody lost in a throng was unthinkable.

  Finally, leaving, he knew the truth of why he had not walked closer to the crowd around the grotto. The truth was that he suddenly ached to the marrow of his bones, felt weak, terribly weakened by his fatal illness, and unable to remain erect much longer.

  Somehow, he managed to attain the top of the nearby exit ramp, knowing that he had in some mysterious way been reduced to the low status of all those worshipping pilgrims because he was like each and every one of them. Illness had subtracted from his individuality. He was the same as every person there. He, too, wanted hope, to pray for a cure.

  The street above was illuminated by yellow lights, and traflSc was humming. He must get to where he was going, and settle in his room, and rest for tomorrow and his first effort to have himself healed.

  He hoped it would not take long to find a taxi, and immediately he saw a vacant one, hailed it, and soon, with his suitcase, was on his way to the family Dupree.

  The ride on the highway to Tarbes was, indeed, a short one, and to his relief, Tarbes was not one of those dreary, primitive,
crumbling French villages but a modern city of pleasant aspect. The driver, noting Tikhanov's interest, was pleased to point out the sights. The wide thoroughfare they were driving on led to a square called the Place de Verdun. Tikhanov could see that most of the shopping streets emerged from this square like spokes on a wheel.

  "Is the place I'm going to very far from here?" Tikhanov inquired.

  "Five, six blocks, on a side street," said the driver. "Be there in a

  minute." He pointed off. "First monsieur, observe the little house on our right—France's greatest war hero, Marechal Foch, was born there." Then the driver announced, "The cathedral of Tarbes, where some cures have been reported this week."

  The driver was moving his taxi through a series of one-way streets, and slowing. "The next block," he called back.

  Tikhanov's destination proved to be a cheap, four-story apartment building near the Jardin Massey, an extensive public park with unidentifiable outdoor sculpture half-hidden in the darkness. The family Du-pree had five rooms on the ground floor, this written out on Tikhanov's Syndicat shp as Apartment 1.

  Tikhanov was admitted by Madame Dupree, a thin small-boned woman with loose graying blond hair and faded, dehcate features, who might have been young once, and possibly attractive.

  "Monsieur Samuel Talley, Vamericain?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, also using French. "The Syndicat in Lourdes notified you, then."

  "My daughter, Gisele, telephoned that you were taking the bedroom and would be here for dinner. Please, come in."

  The living room was dim, lighted by only two bulbs, but Tikhanov could make out that it was a heavily draped room with old-fashioned overstuffed French furniture. The television set was on, and then off, as someone rose from beside it and loomed before him. This was Monsieur Dupree, a squat, powerful man with rumpled hair, a cast in one eye, a square stubbled jaw. Having muttered a Bon soir," he took Tikhanov's suitcase. "I will show you the room," he said in French. "My daughter's room. She will sleep on the couch for the week."

  The daughter's room was another thing. It was bright, recently redone and fresh, and it was feminine. A pastel spread covered the single bed. Instead of a headboard, there was a shelf of books, all French, of course, but no, not all French, several with English titles about New York specifically and the United States in general. There was a bedstand with a lamp wearing a rufiied shade. Tikhanov wondered about the daughter of this lowly French family who owned books in English about the United States.

  Dupree had set down Tikhanov's bag. "We will be prepared to have supper in about a half hour, Mr. Talley."

  "I'll be ready for it. But in case I doze off, do you mind letting me know again?"

  "I'll rap on your door."

  After his host had gone, Tikhanov had meant to unpack for the week ahead. But the ache persisted in his arms and one leg, and finally

  he gave in to it, wishing only to get off his feet and have some relief. He lowered himself to the bed, lifted his legs, rolled over on his side and was at once fast asleep. The sharp knocking on the door awakened him, and he raised his head, momentarily confused, and then he remembered.

  "Thank you, Mr. Dupree," he called out. "Be right with you."

  A few minutes later, he wandered into the dining room, another dimly lit room, where Dupree was already stolidly seated. Madame Dupree, wearing an apron, hurried from the kitchen to show Tikhanov to his place. She indicated the empty chair beside him. "We won't wait for Gisele. She phoned to say she was still at work and will be late."

  Madame Dupree paused at the kitchen door. "We eat modestly," she apologized. "Tonight I have consomme and for the main course an omelette with smoked salmon." Tikhanov held back a smile at the for-mahty of her announcement.

  He took in the hideous dining room. Soiled striped wallpaper. A yellowing sketch of Jesus cut from a newspaper and framed. A metal crucifix. On another wall a framed photograph of a marble statue of the Virgin Mary. Serving the soup, Madame Dupree saw Tikhanov studying the hangings. She said, defensively, "We are a religious family, Mr. Talley."

  "Yes, I see."

  "But you would not have come to Lourdes unless you are a believer."

  "That's right."

  Once they were served, and Madame Dupree was seated, Tikhanov was about to dip his spoon into the soup when he heard a brief rumble. Startled, he looked up to see his host and hostess with their eyes shut, heads bowed, as monsieur muttered grace under his breath. Embarrassed by this public display, and what he was expected to do, Tikhanov laid down his spoon and bowed his head, also.

  After that, they ate. At first the Duprees were silent, but eventually there was some halting conversation. Tikhanov politely wanted to know about them, but the most he could find out was that monsieur was a garage mechanic and madame was a maid at the Hotel President on the edge of town. As to recreation and social activity, these were confined to watching the state television programs, attending Mass at the nearby cathedral, and appearing at various church affairs. Did they know anything about Lourdes? A little, what everyone knew, but mainly what their daughter told them.

  "Gisele should be here any minute," Madame said. "She can tell you anything you want to know about Lourdes."

  "That will be most helpful," said Tikhanov.

  As the plates from the main course were removed, the basket of bread taken away, and the crumbs swept off the tablecloth, Tikhanov's mind went to his Mother Russia. What would members of the Politburo think if they could see their great international diplomat, and future premier, the renowned and respected intellectual Sergei Tikhanov sitting here consorting with two morons, oafs, drones.

  About to cut into his tarte aux fruits, he felt the room suddenly come alive. A breathtakingly beautiful young woman, more a girl, with honey-colored hair caught in a ponytail, and incredible green-gray eyes, had burst into the room, was pecking kisses at her parents. Tikhanov watched her round the table, full of vitahty and the outdoors, trim and energetic.

  She held out her hand to Tikhanov. "And you must be our boarder, Mr. Talley."

  "I am Sam Talley," said Tikhanov awkwardly. "And you are Mademoiselle Gisele Dupree."

  "None other," she said, switching to English, sitting beside Tikhanov. "Welcome to the house of Dupree and welcome to the town next door to all those miracles."

  "Thank you," said Tikhanov. "I hope so. The miracles, I mean."

  Madame Dupree had gone into the kitchen to retrieve her daughter's warmed-over soup and make her an omelette.

  Gisele babbled on, to her father in French, to Tikhanov in English, recounting her adventures this first day of The Reappearance Time in Lourdes.

  Tikhanov listened to her closely, and observed her with fascination, wishing fleetingly not only for health but for youth. No doubt about it, a real beauty, perhaps from the mother's side. But more. Unlike her parents, Grisele was apparently well-educated, knowledgeable, with a perfect grasp of the American English. But still more, as she ate and talked, there was something about her, something that made Tikhanov feel uneasy. He tried to pin it down, this uneasy feeling. Her alertness, that was it, she was too alert, possibly clever, maybe perceptive. He wondered if she might give him trouble. He doubted it. She was too young, too limited, strictly a local who knew little beyond the life in Lourdes and her Catholicism. Still, his fake mustache itched and he told himself to be wary. The young ones were so smart these days, made worldly-wise by television.

  He realized that she had finished her food and was speaking to him, curious about what had brought him to Lourdes.

  "Why?" he found himself saying. "Well, why not? I haven't been

  feeling well for some time. An illness I do not like to discuss. Too boring for dinner conversation. I became impatient with my doctors, and a Catholic friend suggested I visit Lourdes, especially now. He knew I was a fallen-away Catholic, but one never falls far from that tree of life, does one? So I had a vacation, so I thought I would take it in Lourdes."

  "You never
can tell," said Gisele cheerfully. "There are lucky ones here every year. They are cured. I have seen it happen to them. You may be one of this year's lucky ones, Mr. Talley. Go to the grotto every day. Pray with the pilgrims, drink the water, take the baths. And have faith."

  He met her eyes to see if she was teasing, but she was evidently serious. He decided to be serious, too. "I would like to have real faith, pure faith," he said earnestly. "But it is hard for one like me, a man of certain intelligence, to accept the fact that there are gravely ill persons who have been cured by faith and not science."

  "Beheve me, it happens. As I told you, I've seen it happen with my own eyes. You know, I'm a guide in Lourdes, and I get aroimd, and I see them all, and now and then I see one lost soul who is totally healed, totally. Not by science, but by faith."

  "I'm impressed," said Tikhanov.

  "In fact, I know our latest miracle cure personally. I met her a number of years ago. She's been coming to Lourdes for five years. She is an Englishwoman, a Mrs. Edith Moore. She was given up as a terminal cancer case, but on her second visit to Lourdes she was blessed with a miraculous cure. Poof. Cancer gone. The blood cells a healthy red, the bones strong. Actually, she's in Lourdes for a last time, a last examination, before being declared a miracle cure. I ran into her before dinner. She's robust, the picture of well-being, and excited. Would you like to meet her? Would that prove something for you?"

  "It certainly would," replied Tikhanov, feeling a surge of optimism. "I'd very much like to meet your Mrs. Moore."

  "Then you shall. I'll try to arrange lunch with her. If you'll pay for it. And for my time, taking time off from a tour. The price for the meal and a hundred francs for your guide. Is that too much?"

  Tikhanov felt the smile beneath his shaggy mustache. "A bargain, as we Americans say."