The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  It was smart and airy, the sitting room a mix of contemporary and antique furniture, old clock, fresh flowers, carved wooden animals, television, and as attractive as she had remembered it, such a relief after the cramped hovel they had left.

  Holding Ken, she tried to point out the lovely decor to him, the white sofa, wicker chairs, white fireplace.

  "Let's order a drink from room service," she said, "and sit down and get you relaxed, and then if you're up to it we can go down to dinner."

  "I want to sleep," he said. "Let me lie down."

  He was so exhausted that Amanda didn't have the heart to press him further about the amenities of their new hotel. She led him into the open-beamed bedroom. The covers on the double bed were already turned back. She undressed him down to his boxer shorts, did not bother to unpack and find his pajamas, pushed him toward the bed, and lowered him onto the soft mattress. She maneuvered him into a comfortable position, and covered him. By the time she had finished, he was sound asleep.

  She could not blame his exhaustion on their trip to the resort. The trip through the French countryside had been fast and smooth. She blamed his condition on the ordeal of the procession, the endless marching with those other fanatics. That had brought him down, that and his illness, of course.

  She wandered around the bedroom, intending to unpack, until she realized how hungry she was. She had not had a bite to eat since lunch on the train. Going into the carpeted bathroom, with makeup from her purse, she washed, touched up her cheeks and lips, combed her hair, and then left the suite and headed downstairs.

  In the modern lounge on the ground floor, she was alone on a beige sofa and had a martini. She was more pleased with herself than ever to have managed to bring Ken to this hotel. She tried to put her first-day impressions of Lourdes out of her mind. She felt more reasonable now, more generous, and could see how a shrine like that could be psychologically uplifting to ignorant visitors who possessed real faith. But then she shuddered. To her, with her professional background, it remained a spiritual horror.

  Finishing the last of her martini, she rose and headed for the treat that awaited her in the dining room. Diners were still lingering over the last of their meals, but there were a number of tables available and the maitre d' found one for Amanda in a quiet comer. She took the fancy menu, thinking how clever it was of the proprietor to furnish the dining area simply and depend on his lush menu for the real decor. Reviewing the choices on the menu— "La Carte Gourmande" or "Le Repas des Villes" or "Le Repas des Champs" —she decided to go all the way and order the full and most expensive dinner.

  She made her selection from "Le Repas des Villes, " the 235-franc

  dinner, plus IS percent service en sus, and when the maitre d' returned, she briskly ordered La Salade d I'Oiseau for openers, La Fine Rouelle de Turbot Sauce Simple, then a choice of two dishes and she selected Les Piccatas de Foie de Canard en Vinaigrette d'Asperges, and -- what the hell, a dessert also—for a dessert La Tourte Chaude au Chocolat Moelleux,

  Dinner took the better part of two hours, and when it was done Amanda could hardly move. She felt guilty that Ken had not been able to share this hedonistic indulgence, but felt better knowing that he would be at a table with her tomorrow night. She considered forcing herself to take a stroll on the vast lawn in back of the hotel, to walk off some of the meal, but finally decided to go up to their suite in case Ken was awake by now.

  Arriving at the suite on the third floor, she went inside and directly to the bedroom. In the lamplight she could see that Ken was still asleep, head deep in the down pillow, and he had not so much as budged from his original position. Clearly, he needed the rest and would not be up until morning.

  Quietly, she went about unpacking her bag and his, hanging up dresses and suits in the wardrobe, and when she was done, there remained only a half dozen books she had brought along in her tote bag and their suitcase. She unzipped the tote bag, extracted the two volumes of the Zola novel, and took them—along with the chocolate-covered mint that the hotel maid had left on her pillow—into the living room. She sat down, nibbling, and poked through both volumes of the Zola novel, once more going over the passages that she had marked. Through with the books, she placed them on the coffee table, then located a memo pad and a pencil beside the telephone. Should Ken awaken and rise for breakfast before she did, he might find it fascinating to have something to read with his orange juice. "Ken darling," she wrote, "hope you are feeling better. In case you are up before I am, here is something you'll want to read at breakfast. Don't try to go through the entire novel—just look at the passages in Zola I have marked off. I love you. Your own—Amanda."

  She placed the note on top of the books, and realized that by now she, too, was tired. She would go right to bed, so that she could be up early and they could have a wonderful day outdoors tomorrow.

  Stripped naked, going to the bathroom for her nightgown, passing mirrors, she was more conscious than ever of her nude body. She could recall with excitement how much Ken had enjoyed that body, how often and endlessly he liked to join it with his own in love. Well, the body was still here, mature, strong, but soft, and waiting for Ken's

  recovery and the love that he had given it when he was robust and athletic before the onset of his illness. Now the fatigued lump in bed was only a shell of that former self, but she was more than ever sure that surgery could repair and save him, revitalize him, enable him to make fantastic love with her for the rest of their lives, giving them not only children but an eternity of fleshly pleasures.

  Having put on her nightgown and turned off the lights, she snuggled down on her side of the bed and was soon enveloped by sleep.

  She had no idea how many hours she had slept. She only knew that it must be well into morning as she gradually opened her eyes to the sun's glare. She listened to the chirping of the birds in the plane and tuhp trees outside the bedroom window, then yawning herself fully awake she rolled over toward Ken's side of the bed to speak to him. He was not in bed, his place empty, but she was not surprised. He'd had enough sleep and was probably in the living room having breakfast or lolling on the sofa perhaps reading through the Zola novel.

  Throwing back her covers, Amanda sat up and swung off the bed. Stepping into her bedroom slippers, she decided to see Ken before brushing her teeth and showering.

  She clumped into the next room, calling out, "Ken, how are you?" No answer. She looked around. He wasn't there. She turned toward the balcony where he might be having breakfast. He wasn't there either. Probably he had wanted a breath of air and she would find him outside.

  She had started toward the bedroom when, out of the comer of her eye, she caught sight of a piece of paper Scotch-taped to the entrance door of the suite. She detoured to see what it was, and saw at once it was a piece of the cream-colored hotel stationery and she recognized Ken's scrawled handwriting on it. She tore the note free and read what Ken had written:

  Amanda, dear meddling dear.

  Goddammit, don't you try anything like this again.

  You believe what you believe, and let me believe what I believe. But just don't try to obstruct my beliefs. I don't think you have the slightest notion of the depth of my faith. I believe in Bernadette's communications with the Holy Mother, I believe in the Immaculate Conception, I believe that the Virgin Mary will return, I believe in every one of the cures She has given to the blessed ones I hope to be one of them — not only for my sake, but for us.

  On the day you can prove —prove— my faith is wrong. I might listen. But otherwise leave me be.

  As to this silly, shallow place, I don't belong here. I don't belong in a resort spa so far from where I want to be. I belong in my Lourdes hotel

  with the rest of my pilgrimage group, my friends, and I belong as close to the holy grotto as I can get.

  I've taken a taxi back to Lourdes. If you wish, you can join me there. If not, I'll see you in Chicago once I am cured.

  As much as you try me, Amand
a, still I love you.

  Ken

  Amanda felt not anger but a wave of frustration that made her feel weak and helpless.

  Ken, you fool, don't be an ass, don't commit suicide, she wanted to cry out.

  She had crumpled his note and turned to the bedroom when she spotted the two volumes of the Zola novel and the note that she had left on top of it last night. She walked toward the books, wondering if he had scanned them.

  Apparently he had, for she could see that he had scribbled something on the bottom of her note to him. She took it up and found two words in his hand:

  "Fuck Zola."

  She wanted to weep over Ken's pious craziness, his blind idiocy, his expecting to be rescued from the clutches of death by some ghostly apparition from outer space. But she did not weep. Instead, she went into the bedroom to get dressed and follow him back to Lourdes.

  He needed someone more earthly to see that he survived. She was the one to do it. And she would do it, yet.

  Monday, August 15

  It was one minute after midnight in Lourdes, and the second day of The Reappearance Time had begun.

  At precisely two o'clock in the morning, the alarm of Natale Rinaldi's travel clock on the stand beside her bed in the Hotel Galha & Londres had gone off shrilly. Immediately awakened, Natale had reached out, fumbled for it, and pressed her hand on it to still the persistent sound. She sat up fully aroused, coming out of a fiizzy dream-filled darkness into alert darkness, mind focusing and remembering that after dinner she had set the unique Braille clock for two in the morning and that she had gone to sleep without removing her dress, only kicking off her shoes which would be below the bed.

  Since her helper, Rosa, had not been able to guide her back to the grotto a second time the evening before, Natale had resolved to go back alone when everyone else slept and she could enjoy the comfort of the shrine by herself. Swinging her feet off the bed, pushing them into her low-heeled shoes, she suffered a brief moment of panic. She wondered if she could possibly remember the direction, the count of the steps to each turning, once she departed her room and headed for the grotto alone. But the momentary void in her mind was instantly filled by the rows of numbers in order, the steps she must take to each turning, from her hotel room to the lobby to the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous to the

  ramp to the Rosary Basilica and the precious grotto itself. The numbers were there in her mind, as certain and vivid as if on a computer screen.

  Relieved, she stood up, felt her way to the bathroom, doused her face with cold water, and combed her hair.

  She stepped into the corridor, locked the door, and placed the key in an inside pocket of the purse she had slung over her shoulder.

  She started to her right, seeking the elevator, and unerringly she reached it. She touched the rosary in her purse, thinking of her lone vigil at the grotto and the prayers she would offer to the invisible Virgin.

  When she heard the elevator arrive, she was ready to go on. Nothing could keep her from the One she loved and would be able to speak to alone.

  Slumped in a chair behind the reception desk, chin resting against the exposed mat of hair on his chest, Anatole was dozing. A sound of some kind, a famihar but unexpected noise, intruded upon his subconscious, awakening him. Opening his eyes, he could hear the elevator across the lobby descending. He listened as it rattled to a stop at ground level.

  A quick check of the reception desk clock told him it was five minutes after two o'clock in the morning.

  This was unheard of, someone using the elevator at this hour. Since arriving in Lourdes from Marseilles, and taking this boring job, Anatole had never seen anyone awake two hours after midnight in this dead-ass hotel. During the entire week of his employment here, the lobby had been like a morgue between one o'clock in the morning and five.

  And now, at five minutes after two o'clock, someone was actually emerging from the elevator.

  Anatole came to his feet, bending over the counter as he squinted across the lobby.

  Of all people, the young woman, the great-looking girl, was emerging from the elevator. He recognized her at once. The absolutely dazzling blind girl.

  There she was in person. And all alone. Crazy, crazy. What the hell was she up to at this hour?

  She seemed to know what she was up to, because she was making her way, with some certainty, toward the hotel door and the street.

  Anatole remembered that he had locked the hotel door, as he had been instructed to do, before taking his nap. The girl, the sexpot, would find it a secure barrier that would prevent her from going wherever she was headed. She deserved the courtesy of the hotel, he told himself, and

  he deserved a closer look. Immediately, he was moving, hastening along the reception counter and around it toward the door.

  She had reached the door when he called out, "Mademoiselle."

  She stopped in her tracks, startled, and turned her head.

  "I am Anatole, the reception clerk on the night shift," he quickly explained. "You know it is after two in the morning?"

  "Yes, I know," she said without hesitation.

  "You want to go into the street at this hour?"

  "I have an appointment," she said.

  "Well, the front door is locked. We always keep it locked after everyone goes to sleep. But I can unlock it for you."

  "Please do," she said.

  He was releasing the dead bolt. "If you expect to be back soon, I can leave it unlocked for you."

  "I would appreciate that."

  "Here, let me open the door," Anatole said.

  He stepped in front of her, brushing against her, feeling the soft give of those fantastic young breasts against his arm. Easing the door back, he had a close look at her. A breathtaking pale face enhvened only by dark glasses. The pointed breasts. The soft short dress that clung to her hips and showed ofif the shapely legs.

  "Is the door open?" she asked.

  "Yes." He could hardly find his voice. "Can I help you in any way?"

  "Thank you. I'm all right."

  She went unhesitatingly past him into the street. The second her foot touched the sidewalk, she turned to the right. He stepped out to watch her. Her stride was measured, but sure, almost defiant. Anatole grinned. A gutsy little bitch. She'd be something in bed. He kept his eyes on her, the wonderful legs, the undulating hips, and he was inflamed with desire.

  He'd had many women in Marseilles, mostly whores paid for out of his meager earnings from rotten jobs that required manual labor, those and a few beat-up drunken dames who would do anything with anyone, but he had never made it with a young lady, with a high-flying lady, certainly not with someone who looked like this one did.

  He continued to keep his eyes on her receding figure in the patches of street lights that defied the darkness. In the distance, she had come to the comer, expertly stepped off" the curb, crossed the street, and was going on past the cafe.

  To an appointment? With whom?

  And then he knew. The grotto. She was going to wait for the

  Virgin at the grotto. Dumb kid. How could she hope to see the Virgin or anyone? When she realized that there was no Virgin there, she might want someone else, someone who could really keep her company.

  Turning back to the hotel, he could barely walk, the erection between his legs was so enormous.

  It was difficult to do in the flickering light of the candles far below, but Mikel Hurtado continued to crawl on hands and knees from the vegetation nearest the niche that held the statue of the Virgin Mary into the bushes and forest of trees.

  Upon awakening from his nap in the hotel a half hour ago, he had at first planned to carry his dynamite and detonator to the grotto and either hide the equipment or set it up. Dressing, he'd had second thoughts. Yesterday, he had seen the grotto area in the evening, and it had been promising. Now he decided that he had better have another scouting exploration by night when there were no pilgrims around, but when there might be some guards on hand. His experienc
es in Spain had taught him it was essential to know the security situation at any target. So, without his equipment, he had gone down the stairs to the reception lobby, been let outside by the sleepy reception clerk, and gone along the empty street toward the domain.

  From the shadows at the bottom of the street ramp, Hurtado had been able to make a preliminary survey of the area near his destination. There was not a soul in sight around the Rosary Esplanade, nor on the double walks rising to the Upper Basihca. There appeared to be no one in the entrance to the grotto. As for the Esplanade des Processions, as the map called it, not a human could be seen on its entire length.

  Hurtado had started to move out of the shadows when, from nowhere it seemed, a figure appeared a short distance away—a man, an older blue-shirted night watchman wearing a shoulder holster. He was not exactly walking, really just shuffling along, coming up the Esplanade des Processions, probably from the gate at the far end, moving toward the Rosary Basihca. The watchman seemed to be sleepwalking, yawning, looking neither to right nor left, as he advanced toward the churches. Reaching the steps before the Rosary Basihca, he seated himself to have a smoke. This had taken five minutes. He had finally dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with his shoe. Then he stood up and resumed his circuit of the domain.

  Eyeing the guard's retreat, Hurtado consulted his wristwatch and decided to time him. Crouching, finally sitting out of sight on one side of the ramp from the street, Hurtado patiently waited. Twenty-five minutes had gone by before the guard could be seen advancing from the far

  side of the domain toward the basilicas. Over thirty minutes, closer to thirty-five, before he reached the entrance to the Rosary Basihca, once more resting and enjoying his ritual smoke. Five more minutes and the guard was again on patrol.

  Hurtado was satisfied with the timing. The guard came into this immediate area every thirty minutes, roughly on the hour and the half hour. Hurtado would wait until he was out of sight, and then make his way to the grotto. He would examine the shrubbery, bushes, trees beside and above the cave, and he would make sure to take his leave when he knew that the single guard was elsewhere in the domain.