Chicago and Biarritz
It was a half-block's walk from the parking lot to Dr. Whitney's twenty-third floor suite of offices in the high rise in Chicago's Loop, just across from the elevator. And although the drizzle was light this morning, it had been enough to saturate Amanda Spenser's jaunty blue rain hat and blue raincoat. In the hall, going toward Dr. Whitney's suite, Amanda removed her soggy rain gear, and paused briefly in the ladies' room to see if the hat had messed her neat bobbed brown hair. It had, indeed. She patted her hair into place, took off her tinted blue-rimmed prescription glasses which she used for driving, wiped them dry, tucked them into her purse, and headed for her appointment with Ken Clayton's physician.
Once inside the tasteful reception room, the fabrics on the furniture all a restful pale green, Amanda hung her hat and coat on the wooden coat rack and went directly to the gray-haired receptionist behind the counter.
The woman was expecting her. "Miss Spenser?"
"Right on time, I hope."
"Oh, yes. But I'm afraid the doctor is running a few minutes behind. He'll be with you shortly. I know he's eager to see you. If you don't mind taking a seat—"
"Not at all."
"By the way, how is Mr. Clayton?"
"Still somewhat weak, but well enough to go to the office every morning and work a half day."
"I'm glad to hear that He's such a wonderful young man. One of the most charming I've ever met. We all wish him the best, Miss Spenser."
"Thank you," said Amanda, taking a magazine from the wall rack, any magazine, in this case a medical magazine.
Sitting, settling back, she thumbed through it. Pharmaceutical ads on every page. Then an article with color pictures and charts on diabetes. Amanda had no patience for it. She kept the periodical open on her lap, but blankly stared through it.
Yes, Amanda thought, the receptionist was right, Ken was extremely charming. Amanda had been charmed an hour after meeting him two summers ago. There had been a barbecue on the patio of the palatial residence of the elder Claytons', Ken's parents, on Chicago's North Shore. An informal outdoor dinner mostly for the members of Bernard B. Clayton's prestigious law firm, in which his son, Ken, was a partner specializing in estate planning. One of the firm's juniors had brought Amanda along.
After that, Amanda and Ken began seeing each other regularly, and within a year were living together in Amanda's five-room apartment off Michigan Boulevard. Everyone said they made a perfect couple. Ken, at thirty-three, was five foot eleven, with a shock of unruly black hair, collar-ad masculine features, brawny and athletic (a champion at handball). Amanda at thirty was equally trim (tennis her game), actually comely and fair, brown eyes wide set, a broad tip-tilted nose, a generous rosy mouth, a svelte figure, abundant bosom, shapely legs. And a brain, a brain as fine as Ken's.
Strangers were always surprised to learn that Amanda was a well-paid, full-time clinical psychologist, dividing her crowded days between a carefully limited private practice and an associate professor's post in the department of behavioral sciences at the University of Chicago. Her interest in psychology had been inspired by reading Alfred Adler at an early age. Her role model had been the psychoanalyst, Karen Homey, for Amanda the greatest woman in the field. The fact that the famed John B. Watson had got his Ph.D. at the University of Chicago helped direct her to that school, and learning that Carl Rogers had once been director of the University of Chicago Counseling Center encouraged her to serve there for a period, which in turn led to her current private practice.
She was busy, and so was Ken, and they had time for each other only late evenings and weekends. They spent more than half of their togetherness in bed. They were sexually compatible, and made love at least four times a week, and it was divine because Ken was thoughtful and experienced.
A year ago, secure in their relationship and their need for one another, they had decided to get married. Bernard and Helen Clayton, both devout Catholics, had wanted a formal church wedding, and Ken didn't care one way or the other, and neither did Amanda, whose Minnesota father had been a non-practicing Catholic and her mother of no remembered religion at all.
The marriage had been planned for August of this year.
But then, one early evening, in the midst of a handball game, Ken collapsed. His right leg had given way, and he had folded up. His leg, actually his thigh, was causing him unremitting pain. This had been less than six weeks ago. Dr. Whitney, the Clayton family physician, had dispatched Ken on a round of specialists, examinations, tests, X-rays.
Finally, the verdict was in. A sarcoma, a bone cancer. Deterioration of the bone tissue involving the head of the right femur, or thigh. Gradually, the disease would worsen. Ken would lose mobility, require crutches, eventually a wheelchair. Most likely, the cancer would be fatal. The options for a possible cure were threefold: surgery, radiation, chemotherapy. Was the condition operable? It was. Dr. Whitney began to investigate the chances of successful surgery. The prognosis was gloomy, the odds weighted against success, but still there were odds, and there was no alternative.
So surgery was settled upon. It was to be performed almost immediately. The Clayton wedding date, the marriage of Ken and Amanda, was indefinitely postponed.
Amanda considered her feelings. She felt like a widow, and she was not yet a bride.
But still there was the surgery. That was the hope.
"Miss Spenser," she heard the receptionist say. "Dr. Whitney can see you now."
The receptionist was holding the hall door open. Amanda, clutching her purse, was on her feet and through the door.
She went down the short corridor, and turned into the doctor's private office, shutting the door behind her and wondering for what reason he had summoned her. It seemed a portent of some unhappiness.
Dr. Whitney half rose from his desk chair. "Miss Spenser," he said, and gestured her to a chair across from his desk.
Dr. Whitney was one of those physicians whose very aspect inspired confidence. He had a square, nicely aging face, a few good wrinkles, a furrowed brow and hair whiting at the temples, not unlike those pseudo-medicos in television commercials whose presence bespeak experience, wisdom, and authority.
As Amanda sat, Dr. Whitney lowered himself onto his leather chair, closed the manila folder on his desk, and went right to it. "Miss Spenser, I thought it best if we could talk face-to-face. I wanted to discuss Ken's surgery. I hope this sudden call didn't inconvenience you?"
"Nothing is more important than Ken's surgery."
"I know he told you about it, that it is the primary option we have."
"He told me a little. Just that there were no guarantees, but that there was a fair chance, and that he was going to go through with it. I was glad he was going ahead. I encouraged it." She hesitated. "What are his chances?"
Dr. Whitney measured his words. "With surgery, some. Without surgery, none. There is some advance work being done in this field, but I'm afraid it hasn't come to fruition yet. About a year ago, I read a paper by a Dr. Maurice Duval in Paris who had evolved a new technique, surgery and implants coupled with genetic engineering. But his experiments at that point, although fully successful, had involved mammals other than man. I discussed this with several highly accredited local surgeons, who had also heard of Duval's progress, but they felt that it was not ready to be applied to human beings as yet. So, since time is of the essence, we are left with the only surgery we know and can depend upon, standard bone surgery with replacement of the malignant portion of the femur. Sometimes it works successfully."
"Sometimes," Amanda echoed dully.
"Let me be more precise," said Dr. Whitney, "based on case histories of these surgeries. If undertaken right away, before there is more deterioration, Ken may have a 30 percent chance of getting rid of his cancer and being restored to normal life. But the fact remains, statistically, that there would also be a 70 percent chance of failure. Nevertheless, I repeat, there is no other choice but to go right ahead."
"Well, when do we go ahead?"
Dr. Whitney frowned. "We don't," he said simply. "I had the surgery scheduled for this week, but now the operation has been cancelled."
Amanda was on the edge of her chair. "For heaven's sake, why?"
"That's the reason I called you in today, as the one closest to Ken, to discuss the problem with you." Dr. Whitney cleared his throat and looked away. "I saw Ken late yesterday, and outlined one final time what had to be done. He approved, approved of the surgery. This morning, first thing, he telephoned me. He had changed his mind, was turning down the operation."
Amanda was shocked. "He what? He won't go through with it? I didn't talk to him this morning—he was still asleep—so I haven't heard about this. But it makes no sense. Are you sure? We had agreed surgery was his only chance."
"Apparently Ken doesn't think so. He now thinks there's a better course. Have you seen this morning's paper?"
"Not yet."
"Have a look." Dr. Whitney took the Chicago Tribune off the corner of his desk and held it out for Amanda. She surveyed the front page and was more bewildered than ever. "There's just some headline about Lourdes."
"Turn to page three. Read the full story."
Amanda opened the paper, and the headline hit her. VIRGIN MARY TO RETURN TO LOURDES. The story that followed was bylined by someone named Liz Finch, and it was datelined Paris.
Amanda hastily read the news story. When she was through, she let the paper drop to the floor, and met Dr. Whitney's eyes. She was aghast as the full import of what was happening struck her. "The Virgin Mary returning to Lourdes to perform a miracle? The hallucinating of an adolescent peasant girl over a century ago? Are you telling me Ken has read and believes in this?"
"Yes."
"Ken depending on a miracle to save him instead of surgery? Dr. Whitney, that's not like Ken, you know it isn't. He doesn't believe in miracles. He's hardly a churchgoer. You know him. He's reasonable, logical, intelligent—"
"Not anymore, he's not," said the physician. "Not when he's so desperate."
"But I'm telling you it's not like Ken."
"You know his mother fairly well, don't you? You know Helen Clayton is a fervent believer. Can you imagine how this story affected her? She was all over Ken at once. Since she doesn't like the surgeon's odds, she's decided that Lourdes will offer her son a better chance for complete recovery. She's already sent Ken to see their priest, Father Hearn, and it was after seeing Father Hearn that Ken phoned me and cancelled the surgery. He told me that he's going to Lourdes. He's been brainwashed into thinking he may have a good chance for a miracle cure. It was no use arguing with him. One can't argue with blind faith. Even when it's out of character."
Amanda sat there, worrying her purse, deeply shaken. "Dr. Whitney, I try to deal with realities in my work. You know I'm a psychologist."
"I know."
"Perhaps this is a momentary aberration of Ken's that will pass. Let me ask you a question. What if we let him go to Lourdes, let him pray for a miracle, let him believe in the fairy tale until he sees for himself that it hasn't cured him? Couldn't he return here then, having come to his senses, and undergo the surgery?"
"Miss Spenser, I must be absolutely candid with you. I will say again what I said earlier. In this kind of disease, time is of the essence. The loss of a full month may make Ken almost inoperable, at least reduce his chances for a successful surgery from thirty percent to fifteen percent. His chances for survival are low enough. To cut them in half again reduces his chances drastically. Such are the facts. Unless he is saved by a miracle, he won't be saved at all. I'm sorry. But I had to apprise you of the turn of events, and the current situation, and hope you could influence Ken's thinking. I'm hoping somehow you can do something about it."
Amanda gathered up her purse and resolutely stood up. "I am going to do something about it. Immediately."
Dr. Whitney was on his feet. "Are you going to speak to Ken or his mother?"
"To neither. They'd be impossible to talk to in their present state. I'm going to talk to Father Hearn. Right now. He's our only hope."
It was not until late afternoon that Amanda Spenser was able to get an appointment to see Father Hearn. Even that had been difficult to arrange on such short notice, but she had invoked her friendship with Bernard and Helen Clayton and explained her relationship with Ken Clayton.
In a way, however, the delay had been a good thing.
After making her appointment, Amanda had realized that she was poorly prepared to debate with an educated Catholic priest about Lourdes and miraculous cures. While she knew vaguely about Bernadette and her visions, probably from having once seen the film The Song of Bernadette revived on television when she was in college, she knew nothing about the miracle shrine itself.
Since Father Hearn could not meet her until four-thirty in the afternoon, Amanda had five hours to brief herself for the visit. More than an hour of it she had devoted to calling her secretary and arranging to have all her sessions with her patients cancelled for this afternoon, and then having a salad and two cups of coffee in a crowded cafe in the Loop.
After that, she had spent four hours in the reading room of the Chicago Public Library skimming through the few volumes available that were devoted to Bernadette and Lourdes. She had gone through Bernadette of Lourdes by Frances Parkinson Keyes, which was pro, and The Happening at Lourdes by Alan Neame, which was evenhanded, and Eleven Lourdes Miracles by Dr. D. J. West, which was con, jotted a few notes, and by the time the appointment with Father Hearn neared, she felt sufficiently briefed to hold her own in a discussion on the subject.
The Church of the Good Shepherd was near Lincoln Park, and it had its own parking lot. The place of worship, from its size and well-maintained exterior, was obviously attended and supported by a wealthy congregation. Certainly, Amanda realized, her future in-laws would have belonged to no other.
Refusing to be intimidated by such splendor, Amanda went directly inside, where she was met and shown to the chancery office occupied by Father Hearn. The priest proved to be full-faced, potbellied, and amiable. By contrast with the church itself, his office seemed unprepossessing. Plain gray drapes framed the windows. There was a fireplace, and above it a large bronze crucifix depicting an elongated Giacometti-like Savior on the Cross. Father Hearn offered Amanda a velour-covered chair beside his table desk, then took his place in the straight chair at the desk.
On the wall behind him was a framed photograph of Pope John Paul III.
Father Hearn was disarmingly apologetic. "Normally, I am not this difficult to see. I enjoy meeting people, and rarely constrict their visits. But this has been an unusually busy day. I'm sorry to limit your visit, Miss Spenser, but only through a bit of sleight of hand have I managed to squeeze you in, and I can give you just twenty minutes. Perhaps another time we can—"
"No," said Amanda. "Twenty minutes will do." She realized that she could not squander a second. She must get to the subject of potential contention as quickly as possible. "As I told you on the phone, I'm Ken Clayton's fiancée."
"I'm delighted to meet you, at last. Yes, I've known about you. I was to officiate at your wedding. I still expect to do so at a later date."
"Then you know about Ken's illness, his cancer?"
"I've heard about it from his parents. And now from Mr. Clayton himself. I assume you know he was in to see me this morning. We discussed his condition at some length."
"That's why I'm here," said Amanda, "to discuss it with you further."
"I'm glad to have this opportunity to talk to you" Father Hearn assured her earnestly.
The smooth moon face before her was phlegmatic, revealed no pretense of knowing what Amanda's visit was about, but Amanda was certain that it masked shrewd understanding of her motive in wishing this appointment.
"I have no idea if you know anything about me," said Amanda. "Do you know I'm a clinical psychologist?"
Father Hearn's mouth puckered. A faint suggestion of surprise. "No," he said. "No, I don't think I'd been told that."
"I have a private practice," said Amanda. "I teach part-time at the University of Chicago. I teach clinical psychology, abnormal psychology, theory of personality. I speak of this only because I want you to understand that while my concern for Ken is that of a woman who loves him, it is also that of a person who can view his illness objectively. "Father, you do know how serious his illness is, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, Miss Spenser. I'm sorry for his ordeal, and your own. I shall be offering prayers for his speedy and complete recovery."
"That's kind of you, Father Hearn, and I appreciate it." She tried to control herself, keep any tinge of sarcasm out of her voice. "Helpful as prayer may be, I'm afraid Ken will need more than that. His only real hope, his one hope, lies in immediate surgery. He was prepared to undergo this surgery until he saw you this morning. Now he has cancelled it, and is off to find a miracle. For me, Father, his decision is suicidal and deeply distressing. Only by having an operation—"
Father Hearn interrupted her. "Miss Spenser, I have in no way tried to dissuade Mr. Clayton from undergoing an operation. It is not in my province to sit in judgment on a parishioner's desire to seek help from the medical profession. This was a decision Mr. Clayton had to come to himself. When we talked this morning, he had great misgivings about the surgery's being a success. He said that if he underwent an operation now, he'd sacrifice a God-given opportunity to be in Lourdes at the time of the Virgin Mary's visitation. He realized that after his surgery he'd be convalescing, bedridden, and would therefore be unable to pray directly to the Blessed Virgin for a miraculous cure of his possibly fatal illness. Mr. Clayton made his choice on his own. He decided to put his life in the hands of Our Lord and of the Mother of Heaven at a Christian shrine that has provided—constantly provided—miraculous cures to afflicted pilgrims from all over the earth."
Amanda felt a rush of anger and impatience that transcended her control. There was a life at stake, a human life, and this pious poop was trying to disregard it with banalities. "Father Hearn, you don't believe all that, do you?"
Momentarily, the priest was taken aback. "What are you saying—don't believe what?"
"That this illiterate shepherdess really, in reality, saw the Virgin Mary? Wait, let me finish, let me make myself clear, without being disrespectful in any way. Even assuming that there was a corporeal Virgin Mary, Bernadette would have been a poor choice to see her or report her message. From my reading, the evidence available, what is obvious to me is that Bernadette fits perfectly into the mold of the hysteric. There she was, in this backwater village, a half-starved, always ailing, semi-ignorant peasant girl, a little adolescent hungry for attention and love. She was the ideal type to have hallucinations, to wish for and hence conjure up a beautiful friend like the Virgin Mary, and be convinced that she had actually seen the Holy Mother and conversed with her. Bernadette deluded herself into thinking that she had seen what she claimed to see, and others then and since have been eager to be deluded also, to believe in this, to fulfill their own personal needs." Amanda caught her breath. "Father, do you expect me to put the life of the one person I love more than any other on earth in the hands of an unstable adolescent who lived briefly 130 years ago? Can you actually expect me to believe that Ken, or anyone with a medically determined serious disease, possibly incurable, can be cured by kneeling and praying at some French cave because a simple-minded peasant girl, her head filled with dreams, claimed that she had seen and talked with the Mother of Jesus eighteen times at this spot?"
Drained, Amanda sat back, hoping that she had resistance enough to weather the storm that she was sure would follow. But, to her surprise, Father Hearn displayed no anger. He appeared calm, the figure of reasonableness.
The tone of his response was quiet and steady. "If the Virgin had not appeared at the grotto, to be seen and heard by a pure and innocent believer, and had not endowed the grotto with special powers, how do you account for the scientific, the medical, facts that have been produced in the decades since? How do you account for the nearly seventy persons who have experienced a miraculous cure of what had been diagnosed by the leading physicians of many nations as an incurable disease? How do you account for the fact that in every one of these terminal cases, the best doctors in the world certified the patient as totally cured, not by medicine but by the power of the miraculous? How do you account for five thousand other cases of crippled or dying persons being reported as fully cured because of the grotto in Lourdes?"
Amanda had already brought her library notes out of her purse. Glancing at them, she said, "I read a study made by a doctor of eleven of the so-called miracle cures at Lourdes. He posed the question, 'Was there a real physical change or was it all psychological?' He decided that all or most of the so-called cures were of diseases or illnesses induced by hysteria, bodily effects of emotional disturbances such as depression, anxiety, or tension that affect the heart, blood vessels, kidneys, and so forth. 'Under hypnosis,' he wrote, 'and given appropriate suggestions, subjects have been known to produce blisters corresponding to imaginary burns and even to develop bruising and oozing of blood from the skin.' In the same way, under the hypnotic influence of Lourdes, ailments aggravated by the imagination can be improved and healed by the imagination. Not usually, but often enough to make believers think that they are sudden miracles."
"I gather," said Father Hearn wryly, "you don't believe in miracles at all."
"Father, in my profession I've seen many cases—and read many case histories—in which the mental has had an effect on the physical. But mental healing can't be depended upon, certainly not in Ken's case where he is suffering from a very real bone cancer. I'm ready to trust his life to a surgeon's scalpel. I can't trust it to an imaginative fable. No, Father, I don't believe in miracles."
"But surely you have not come here to debate with me?"
"I have come here because I assumed that, whatever your profession, you are a rational and logical man. I hoped that you would disenchant Ken with the idea of leaving his life to a mystical cure at Lourdes, and that you would convince him to go into surgery at once. I hoped that you would understand me, and I hoped that you would help me."
Father Hearn sat in silence for many seconds, and finally he spoke. "Miss Spenser, I can't help you because I can't understand you, just as you can't understand me. We speak different languages. My language speaks only in the words of faith, unreserved faith and belief in God, in the Lord, in the Virgin Mary, and the wonders, the miracles, they choose to perform. If you do not understand my language, there is nothing more we can say to each other."
Amanda felt sickened. "Then you are saying there is no chance you'll try to dissuade Ken from making the pilgrimage to Lourdes and waiting for the Virgin and her miracle?"
"No chance. I've already succeeded in getting Mr. Clayton on an official British pilgrimage to Lourdes being led by an old colleague and friend, Father Woodcourt of London. I will pray that Mr. Clayton's pilgrimage proves successful."
Amanda sighed, and stood up. "You've made his reservation, you say?"
"On a pilgrimage train from London to Paris to Lourdes. Yes, the reservation for Mr. Clayton is secure."
Amanda went to the door of the chancery, then turned. "I'd appreciate it if you'd make it two," she said.
"Two?"
"Reservations. One for Ken. The other for me. I can't let that damn fool take this horrible risk by himself. Thank you, Father. I hope that the next time we meet it will not be at a funeral."
Sitting in the Cadillac limousine taking him from the United Nations to the Soviet consular building on East 67th Street in New York City, Sergei Tikhanov still enjoyed a sense of elation at the excellent reception given his speech at the UN, especially by delegates of the Third World bloc. While the Soviet ambassador to the United Nations, the good-natured Alexei Izakov, delivered the routine speeches, it was Tikhanov, as veteran foreign minister of the USSR, who was always sent to New York to make the more crucial public statements.
This morning's address, on the continuing nuclear weapons confrontation with the United States, had been a crucial speech, and it had gone down well. If Tikhanov had any one reservation about his speech, it was that Premier Skryabin had placed limitations on its contents and the invective that might be used. This was the one thing that irked Tikhanov, his superior's conciliatory and soft policy toward the Americans. Tikhanov knew the Americans better than anyone else in the Kremlin hierarchy, and he knew they were like children who responded only to sternness and threats. But nevertheless, within its limitations, the major policy address had been effective, he was sure.
The only other thing that had bothered Tikhanov about the speech had been the rude way in which it had been treated by the leading member of his own delegation. Midway through Tikhanov's ringing address, Ambassador Izakov had abruptly risen from his seat and left the hall. Tikhanov had been momentarily embarrassed by this boorish behavior.
He intended to tell Izakov so, and expected an apology, unless the ambassador had some acceptable excuse to offer.
Perhaps there was an acceptable excuse. Because the moment that Tikhanov himself had left the UN auditorium, and the applause, he had been intercepted by a member of his delegation with a message that Ambassador Izakov wanted to see him at the consulate at once. Maybe, Tikhanov speculated, there had been some emergency that had called the ambassador away from his speech.
Now, hardly aware of the KGB security guard beside him, eager to learn what Izakov had on his mind, Tikhanov leaned forward in the back seat, peering between the driver and the second KGB guard to make out the Soviet consular building up ahead.
Inside the consulate reception room, Tikhanov had unexpectedly found an impatient Izakov waiting for him. Hastily, the ambassador led the way to his safe office, electronically secured against eavesdropping, and hastily shut the door behind them. Without bothering to sit down or wait for Tikhanov to be seated, Ambassador Izakov, appearing strained, began to speak. "Sergei, my apologies for having to walk out during your magnificent speech, but I was called away by an urgent emergency phone call from Moscow, from Kossoff, none other."
General Kossoff was chairman of the KGB, and now Tikhanov was listening attentively.
"It's Premier Skryabin," the ambassador went on. "He's suffered a stroke. He's in a coma."
"A stroke," repeated Tikhanov. "I'm used to his little heart attacks. But a stroke? How bad?"
"Massive. Whatever happens, the old man is through. If he comes out of the coma, recovers, he will be a vegetable, incapacitated. Or he may linger on in his present state. At best the doctors give him no more than a month."
"A month," said Tikhanov, trying to think.
"His successor has to be alerted and placed on standby. That's why General Kossoff called. He wanted you to be informed that an informal secret vote of the Politburo overwhelmingly favors you as the next premier of the Soviet Union. Congratulations, Sergei!"
He stuck out his hand, and awkwardly Tikhanov took it, nodding.
Tikhanov felt dizzy. "I-I'd better sit down," he said. "Let me sit down."
As if suffering an imbalance, Tikhanov made his way to the sofa, groped for an arm of it, and lowered himself onto a cushion.
"Let me get you a drink," Izakov said in a celebrating mood. "One for each of us." He started for the bat "Let's drink to it." From the bar he called back, "Vodka? I have Stolichnaya."
"Yes, vodka, a stiff one."
As he poured the drinks, Izakov went on talking. "What are your plans now, Sergei? Kossoff wanted to know. But I had no idea what your reaction would be."
"No changes. Still two days in Paris. Two days in Lisbon. Then I've told my wife to meet me at the dacha in Yalta. I thought I'd take my four-week summer vacation now. The Black Sea is at its best in these months."
Izakov approached with the drink. "Maybe you should go straight back to Moscow."
Tikhanov considered this. "No, I don't think it would be wise to appear to be hovering. Also, I don't wish to get mixed up in any of the Politburo's internal politics, certainly not this time. I'll stick to my plans. I'll just go to Yalta and wait. Kossoff can find me there if he wants me."
"He'll want you," said Izakov. "Soon as the old man dies, they'll be installing you as premier."
"Gratifying," said Tikhanov modestly. He was beginning to feel a thrill of excitement. He had worked so hard, hoped so long for this achievement. He didn't give a damn about the old man dying. He'd never respected nor cared for Skryabin anyway. It was only Skryabin's high seat and authority that he had respected, and hoped for. Now, overnight, it was all his.
Sipping his vodka, he realized that Izakov was speaking to him again, something about having to settle some matter in another office, but that he'd be right back.
Tikhanov was pleased to be alone for a brief interval. He had a compulsive need to retrace the road that had brought him to this high moment. He had been born on an isolated farm, today only an hour outside Minsk by car. His stolid father, owner of the farm, had been a decent man, uninterested in politics, a tiller of the soil and a primitive. His mother had been a bookish person who taught primary school in a nearby village. From the earliest age that Tikhanov had been able to read, and comprehend, he had read newspapers and biographies of Soviet heroes. His first and most enduring hero had been Russia's legendary Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko.
Tikhanov had vowed that he would follow in Gromyko's footsteps, and this he had done from the very start, and all along the way, as best he could. Like Gromyko, he had joined the Communist Party, attended the Minsk Institute of Agriculture, sought and won a post-graduate degree from Moscow's Lenin Institute of Economics. Like Gromyko, he had wanted to specialize in American affairs, and eventually had been appointed to the American division of the National Council of Foreign Affairs. Next, he had been transferred to the Soviet Embassy in Washington, and had displayed such shrewd understanding of the Americans that he had finally been appointed Soviet ambassador to the United States. As a statesman, he had been quiet but articulate, and effective. Like his idol he had come to be known, as one American newspaper put it, for "the granite solemnity of his face." After a few years he had been recalled to Moscow and made the head of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at 32-34 Smolenskaya-Sennaya Ploshchad. In the decade since, he had become the Soviet Union's greatest foreign minister, and the one most admired by the majority of the members of the Politburo. If he had wanted to go upward any further, there had been only one place to go, and he had dreamed of just such power.
Now it was within his grasp. Drinking his vodka, he realized that now he would have the power to put into effect his own ideas on how to treat Russia's greatest rival and foe, the United States. He would bring a new toughness to the Kremlin. He would bring the United States to its knees, neutralize it, without war, because he had observed the Americans closely and knew better than any other Soviet official that at heart the Americans were selfish and weak, lacking guts or patriotism, no longer willing to die for their country, as decadent as ancient Romans had been. This ascendancy of the Soviet Union over America would bring lasting peace to the world, and Premier Tikhanov would be not only the most lionized hero in the USSR, but the world's master as well.
He came out of his reverie as he finished his drink, aware that Ambassador Izakov was standing over him once more.
"Well, Sergei," Izakov was saying, "have you reconsidered your plans? Is it still Yalta?"
"Definitely Yalta. And I think I'll keep to my schedule of visits to Paris and Lisbon first. Can your people get me on a plane to Paris tonight?"
"No problem. I presume you'll want to speak with General Kossoff in Moscow before you leave, just so that he knows you've been informed and where you can be reached."
"Absolutely."
"Oh yes," said Izakov, "I almost forgot. My secretary took one other call for you. A Dr. Ivan Karp wants you to stop by and see him today."
"I'll give him a call," said Tikhanov.
Izakov had gone to his desk to find the memorandum slip, and he reread the message on it as he returned to Tikhanov. "He seems to have been most emphatic about wanting to see you in person." He handed the slip over to the frowning Tikhanov. "Of course, you'll know whether it's important enough to bother about."
"It's not important," said Tikhanov quickly. "Just a report on the results of a routine checkup. All right, I'll arrange to look in on him." But he knew that this explanation might not be enough. He was certain that Izakov filed regular reports on everyone's activities to the KGB. Plainly, Izakov had never heard of Dr. Karp and might be curious. In this case it was nonsense, but Tikhanov liked to be orderly. "My physician in Moscow was out of the city when I left, and I knew my annual physical was long overdue. Someone mentioned that since I was going to New York, this Dr. Karp, a Russian by birth, was reliable. So I saw him briefly the day I came in. He's a bit fussy and pedantic. I guess that's why he wants to see me; But it'll be the usual. More exercise. Diet. Less drinking."
"They always say less drinking," Izakov agreed.
"I'll arrange to see him after five—still a lot to do today—and I want to leave time for our dinner." He set down his empty glass. "Let me get hold of Dr. Karp, and then I'll call Moscow."
Tikhanov sat at the small dining table in the alcove off Dr. Ivan Karp's office, on the fourth floor of an old building around the corner from Park Avenue, impatiently waiting for the physician to finish his ritual of pouring a strong brew of tea from the china pot sitting on top of his antique brass samovar.
Tikhanov had decided upon a routine physical checkup, because one was long overdue and because he had been troubled by mild anxiety over the unevenness of his gait. He had not wanted to bother with a strange physician abroad, had intended to see his regular doctor in Moscow, but the doctor had been away on a vacation and the trip to New York had been ordered almost overnight. Tikhanov had planned to look in on the staff doctor for the Soviet UN Mission, but on second thought had decided against it because the Mission physician would certainly be a KGB agent. Tikhanov had determined to find an American who was dependable and who would not report any of his bad habits to the KGB. A chess companion in Moscow, a merchant who often visited New York and was a longtime friend of Tikhanov, had recommended that he see Dr. Ivan Karp. This Karp, a Jewish emigrant of many years, now an American citizen, was intellectually sympathetic to the Marxist philosophy.
Upon his arrival in Manhattan, Tikhanov had contacted Dr. Karp, who had agreed to give him his general checkup at a modern midtown medical facility. Leaving his security guards in the doctor's reception room, Tikhanov had submitted to a thorough examination. At its completion, Karp had said that he wanted to take his patient upstairs for some further tests by a colleague who was a neurologist. "We don't have to drag along all your KGB guards, do we?" Karp had inquired. "We can slip out the private door to my suite." Tikhanov had been more than agreeable.
Now, brought to Dr. Karp's private office for the test results, Tikhanov was becoming irritated by the deliberate movements of the doctor. Tikhanov wanted to get down to business, be done with it in time for dinner, and then be off to Paris and Lisbon and Yalta to await his summons to power.
He watched Dr. Karp, a gnomish man with a tiny pointed beard, setting out the teacup and a plate of kvhorost biscuits. "Thank you," said Tikhanov. "I don't have much time, doctor. We might as well get right down to it. Since there is always something, what is it this time? High blood pressure? Heart murmur? An indication of diabetes?"
Sitting across from him, Dr. Karp finished sipping his tea, and said gently, "I wish it were that simple."
"Meaning what, doctor? There's something else wrong?"
Dr. Karp was thoughtful a moment. He looked up. "Yes. I must be forthright with you. There is something of serious concern. The sooner you know, the better. Let me add, it is not of immediate concern, but in the long run—"
Tikhanov's impatience had turned into a grip of anxiety. He tried to disguise his fear with levity. "Well, as someone once said—in the long run, we'll all be dead."
Dr. Karp offered him an uneasy smile. "True. I'm glad you make it easier for me."
"So—what is it?"
"The examination, tests, indicate without question you are suffering from muscular dystrophy."
Tikhanov felt a shortness of breath, his anxiety at its peak. "Muscular—what?" he asked, almost inaudibly. He had heard of the disorder, of course, but was only dimly aware of what it was all about. Now it sounded ominous, terrible.
Dr. Karp was speaking more rapidly, more professionally. "The majority of cases of muscular dystrophy fall into one of four categories, and your category is known as the mixed type. This is a disease involving the progressive symmetric wasting of skeletal muscles, in your legs, in your arms."
Tikhanov refused to accept the diagnosis. "You must be mistaken, Dr. Karp. Have you felt my muscles, arms, legs? They are strong, stronger than ever."
"A typical symptom, and deceptive," said the physician. "Connective tissue and fat deposits make the muscles seem larger and stronger, but in fact this is not so and they are wasting away."
Tikhanov would not surrender. "How can you be sure?"
"I know this must be a blow to you, Mr. Tikhanov, but the results of the tests cannot be disputed. We cannot deny the findings of the electromyography, which substantiate the positive muscle biopsy. You can expect progressive muscular deterioration, and in this kind of dystrophy the voluntary muscles would be the most affected."
Tikhanov came jerkily to his feet, in despair, and ransacked his jacket pockets for his pack of cigarettes. With trembling hand, he put his lighter to a cigarette. Remaining on his feet, he said, "All right. What can I do about it?"
"Not too much, I'm afraid. There is no known means to stop the impairment. However, there are things that might be done to, well, ease the symptoms. A regime of physical therapy, exercise, possibly some surgery. Of course, one more thing on the positive side. If you do what should be done, you might enjoy ten or twelve more years of good living before you are fully incapacitated."
"That's all the time I want, Dr. Karp."
"You can have it, if you retire."
"Retire? You know very well who I am—"
"I know who you are. You've had many years of success. But this can no longer be. You must resign from your present post, retire and enjoy a leisurely life, and undergo all the therapy possible."
"If I refuse to resign? Or if I take an even more active job?"
Dr. Karp absently fiddled with his pointed beard, his eyes cast downward. "The deterioration will intensify, Mr. Tikhanov. You will not survive more than two or three years."
Tikhanov felt almost suffocated with rage at the unfairness of what was happening to him. He sat down next to Dr. Karp, grasped his arm and shook it. "I won't accept this, I can't. There must be some way to arrest this disease."
"I know of no physician on earth who can tell you anything other than what I've told you. However, if you want to seek a second opinion—"
"That would seem to be pointless, from what you say."
"Of course, there are a few doctors in the world who claim they can sometimes do something about this. I've twice sent patients of mine, at their insistence, to a well-known rejuvenation specialist in Geneva, Switzerland, who believes that he has upon occasion eradicated the disease. It didn't work for my two patients, so such therapy remains in question, a long shot—"
"I suggest this is the time to try a long shot. You know this rejuvenation specialist?"
"I've spoken to him on the phone several times, some years ago. Yes, you might say I know Dr. Motta."
"Then do me a favor," said Tikhanov. "Call him in Geneva and make an appointment for me."
"Well, I could . . ." Dr. Karp looked at his watch. "Of course, at this hour he would be asleep."
"Wake him."
Dr. Karp appeared doubtful. "You insist? Really, tomorrow would be—"
"I insist," said Tikhanov forcefully. "Wake him tonight and make an appointment for me. Nothing can be more important."
Dr. Karp had resigned himself to the uncomfortable assignment. "Very well. It may take a little while. If you don't mind waiting."
"I assure you, I have nothing more vital to do."
Tikhanov watched Dr. Karp leave the dining alcove, go through his office, and disappear into another room.
Tikhanov gulped his tepid tea, filled the cup again with hot tea, drank it, brooding over his imminent mortality and the possible loss of his great opportunity. He had not yet recovered from the initial shock of the diagnosis. He pondered the choice that lay immediately ahead. To accept an active role of power, and its excitement, which could promise him no more than two or three years, or to resign himself to an inactive life that would give him ten or twelve years. Unlike many Russians, Tikhanov was not a fatalist. True, life was sweet, and there would be pleasure in added years, but he wondered how much pleasure could be derived in days without work and decision and authority.
Pushing his teacup aside, he found his lighter and a fresh cigarette. The smoking seemed to calm him, and with calm came more hope. Certainly his future could not rest on two impossible choices. Certainly somewhere in the world there must be someone with the means, especially for a person of his stature, to arrest and subdue the fatal disease. Perhaps there was some scientist in the Soviet Union, with all its medical advances, who could help him. Yet, he instinctively knew that if he sought help in his homeland, even found a treatment to prolong his life, the word of his uncertain health would be out and his career and political advancement doomed. The old men of the Politburo would not want to bet on a premier who already had a blemish on his being. Secrecy overrode everything else. He would have to find help outside his homeland, among strangers with no tie to his government, and be treated swiftly and soon. At the moment, the Swiss healer, this Dr. Motta, offered the only hope of salvaging his future.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed, and Tikhanov was wondering how Dr. Karp had made out with his call to Geneva, when Dr. Karp reappeared in the dining alcove. He sat down next to Tikhanov, a piece of scratch-pad paper in hand. Tikhanov was immediately alert.
"I reached Geneva," said Dr. Karp, "and woke Mrs. Motta and spoke with her at length. Dr. Motta left Geneva yesterday and will be gone for three weeks."
"Where?" asked Tikhanov sharply. "Can he be reached?"
"He's gone to Biarritz—you know, the beach resort in France—to treat a wealthy Indian patient from Calcutta with his cellular-therapy injections. Dr. Motta is combining this visit with a much-needed vacation. He expects to be at the Hotel du Palais in Biarritz for three weeks."
"But will he see me?" Tikhanov inquired anxiously.
"No problem. His wife arranges his schedule. She has written you in for a noon appointment in her husband's suite three days from now. She speaks to her husband daily and will report this. Is the time suitable?"
"Any time is suitable," said Tikhanov quickly. He felt a surge of relief, instantly followed by a stab of apprehension. "You didn't tell her who I was, did you?"
"No, no, of course not. I just made up whatever came to mind. I said you were a well-known American language professor who taught Russian, and I gave your name as Samuel Talley."
"Samuel Talley?"
"I just made it up on the spur of the moment, a name with your real initials in case you have any monograms on your luggage or clothes."
"Clever of you."
"It comes of reading espionage and detective novels," said Dr. Karp with a tinge of embarrassment. "I passed on to Mrs. Motta the nature of your illness. She will, in turn, relay it to Dr. Motta in their next conversation. He will be prepared for you. Now, if you will give me fifteen minutes more, I will type up a summary of my diagnosis for Dr. Motta, and you can present this, along with the results of your tests, to him in Biarritz." Dr. Karp stood up. "I repeat, it is a long shot. But it will give you a second opinion, and, if you are lucky, a possible chance. Maybe you will be lucky. Who knows? You can only try."
For a man of Tikhanov's renown and high station, it had not been easy to get to Biarritz in complete secrecy.
He had flown to Paris, settled into the Soviet Embassy briefly, and played his first day there by the rules. He had put a call through to General Kossoff in Moscow, and realized that KGB director's tone was tinged with a special respect, as befitted conversation with the next premier. Tikhanov had learned that Premier Skryabin was still in a coma, and on a life-support system, but that his end was no more than a few weeks off at the most. With the new value placed on him, Tikhanov had found it easier to double-talk about his forthcoming schedule, his flexible plans, a secret mission and meeting with a subversive group gathering from the Middle East, a more prolonged stay in Portugal. He had promised to be in constant touch with Moscow along the way and to check in when he reached Yalta.
Then Tikhanov had used his remaining time in Paris to develop the identity that he would take to Biarritz. There had been no trouble contacting French Communist elements who could lead him to nonpolitical persons able to supply him with an American passport bearing the name Samuel Talley, along with the American social security and credit cards that should be possessed by Talley.
The last day in Paris, with Kossoff's reluctant approval, Tikhanov had rid himself of his KGB security guards by telling them that the Middle East subversives he was to meet with in private would supply their own protection for him.
By himself, using no one else, Tikhanov had booked the Air-Inter fight from Orly Field in Paris to Biarritz, and once safely in the sunny, windy southwestern French resort, he had taken an ordinary taxi to the spectacular old Hotel du Palais, at one time the summer residence of Emperor Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie.
As Samuel Talley, American citizen, Tikhanov had registered in the hotel and been shown to a spacious ornately furnished double bedroom much too luxurious for his taste.
An hour later, carrying the packet that Dr. Karp had sent along, and wearing as a disguise not only thick clear nonprescription glasses but a bushy false mustache obtained in Paris to cover the well-known wart above his upper lip, he rang the doorbell to suite 310-311. He was surprised when one of the double doors opened to reveal a petite, serious young nurse garbed in white. But then, Tikhanov reminded himself, Dr. Motta was here in Biarritz to give injections to a wealthy Indian and would naturally have brought along his Swiss nurse, although Tikhanov decided that she was much too young and pretty to serve her employer merely as a nurse.
Tikhanov followed her up a stretch of interior hallway that opened into the largest sitting room Tikhanov had ever seen in a Western hotel.
"Mr. Talley," the nurse said, "if you will be seated, Dr. Motta will join you in a few seconds."
Tikhanov walked slowly, unsteadily—reminding himself of his ailment—beneath the ornate chandelier to an antique desk that stood in front of a window. From the window, he could see that this was a corner room overlooking both an outdoor swimming pool and a restaurant, perched above a sandy beach that was dotted with umbrellas, lounges, and cabanas. And beyond that was the wavy Atlantic running out to the pure blue horizon.
Turning his back on the view, Tikhanov inspected the sitting room's furnishings, a three-cushion gold sofa, two deep gold armchairs around a glass-topped coffee table, two silver satin-covered pull-up chairs. Obviously, Dr. Motta was rich and successful, which Tikhanov equated with being in the best of hands, and therefore offering the promise of hope.
As he considered where to sit, Tikhanov was startled by a booming Germanic voice. "Mr. Talley. Glad to have you. Let's sit on the sofa."
The speaker entering from the bedroom was an ebullient, heavyset older man wrapped in a purple silk bathrobe that revealed the lower portion of his hairy naked legs. His auburn hair was combed in a pompadour, the eyes small and narrow, the nose prominent, the freshly shaved face florid. "I'm Dr. Motto. Forgive my attire. Just came straight up from the Grande Rage. Wonderful place. You have been here before?"
"No, sir."
"You'll like it. Give yourself a few extra days. Yes, you'll like it." Dr. Motta sank down into the sofa with a wheeze, summoning Tikhanov to sit beside him, and Tikhanov complied.
"I knew you'd be here at lunch time" Dr. Motta continued, "and I expect you're ravenously hungry. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering a light lunch for each of us before we settle down to business. Give us an opportunity to become acquainted."
"Very kind of you," said Tikhanov stiffly. He wanted only to get to what mattered, the consultation, his life, but he also wished to show his appreciation of the physician's hospitality, wanting to be in his good graces, wanting the other's goodwill and best mood.
Dr. Motta was packing tobacco into his straight-stemmed briar pipe. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you? I don't allow my patients to smoke during therapy, but we're not in the clinic and we can relax a bit."
"I'll have a cigarette" said Tikhanov, finding and lighting one.
The doorbell rang, and then the room-service waiter appeared, rolling in the cart carrying their lunch. As the waiter laid out the dishes on the coffee table, Dr. Motta eyed them greedily. Puffing his pipe, he identified each dish. "To start with, Salade à l'Oiseau. Then, for the two of us, Carré d'Agneau Rôti. Toast, as you can see, and French coffee. I did not order a dessert, but if you wish one, I would recommend their Crème du Chocolat."
"No, thank you, there's quite enough already."
The waiter had finished. "If anything is not to your wishes, please ring room service. When you are through, let us know and I'll remove the service pieces and cart."
After the waiter had gone, Dr. Motta knocked the ashes out of his pipe and sat up. "Let's dine now, and we can talk."
"Very well," said Tikhanov, stubbing out his cigarette and starting to pick at the salad.
"I have only a clue as to your ailment, the reason you are here," said Dr. Motta, eating. "I know the problem is muscular dystrophy. But that need not be a death sentence. Some cases have been treated successfully. It all depends. We shall see, we shall see."
Tikhanov enjoyed a wave of relief, and began to look upon the Swiss doctor as a savior.
"Are you going to examine me?" inquired Tikhanov.
"If necessary," said Dr. Motta, absorbed in his food.
Tikhanov touched the package on the sofa beside him. "Dr. Karp sent along the results of all his tests for you to see."
"Very good. I shall study them with care. Then we will know what can be done." He raised his head. "You know, I have had several successes with this disease."
Tikhanov nodded. "That is why Dr. Karp sent me to see you. He told me of your successes, and mentioned two failures."
"Failures, of course. It depends on the stage of the disease, the degree of deterioration." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "Treating dystrophy is not my specialty, but it is often an inevitable adjunct of my main work. Do you know anything about my work?"
"Very little, I'm ashamed to say," said Tikhanov apologetically. "I had no time to learn. I know only what Dr. Karp told me, no more. Basically, that you treat the aging, apply regenerative therapy to your patients."
"Ah, so you do have an idea," said Dr. Motta, pleased. "Yes, I was one of several protégés of the celebrated Dr. Paul Niehans at his chalet in Clarens on Lake Geneva. Dr. Niehans pioneered cellular therapy—a simple therapy. He prepared solutions from freshly ground-up organs of a fetal lamb, one taken from the womb of a black sheep by Caesarian section, and injected them into the buttocks of his patient. If the patient suffered from an underactive thyroid, he was injected with thyroid cells. In menopausal disturbances, the patient was injected with ovarian cells. And so forth. The basic thrust of cellular therapy is to hold off old age, extend life by rejuvenation or revitalizing despite the illnesses of aging naturally, this meant treating many diseases ranging from anemia to serious ulcers. When I took over from Dr. Niehans, dystrophy was just one of the many diseases I had to contend with."
Tikhanov was intrigued. "And Dr. Niehans had successes?"
"I am certain. He treated Pope Pius XII. He treated King Ibn Said, the Duke of Windsor, German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer, the British author W. Somerset Maugham, the actress Gloria Swanson, even your former American Vice President Henry A. Wallace. On the other hand, when he was given the opportunity to treat Igor Stravinsky, he refused, because the composer was ill with polycythemia, a chronically high red-blood-cell count, and Dr. Niehans felt that he could not cure him. I, too, have had many well-known patients, and I have treated them if I believed I could help them. Others I resisted treating because I felt that they would not respond to the injections. They were, in my view, incurable. But in most cases there are favorable opportunities."
Dr. Motta had completed his lunch, and was wiping his mouth once more.
"Now, Mr. Talley," he resumed, "let us see what can be done for you. Let me review your tests." He reached out, and Tikhanov quickly handed him Dr. Karp's package. "You finish your meal." Dr. Motta said. "I will retire to the desk in the bedroom where I can concentrate. I don't expect to be too long."
He rose, and briskly left the sitting room, tearing open the package as he went into the adjacent bedroom.
Alone, Tikhanov puttered with the rest of the food, but his stomach was in his throat and he had no appetite. He attempted to occupy himself with the bitter coffee, but finally gave up. He forced himself to sit back, smoking incessantly, and tried not to think.
After almost a half hour, Dr. Motta reappeared, stuffing the test findings back into the manila envelope. This time he took his place in an armchair, facing Tikhanov. His broad face was grave.
"I am sorry, Mr. Talley, but I am afraid I cannot help you," intoned Dr. Motta. "You suffer the mixed type of dystrophy, affecting the voluntary muscles, and the deterioration is advanced. The muscle biopsy reports are conclusive. I can do no more than confirm Dr. Karp's opinion and his timetable, and support his suggestions. I am truly sorry."
"You mean—you mean there is nothing that can be done?"
"Nothing short of a miracle," said Dr. Motta.
An hour later, Sergei Tikhanov finally left his own room.
Depressed, certain of his death sentence, he had tried to make up his mind which course to take. To announce his illness and enforced retirement dramatically, and gain ten to twelve years of miserable life, sitting by in the shadows while a more vigorous and healthy colleague took over the reins of the Soviet Union. Or to keep his illness a secret, and plunge into the top level of Soviet rule, and have the satisfaction of two or three years of power and activity before an early extinction. Since he could come to no decision, not yet, he had decided to continue with his schedule and proceed to Lisbon, and from there return to Yalta.
Pale and dizzy, Tikhanov reached the concierge's desk in the ground floor lobby of the Hotel du Palais, prepared to book a seat on the earliest plane to Lisbon. The bald concierge was busy with another tourist, arranging a dinner reservation for four at the Rotisserie du Coq Hardi in Biarritz. Waiting his turn restlessly, Tikhanov glanced at the rack beside the second counter with its lineup of international newspapers for sale. One word in every bold headline, and recognizable in every language, assaulted him. The word was MIRACLE . . . MILAGRO . . . MIRACOLO.
Curious, Tikhanov moved around the corner of the concierge's counter to the news rack. The headlines all seemed to be shouting about the same thing. Obviously, a big event of some kind. Tikhanov tugged free a copy of France Soir, left some change on the counter, and scanned the headline, the bank of headlines. MIRACLE EXPECTED AT LOURDES. BERNADETTE'S LEGACY. Her lost journal reveals the secret Virgin Mary entrusted to her long ago. The Virgin will reappear at the grotto in Lourdes in three weeks, sometime during the week and day following August 14. Some fortunate pilgrim will see the Virgin. Some ailing pilgrim will enjoy a miraculous cure.
Normally, at another time when he was in full control of his senses, Sergei Tikhanov would have cast this typical Western nonsense, this fable for gullible readers, into the nearest waste basket.
But a phrase that Dr. Motta had used in concluding their conversation still rang in his ears. What could be done to save Tikhanov? Dr. Motta had replied: Nothing short of a miracle.
Thinking about the coincidence, newspaper held open before him, Tikhanov shambled across the brown carpet, with its imperial design, spread on the marble floor of the lobby. There was a narrow red couch resting near two towering marble pillars. Tikhanov lowered himself into it and carefully read the story in French from Paris, the cardinal's announcement at a press conference that the Pope had authorized word to go out to the world that the Virgin Mary, during the seventh of her eighteen appearances before Bernadette, had promised to reappear at the grotto in Lourdes and provide a miraculous cure for an ailing pilgrim.
Religion and its miracles, the opium of the people, as Lenin had stated. Actually, Karl Marx had stated it first. "Religion is the soul of soulless conditions, the heart of a heartless world, the opium of the people." And Marx's collaborator, Friedrich Engels, had echoed, "Get rid of the Church, which permits working people to suffer silently in this world while awaiting their reward in the next." Lenin had preached this, Stalin had supported it, and the Communist Party had demanded that every member shed his belief in religion. And Tikhanov had become, was still, a loyal Party member, an unswerving atheist since adolescence. As a veteran Communist, Tikhanov knew that not for a minute could he take this ignorant rubbish about the Virgin Mary seriously.
No matter how deep his depression, no matter what weakness had afflicted his brain, no matter how desperate his need for hope, this Lourdes story was impossible. About to throw the newspaper aside, Tikhanov's eyes fell upon a second story from Lourdes. This was a feature about the almost seventy miracle cures that had already been attributed to the grotto or the water from its spring. His gaze fastened on the list of incurables and their potentially fatal illnesses, persons from France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland who had been saved by miracles. Sarcoma of the pelvis—cured. Multiple sclerosis—cured. Addison's disease—cured. Cancer of the uterine cervix—cured. And other diseases miraculously cured, several diseases that seemed to resemble muscular dystrophy.
Following this story was an interview with a Dr. Berryer, head of the Lourdes Medical Bureau. The cures, certified by priests, were first thoroughly investigated and attested to by the best medical men in the world. Tikhanov's eye held on another statement that Dr. Berryer had made: Even non-Catholics and non-religious visitors had been blessed by cures.
Impressive.
Tikhanov sat still. Very impressive. He thought back to his childhood in the farmhouse outside Minsk. His worn mother had been an orthodox Catholic, a cheerful one, and his father had paid lip service to this faith. Tikhanov remembered the small wooden church—the candles, the priest, the Mass, the rosaries, Communion, holy water, the confessional. Growing up, he had grown away from the sweet, comforting mysticism, and as a mature intellectual had found a more acceptable faith in the preachings and writings of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, much to his mother's distress.
But once, in innocence, he had been a believer. Maybe it was not necessary to remind himself of this now, but it was a kind of credential.
Only a miracle, Dr. Motta had said.
It was a dangerous enterprise, a key Soviet official going to a Catholic shrine to abandon momentarily Marx for Mary. But it could be done in secrecy. He could work it out.
He would work it out.
My God, his life was on the line, and there were no other options. Only this one. Besides—
What was there to lose?