Venice, London, and Madrid
The last time she had taken a private motorboat on a wharf outside the Marco Polo Airport to the Hotel Danieli Royal Excelsior in Venice, it had been a dazzling sunny morning three years ago. Natale Rinaldi remembered that morning vividly. The wondrous ride in the motorboat past fields and swamps, mounds of islands, the turning into a canal, the moist dirty-gray buildings on either side, the emergence into the shimmering main lagoon, the rich umber of the Hotel Danieli with its array of miniature white balconies jutting out on every floor.
It had been strange coming back to Venice this morning in total darkness, although her Aunt Elsa had reassured her that the morning was as sunny as it had been during their last visit.
Darkness had permanently enveloped Natale's world one week after she had returned to her parents' apartment in Rome following the vacation in Venice three years ago. She had rehearsed all that afternoon and into the early evening at the Teatro Goldini for her role as the Stepdaughter in Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author, part of the fall repertory and her first real opportunity, and she had come back to the apartment and her bedroom tired but stimulated by the director's predictions of what the future held in store for her. Going to bed, she had been comforted by the cozy beige print wallpaper surrounding her—she had known it since childhood—and then she had blinked out the bed lamp and closed her eyes. When her-alarm had gone off at nine o'clock in the morning, and she had opened her eyes, she was lost in darkness. At first, confused, she had been unable to understand, and then she had realized that she had lost her sight. Somehow, somewhere in the night she had become totally blind. And then she had screamed. It would be the first and last time that she would ever panic.
Her frenzied parents had rushed her to a hospital. Rome's leading eye specialist had been called in. There had been a slit-lamp examination. There had been the ophthalmoscopy.
There had been weeks of examinations to determine the cause of her blindness. There had been discussion of an occlusion in the central retinal artery. There had, finally, been a verdict: optic atrophy, abrupt, with no possibility of restored vision.
Three years ago, it had happened. Natale had been frightened and deeply shaken, but not shattered. At twenty-one, before the sudden darkness had come, she had been a gay, cheerful, optimistic young woman, and like her Catholic parents she believed unquestioningly in God, his Son, and in the Holy Ghost. The Lord knew what was best and He would look after her.
From the onset of her blindness, Natale had refused to buckle under or wallow in despair and self-pity. She had resolutely determined to be as independent and cheerful as possible. Although forced to give up her budding stage career, she had tried to maintain the life that she had known. Rejecting a Seeing Eye dog, refusing a white cane, she had encouraged her Aunt Elsa to guide her and teach her to get around on her own, in the apartment, in the street, in the antique shop her parents had on the Via Veneto. Aunt Elsa, her mother's younger sister, had been a perfect companion for her, a realistic and practical spinster in her late forties. Natale loved her parents, but their emotions had been hard to cope with, and she adored Aunt Elsa, who was solid and stable. Natale had continued to visit with her friends, and to go to the movies for the dialogue. Superficial changes had included wearing dark glasses at all times, learning Braille, and subscribing to a Talking Books service. As for church, she had gone to Mass more often and, when by herself, prayed more frequently. Her major sacrifice had been to deny herself dating or being with young men alone. There had always been so many, because of her beauty, she supposed, but with her handicap she had not wanted to become involved, become someone's burden.
This summer, for the first time since her blindness, she had wanted a vacation, to go back to Venice for three weeks, to the last city outside Rome that she had seen and loved before her loss of sight. Understanding and indulgent as her parents were, neither had been able to accompany her to Venice, not during Rome's tourist season, their busiest time of the year. But they had agreed that Aunt Elsa, who was the manager of their shop, could take Natale.
Now, in the familiar third floor bedroom of the two-room suite at the Hotel Danieli, Aunt Elsa was unpacking their bags, and Natale stood before the twin beds, singing as she changed her clothes for their first foray into the streets.
Natale had already zipped up her blue jeans, pulled on the tight T-shirt (knowing, by feeling the raised initial sewn inside, that it was the becoming yellow one that contrasted so well with her loose shiny brunette hair), and with sure fingers she had patted down her hair and tied it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. She fumbled on the bed for the dark glasses and adjusted them on the ridge of her small but perfect nose. She pirouetted in the direction of the unpacking and asked, "Aunt Elsa, am I together? Do I look all right?"
"Neat and beautiful as ever."
"You wouldn't be prejudiced, would you?"
"I've always told you, you could win any beauty contest. Why not? You take after me."
Natale laughed, remembering that her dumpy Aunt Elsa, with her straggly black hair and faint outline of a mustache, always believed that everyone else was beautiful.
Natale heard her aunt approaching, enjoyed her companion's warm hug, her aunt's forehead pressed against her cheek. Aunt Elsa was five feet two inches, and Natale was five feet six, thin and graceful as a reed.
She took Aunt Elsa's arm. "Let's go outside. You can finish unpacking later. I want to see Venice again." She felt Aunt Elsa unconsciously wince at the use of the word "see," and Natale said with determination, "Yes, Auntie, I will see it if you point things out. I'll remember exactly."
"Very well," said Aunt Elsa. "I'm about ready, too."
"We'll go to the Piazza," said Natale, taking her purse from her aunt. "I want some fruit juice at Quadri's, a little walk on the Mercerie, and then lunch at Harry's Bar."
Leaving the two-room suite, Natale would not let her aunt guide her. Starting from a familiar fixed point, the familiar suite, she felt sure of herself. She had been to Venice and the Danieli many times with her parents, when she had been growing up. The last visit, three years ago, was still fresh in her mind. Touching the railings, she descended a few steps ahead of Aunt Elsa, recalling that the second flight of stairs down into the lobby was marble. In the lobby, she slowed to let Aunt Elsa catch up with her, then smilingly acknowledged the greetings of several of the older concierges who had known her through the years and now had been informed of her condition.
Outside, on the Riva degli Schiavoni, Natale asked, "What kind of day is it? I know it's warm and a little sticky."
"The sun's out, but hazy. It'll be hot by noon."
"Is it crowded?"
"Swarms of tourists. Lots of Germans, British, a group of Japanese. You'll know it when we get to the bridge."
The bridge formed an arch over a canal, the Ponte della Paglia, upon which visitors always jammed to photograph the Bridge of Sighs, the high passageway on their right that led from the Doges' Palace to the ducal dungeons, from which Casanova had once escaped. As an adolescent, Natale had read the forbidden parts of Casanova's Memoirs and wondered what had made him such a legendary lover, or if it had all been self-promotion. She had fantasized having Casanova make love to her, and supposed that it was the variety he had offered and his endurance that had excited so many women from every social class.
They were walking, and there was a constant babble of voices in numerous languages, and she felt the pressure of Aunt Elsa's hand on her arm. "There are three young men, locals I think," said Aunt Elsa, "who have stopped and are staring at you, stupefied."
"Because they pity me?"
"I said stupefied, stupid," said Aunt Elsa. "They don't know there's anything to pity. They see only a gorgeous young girl with an inadequate brassiere beneath a flesh-tight T-shirt, and they're awed."
"Oh, sure," said Natale, but she was pleased.
"Here's the bridge, step up."
The Ponte della Paglia was crowded, as it had always been, and this time Natale took pleasure in the bumping, pushing, elbowing as they reached the top. It was easier coming down and crossing the pavement toward the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Natale could picture the colonnaded side of the Doges' Palace to her right, and to her left, across the bobbing moored black gondolas, the magnificent San Giorgio Maggiore rising up out of the glistening lagoon.
"There are all kinds of bookstalls and vendors along the ducal palace," said Aunt Elsa.
"Yes," said Natale remembering. It was poking through these stalls that she had first found Byron, Steudhal, Ruskin in Italian paperbacks and devoured them.
"Café Chioggia isn't too filled right now," said Aunt Elsa.
Natale pictured the long outdoor café across from the Doges' Palace where she had once flirted with a timid American boy, who had been afraid to approach her.
"Are we in the Piazza San Marco yet?" inquired Natale.
"Just about. Nothing's changed. There's the Campanile, tall as ever. The four bronze horses are still over the front of the Basilica. The Piazza is—well, you know—hectic as usual, the pigeons waddling about for their maize, and fluttering off when the children chase them. It's the same, Natale. It never changes in Venice."
"Thank God," said Natale.
"You want to sit down?"
"I'm thirsty," said Natale.
"Is it still Quadri's? The music has just begun there."
"Yes, let's sit in Quadri's." Unaccountably, Quadri's with its small circular gray tables and yellow wicker chairs and the bandstand to the rear had always been her favorite outdoor cafe. Café Lavena, beside it, seemed to have less character, and Florian's on the opposite side, although the oldest of the Piazza cafes, built in 1720, often occupied by Lord Byron in his day, always seemed to take too much sun. But Quadri's, on her last visit, had been most restful.
They were going across the Piazza San Marco, and Natale could hear the shrieks of youngsters and the flapping rise of pigeons, and she hoped that she wouldn't step on one, although nobody ever did.
Apparently, they had reached Quadri's café, because Aunt Elsa was saying, "There's a free table in the shade." Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to take her hand, and lead her up an aisle. Stopping, Natale groped for a chair, sat down, and listened to the music as Aunt Elsa ordered grapefruit juice for Natale and a Coca-Cola with a slice of lemon for herself.
They had been sipping their drinks in silence, Natale content to be in Venice, refusing to permit herself a moment's unhappiness at being unable to see it again, thinking it was just good to be alive (really only half-alive, but she put down the thought), when the metallic clanging from a nearby bell made her sit up. That would be the mechanical Moors above their heads, at the summit of the Clock Tower, hitting the big bell.
"What time is it?" asked Natale.
"Exactly one o'clock. Too late to shop on the Mercerie. Most of the stores will be closed until three. Although a few may be open."
"No," said Natale. "I want to go to Harry's Bar. I'm hungry, and it's cooler there."
While she waited for her aunt to pay the check, she heard heavy footsteps approach and she sensed a presence just above her. Instinctively, she looked up, as she heard a rich male baritone voice say, "Forgive me, but I thought I recognized you. You're Miss Rinaldi from Rome, aren't you?"
Bewildered, Natale nodded.
"I'm Signore Vianello," the voice was saying. "Again, forgive me, but I couldn't resist being sure and saying hello."
"Vianello," Natale repeated blankly.
"I'm a play producer from Rome, on vacation. I first saw you—I was sure you were the same actress—at a rehearsal of a Pirandello play at the Teatro Goldini several years ago. A friend had brought me along. I don't remember whom. But I could not forget you." He hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt you two—"
Quickly, Natale introduced her Aunt Elsa, then added, "Thank you."
"I expected to see you at the opening night, but you weren't in the cast," the producer went on. "I learned only that you had retired." He chuckled. "Retired? For one so young? Anyway, I was reminded, spotting you here in the Piazza." Natale meant to stop him, but this Vianello was going on. "I have a new play of my own I am planning to produce. I'll be casting in a month. There is a perfect role for you if you're interested."
Natale couldn't let this continue anymore. "Signore Vianello," she blurted. "Can't you tell? I'm blind."
"You're—?" She heard the quick suck of his breath, and knew that he was taken aback and utterly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Oh, I had no idea," he said. He stammered the rest. "You look—you look—well, better than ever. Uh, many of these things are temporary. I'm sure you will regain your—your full vision. If you do, I would certainly want you to call on me. Uh, let me leave my card. Here."
Natale held up her hand for the card, but apparently the producer had given his card to Aunt Elsa. "Thank you, Signore Vianello," said Aunt Elsa. "Perhaps things will change. If they do, I'll remind Miss Rinaldi."
"Do that, do that,” said Signore Vianello. "I hope to meet you both again. Have a good vacation."
Silence followed. Apparently, Signore Vianello had fled. Natale felt her aunt's hand on her forearm. "Let's go to Harry's Bar."
Still unnerved, Natale said, "I'm not sure I'm hungry."
"Then have something to drink there," said Aunt Elsa, forcing Natale to her feet. "Let's go."
Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to guide her into the Piazza. She could hear the goddamn pigeons.
She felt Aunt Elsa release her arm. "Wait. There's a man with Il Gazzettino. Let me buy a paper."
When her aunt was at her side again with the Venetian newspaper, and starting to lead her away, Natale said, "Where are we exactly?"
"In front of the Basilica, on the way to the Piazzetta and there we'll turn right for Harry's Bar."
"The Basilica," Natale repeated dully. "Is it open?"
"Of course."
"I want to go inside."
"You're sure?"
"For—for a minute," said Natale. "I want to pray."
Aunt Elsa, who had no affection for churches, said in a resigned voice, "All right, if it'll help you forget that idiot."
"He did nothing wrong, Aunt Elsa. Poor man, he didn't know. Actually, I should feel good that he was still attracted by me. But, well, I just had a momentary ache at—at what I'm missing. Can we go inside the church?"
Natale stumbled along with her Aunt Elsa in darkness, feeling the wooden planks beneath her feet, listening to the shuffling, and the hushed voices.
After genuflecting, she entered a pew and slowly knelt. Then, to herself, she prayed to the God that she could not believe ever abandoned anyone. The brief rapport with her Maker settled her nerves, made her feel peaceful once more. She pushed herself upright. "Aunt Elsa?" she whispered.
"Right here."
"Let's eat."
She accompanied Aunt Elsa out into the black daylight.
She held Aunt Elsa's hand as they strolled across the Piazzetta and swung off. Natale tried desperately to revive the scene along the canal. She spoke only once, as they passed the Giardinetti, wondering aloud, "Is the old lady with all the cats still there?"
"She's there feeding them all."
"There are nice people in this world."
As they walked on to the air terminal, around it, and over the small bridge, jostling past people hurrying from the San Marco vaporetto station, Natale kept thinking that if God could find someone to take care of stray cats, why couldn't He show mercy to her by giving some doctor a newly discovered means of curing her? It was a rare wave of self-pity and discouragement, and by the time they had arrived at the swinging doors that led into Harry's Bar, she was ashamed and regretful of her lapse, and determined to make the best of simply being alive.
Inside, she was relieved to find that it was definitely cooler, and that there were no crowding bodies or jarring voices.
"Very few here for lunch today," whispered Aunt Elsa. "We have it almost to ourselves."
Natale heard the bartender from the left call out, "Good to see you again, Miss Rinaldi."
"Good to be here, Aldo," replied Natale.
Aunt Elsa was speaking to someone, probably a waiter, saying, "We'll take that table in the corner, against the back wall."
Holding her aunt's hand, Natale went between the chairs and tables, bumping into a few. She felt a pang, remembering the little round lacquered tables and the undersized chairs, and the fascinating people she had met here, and the meals she had enjoyed.
As they were settling into the corner, the waiter said, "This is Luigi, remember me?"
She smiled a real smile, remembering the handsome, dimpled waiter who had always been wonderfully funny and friendly.
"Luigi, I'm so glad. It's been too long."
"We heard of your illness, Miss Rinaldi," he said in a gentle undertone. "You will be better one day, believe me. We all pray for you."
"You're a dear, Luigi, and I'm grateful for your prayers."
Aunt Elsa's voice came on firmly. "I think two Bellinis are in order, Luigi."
"Immediately," promised the waiter, fading away.
Natale sat waiting for her drink of peach juice and champagne, which she needed, heard her aunt scratch a match to light a cigarette, inhaled the smoke that wafted toward her, then listened as Aunt Elsa described the few persons in the restaurant.
Natale heard Luigi return and set down the drinks. "Two Bellinis," he said. "Enjoy."
Taking up her glass, Natale drank and found the Bellini cool and refreshing. She heard her aunt unfold the newspaper. "Good old Gazzettino," her aunt said. "Let me read you the latest."
Normally, daily, someone, her father or Aunt Elsa read to her from a newspaper, to keep her alive, involved, part of the distracting world. Today she wasn't in the mood at all. "Not now. I'm not interested now."
"Natale, you've got to keep up," Aunt Elsa said in a mildly scolding voice. "You've . . ." Suddenly, her aunt's voice trailed off. She was obviously reading something in the newspaper. "Say, imagine this."
"What?" said Natale with disinterest.
"The Virgin Mary. This story from Lourdes in France. The Virgin Mary is supposed to be coming back to Lourdes."
At first, Natale did not grasp it. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"Let me read it to you as it is printed." Clearing her throat, Aunt Elsa read aloud from the paper. "According to a secret journal kept by Bernadette Soubirous, now Saint Bernadette, late in 1878, recording the eighteen apparitions of the Virgin Mary that she had seen and conversed with at the grotto called Massabielle in Lourdes, France, the Virgin Mary had confided to the young peasant girl that she would return to the grotto in the eight days following August 14 of this year. The Virgin Mary had promised Bernadette that she would not only return to be seen by someone at the grotto but that she would also cure someone who was afflicted. This account in Bernadette's recently discovered private journal has been fully authenticated by a newly appointed Commission of Lourdes. The announcement, which was made at a press conference yesterday by Cardinal Brunet of Paris as authorized by Pope John Paul III, electrified a huge gathering of the world press, and as soon as the announcement was made public, it caused a rush of pilgrims everywhere seeking transportation and accommodations for Lourdes for the thrilling Reappearance Time."
Natale had listened with a rising excitement that at first nearly suffocated her, made her heart palpitate harder, until gradually a flush came to her cheeks. "The Holy Mother coming to Lourdes again to be seen, to cure," she whispered.
"Well—"
"I believe it," Natale whispered passionately. "If the Virgin Mary promised Bernadette, it will happen."
"This may be one of those sensational newspaper exaggerations," said Aunt Elsa, trying to calm her niece.
"Read me the rest of it, all of it," Natale urged.
"It's a long article, Natale."
"Read me every word of it. Start from the beginning again. I want to hear every word."
"Well, if you insist."
"Please, Aunt Elsa."
"Very well."
In a low monotone, not wishing to disturb anyone else in Harry's Bar, Aunt Elsa read the entire newspaper account from start to finish.
Natale absorbed it as if in a trance. When her aunt had completed her reading, Natale spoke up. "I'm going to Lourdes," she said without equivocation. "I've got to be there."
"Really, Natale—"
"I mean it, Aunt Elsa. I want to be close to the Virgin Mary, pray to Her right at the grotto. It's the chance of a lifetime. She might decide to cure me. You've just read about those thousands of cures."
"Natale, be sensible. I know your faith, and I don't contest it. But considering the number of people who have been visiting Lourdes year after year, only a minute percentage, the tiniest percentage, are ever cured, if it really is a cure. You know about my father—your grandfather. When I was your age, I accompanied him to Lourdes for a few days. His arthritic condition was crippling, and he too, hoped for a cure. I remember him praying and praying at that grotto, but nothing happened. When we came home to Naples, he got worse. There's little chance that a so-called miracle can help you. You'll just have to be patient and wait for medical advances that will come along and one day restore your sight."
"No, you don't understand, Aunt Elsa. I've got to go to Lourdes. I believe in it."
"So does everyone else in half the world—but most of the believers won't bother to go."
"I'm going," said Natale. "We'll have our three weeks here in Venice and then we'll fly to Lourdes for the beginning of the holy eight days."
"We'll not be flying to Lourdes," said Aunt Elsa. "I can't. You must be practical. Your parents let me take this trip with you. But I had to swear I'd be back in the shop the day after the vacation ended. Your parents need me, Natale. I can't let them down."
"Then I'll go to Lourdes alone. You put me on the plane and we can arrange for one of those volunteer helpers or whatever—the ones mentioned in the paper—"
"Brancardiers," interjected Aunt Elsa. "Men who go to Lourdes every summer to assist the pilgrims. But women go also, like my friend Rosa Zennaro. You've met her several times. She's been going to Lourdes for the last half dozen years, to help, out of the goodness of her heart."
"All right, Rosa then. Surely she'd help me. Fix it so I can be enrolled in a tour group that has accommodations, and can help me get around. That won't get in your way. Please, Aunt Elsa, give me my chance."
Natale waited for a reply, heard her aunt emit a long drawn-out sigh, and finally surrender. "Okay, little one, no use arguing with faith. You win. Let's have our lunch and go back to the hotel. I'll phone Rosa's family in Rome and find out how we can contact her in Lourdes. Hail Mary, you're on your way. Now let's get practical. What'll it be? A toasted prosciutto sandwich or tagliatelle verdi?"
From her second-floor office window Edith Moore could see that the day was grayer than it had been earlier, and a mist and drizzle were beginning to cover London. Consulting the clock on her secretarial desk, she could see that it was time to leave, not for lunch but for something more unusual, an appointment made with her by Archbishop Henning. The great man himself—she had met him only once before—had telephoned her yesterday and asked if it would be convenient for her to call upon him today. He would be waiting for her in the chancery of the Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral in Ashley Place. The meeting would be brief, but it was of some importance.
Brimming with curiosity this entire morning, Edith Moore had found it difficult to concentrate on her heavy work load. Fortunately, her employer, a movie agent, had been out of the office throughout the morning, and there had been no dictation to take.
But her clock told her that it was time to leave. If she departed immediately, was lucky enough to catch a taxi right away, she could make the appointment in time and the mystery would be solved. Coming off her chair, she took her khaki-colored raincoat from the hanger, and pulled it on. Momentarily, she surveyed herself in the narrow wall mirror. The fitted raincoat made her look a bit slimmer than she really was. Edith had no illusions about herself. Her short hair, her flat face as bland as brussels sprouts, her square, thickset, middle-aged figure, had never been anything to crow about. She considered it the luck of her life that she had been able to capture someone as dashing and brilliant as Reggie Moore for a husband. Nor, in their eight years together, had he ever shown himself to be tired of her. Nor, to her knowledge, had he ever strayed.
She hastened out of the office suite, ran down the two flights of stairs, delighted with her agility, and rushed into Wardour Street, jammed as always with vehicular traffic. Among the crush of cars she could make out an empty taxi. She quickly stepped into the wet street to claim it and once she was safely in the back seat, and had given her destination to the driver, she was able to unbutton her raincoat and sit back and relax.
She wondered what Archbishop Henning wanted with her, and in memory she tried to fix the occasion when she had met the regal primate of the Church that one time. It had been because of Lourdes, of course, her success at Lourdes. As the taxi rumbled and edged ahead, Edith's mind went backward in memory.
It had happened just after she had been married three years, which would have been five years ago. Edith, who had been working for the movie agency, was suddenly promoted to the position of her employer's personal secretary, and given a raise. Reggie had been making progress with his wonderful scheme to introduce American baseball into Britain (eventually spoiled, a failure, because of the boycott by those wretched cricket diehards). But things had been going wonderfully well for both of them, when the illness began. It had begun with a simultaneous loss of appetite, and Edith's difficulties and pain in her left hip and leg. Worried, she had gone to her family doctor, who had sent her to a specialist, who, in turn, had put her in the hospital. She had undergone extensive radiography, microscopic biopsies of muscle cells and bone marrow of the left hip, and numerous other tests and examinations which she preferred not to recall. She had resumed her job, fearfully awaiting a final verdict until the verdict had come. She was afflicted by a sarcoma, a malignant tumor of the conjunctive tissue at the base of the iliac bone, and there was no effective means of treatment known. Despite orthopedic surgery, and megavitamins and drugs, the diseased area degenerated, the tumor enlarging, and the femur was soon attached to the pelvis by "a few sheaves of bone marrow." Edith was never misled as to her fate. She would become crippled, immobilized, and the malignancy would bring early death.
Forced to quit her job, knowing that she was doomed, she had sought any means of cure. Four years ago, when her parish priest, Father Woodcourt, had heard of her failing condition and been kind enough to call upon her—kind enough, because she had not seen him often since her marriage, had ceased attending Mass or going to confession and, like Reggie, had paid only mild attention to their Catholic faith—she was ready for anything. Father Woodcourt had reminded her that he had begun to lead an annual pilgrimage from London to Lourdes, and if she wished to accompany his Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit this summer, there would certainly be room for her. He could not guarantee any favorable results. Still, he had been impressed during the two pilgrimages he had previously led by the inexplicable cures that he had observed at the shrine.
Edith had been uncertain, but had realized that there was no place else to turn. After talking it over with Reggie, and finding that she could borrow the money from her widowed father, she had enlisted in Woodcourt's Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit. During the first three-day visit to Lourdes and the grotto, barely able to get around with the use of a crutch, she had enjoyed no cure but did experience some sense of well-being and hope. The winter and spring following had been one of continuous pain and lessened mobility. Although it had been a financial strain, without a job and Reggie's promotional scheme having failed, she had insisted upon a second visit to Lourdes with Father Woodcourt's next pilgrimage.
On the last day in Lourdes, after prayer at the grotto, drinking water from the spring, taking a bath, she was suddenly able to discard her crutch and walk on her own. There had been remission, then regression, the disappearance of pain, and ultimately self-reconstruction of the iliac bone and the acetabular cavity. Spontaneously, her good health had returned. Between London, and the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, after three more visits there, sixteen doctors had scientifically attested to the wonder of her cure.
Over a year ago, she had resumed full-time employment with the movie agency. Meanwhile, Reggie had been more prolific in his promotional speculations, always on the verge of success and of striking it rich, with his introduction of the all-black soccer team, the all-star private detective agency that used experts in every field of criminology, his clever introduction of a rock group composed of midgets—but always success had eluded his genius. Meanwhile, too, after having the opportunity to witness his daughter's cure, Edith's father had died and in his will had left her 50,000 pounds. It had been a mighty sum, and while Edith and Reggie had deposited it in their joint savings account, she had made it clear to him that this money must never be used for speculation but should be kept as a nest egg to support them if she ever lost her job, or until the medical profession positively reiterated that she would be well for the remainder of her days.
Entirely lost in memories of the recent past. Edith realized that the taxi had arrived in Ashley Place, was slowing and halting before the main entrance to the Byzantine-style Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral.
"Here we are, ma'am," the taxi driver said.
She paid him the sum on the meter, added a generous tip because she was in high spirits, opened the taxi door, and walked in an even step to the cathedral.
Inside, directed to Archbishop Henning's quarters, she was surprised to find three men in the tastefully decorated study waiting for her. All three came to their feet as she entered. The dour large-boned archbishop she recognized, but the other two she knew better. One was Father Woodcourt, young and pink as ever, her devoted parish priest, and the other the full-bearded, amusing Dr. Macintosh, who had been the physician in attendance on her last pilgrimage to Lourdes.
They all greeted Edith warmly, as the archbishop pointed her to the most comfortable chair opposite his desk. While they were being seated, Father Woodcourt inquired about her health and her husband's health, and Dr. Macintosh made some funny reference to the grim weather. Archbishop Henning, alone, seated at his desk, seemed to have no taste for small talk.
"Mrs. Moore," the archbishop said, rifling a handful of papers, "I promised you this visit would be a short one—I want to be sure you have time for lunch—and so it will be a short and happy one. Before I begin, may I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you, Your Excellency," said Edith nervously, even though relieved to know that this was going to be a happy visit. He had said happy, hadn't he? She was sure he had.
"I've summoned you here today," said the archbishop, "and have invited two persons who have been closer to you in the matter of your health than I have, to discuss with you the merits of your cure."
Edith sat puzzled. The merits of her cure? What could that possibly mean?
"As you may know, Mrs. Moore," Archbishop Henning went on, "it was Pope Benedict XIV who set down the criteria for each Canonical Commission to apply when trying to determine if a cure at Lourdes is miraculous or not. To decide that a cure is supernatural, the Canonical Commission must be satisfied beyond any doubt . . . that the malady was a grave one, and impossible or at least difficult to cure . . . that the cured malady was not in a state of decline to such an extent that it could have declined soon afterward . . . that no medication had been used, or if there had been, that its inefficacy was certain . . . that the cure was sudden—instantaneous . . . that the cure was perfect . . . that there had not been beforehand a crisis produced by some cause and at its natural hour; in this case, one cannot say that the cure was miraculous but natural, wholly or in part . . . finally, that after the cure there had been no recurrence of the illness."
The archbishop raised his eyes to Edith. "This is clear to you?"
"Perfectly, Your Excellency," said Edith, her heart thumping.
The archbishop was turning over the papers in his hand, reading to himself. He fixed his attention on Edith once more. "At the end of your third and last examination by the physicians at the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, the participating doctors were asked five key questions. I will read you four of them. 'Did Mrs. Moore's illness described by the medical record exist at the moment of the patient's pilgrimage to Lourdes? Was the malady suddenly stopped in its course at a time when there was no tendency toward improvement—and did all symptoms disappear at this time? Is there a cure—can you prove it with certainty—and did the cure take place without medical treatment?' Then the most important question, in two parts. 'Is there any possible medical explanation of this cure? In the present state of science, can any natural or scientific explanation be given?'"
Feeling more reassured, Edith dared speak up. "Of course, the answer to all those questions is Yes, except the final one in two parts, which is No."
"And, indeed, so the doctors of the Medical Bureau have found," said Archbishop Henning. "I can tell you they were looking for the following characteristics in your cure—that no outside treatments or drugs made it possible, that your cure was instantaneous and did not require convalescence, and that your natural functions were immediately restored. The Medical Bureau members were satisfied that these characteristics were evident in your cure. They noted, 'We find no natural or scientific explanation of this cure.'"
Archbishop Henning gathered up his papers, and sat back, his eyes on Edith once more.
"The Medical Bureau sent on its recommendation to the bishop of your diocese here in London. He appointed a Canonical Commission of five to study the findings and evaluate them. Then the Canonical Commission sent its own recommendation on to me.
"Mrs. Moore, I am prepared to state that your cure is definite and durable and ends an extremely serious pathological state. I am prepared to state that your cure has received no valid medical explanation. I am prepared to state that only your pilgrimage to Lourdes can be related to the disappearance of a terminal illness and that your cure was entirely unforeseeable. I am prepared to state that your cure can be regarded as extraordinary owing to the fact that you not only have normal use of the limb and hip joint, but also have experienced bone regeneration in the affected areas. I am prepared to make the final statement affirming the veracity of your cure—except for one minor technicality—a minor question remains unanswered among the five that the Medical Bureau undertook to answer. The question: 'Is it necessary to delay a decision.' My answer: 'Yes, but only briefly.' It seems that the Medical Bureau would like to have a final routine examination made by one of the two leading medical experts in the field encompassing your onetime illness. They have requested that Dr. Paul Kleinberg, of Paris, come to Lourdes and give you one last examination. This must be done at the Lourdes Medical Bureau. I repeat, it is a mere routine examination. Once Dr. Kleinberg has confirmed what the Medical Bureau has found, I will be able to announce officially in a few weeks that there are sufficient elements in your cure to recognize special intervention of the power of God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth." He paused. "Mrs. Moore, are you ready to go to Lourdes one more time, to undergo this final examination?"
Edith was breathless. "Of course, I'll go. I'd like to be there during the week in which the Virgin Mary will reappear. I—I might see her and be able to thank her."
For the first time, the archbishop displayed the semblance of a smile. "You might, you might at that. In any case, except for the short delay, you may consider yourself one of the miraculously cured of Lourdes, an authentic one of the handful of Lourdes miracle cures. With my entire soul I wish to convey to you my happiness and congratulations."
Her heart had gone wild. Edith Moore, a miracle woman.
She would be world famous, immortal. But now she only wanted to get to a telephone and tell Reggie, tell Reggie he was married to a miracle woman.
Reggie Moore was never one to get discouraged. No matter how many of his daring schemes evaporated into thin air, no matter how many setbacks he suffered, he somehow always believed that there was a silver lining up there and a pot of gold (marked Reginald Moore) at the end of the rainbow.
But this morning, he suspected, he had badly overslept, not from lack of sleep but for lack of a reason to get up. He was always awake by eight o'clock, and on the move by nine, with some new promotional venture to research, investigate, organize, sell. But this morning, uncharacteristically, perhaps because he had no special new venture in mind, he had half awakened, turned over in bed, and slept on until ten minutes to noon.
When he had seen the time, he had worried about it pushed himself out of bed, reluctantly done his sitting-up exercises (which gains would be lost to ale consumed in several pubs throughout the day), shaved, showered, dressed, and waddled into the combination kitchen-dinette of their Chelsea ground-floor flat for breakfast. While eating his breakfast—two eggs, black coffee, a scone—he had opened the book he had recently found in the outdoor bin of a secondhand bookstore. It was a thick old reprint of an autobiography by a onetime famous American who'd also sought success in Great Britain. The book was Struggles and Triumphs; or, Forty Years' Recollection by P. T. Barnum. Although Reggie Moore rarely read books, in fact never read them, he considered himself well-read and knowledgeable due to the fact that he religiously perused both the London Mirror and News of the World from first page to last every day. His purchase of the Barnum autobiography had been motivated by a desire to seek creative stimulation, maybe come on one of Barnum's old schemes that might lend itself to conversion into some modern exhibit and promotion.
He had started to read the Barnum book in the middle—the early years would be a waste and unprofitable—at the time the old humbug had been at the peak of his powers with his Tom Thumb and Feejee Mermaid enterprises, when Reggie had been interrupted by the unexpected phone call from Edith.
The old girl had sounded crazy at first, words tumbling one over the other in a rush that made them almost incomprehensible. He had finally realized that she had just finished her visit with Archbishop Henning, and then it came back to Reggie that Edith had told him last night about the mysterious appointment.
She was trying to explain what had happened at the meeting, and in order to understand her, Reggie had finally broken in on the torrent of words to say, "Edith, slow down, it's hard to make out what you're saying, slow down. You seem very excited. What's this all about?"
After that, she had gone on a bit more slowly, articulately, but still very excited.
After a minute or two he had understood, grasped it all, and somehow had realized that this was not only of great importance to Edith, but might be of importance to both of them.
"Edith," he said, before hanging up, "don't bother to shop for dinner tonight. This deserves a celebration at a proper restaurant. Let's say Le Caprice."
"Oh, Reggie, but that's so expensive." Edith was beginning to come down.
But then Reggie was high. "Nothing is too good for a miracle woman."
He had trouble finishing his breakfast. His mind was dancing. He shut the boring Barnum book and shoved it aside. He gulped down his coffee, and gave his mind the freedom to wheel and deal.
Miracle woman!
My God, there must be a thousand ways to convert this into cash, gold, coin of the realm. Immediately, it came to him—it always came to him fast and whole when he was at his best—what could be done.
The initial inspiration had come on a previous visit with Edith to Lourdes three years ago. They had taken to having dinner in a small, comfortable restaurant in Lourdes, Café Massabielle, on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Despite the wretched and colorless replica of the Virgin Mary in a niche above the red awning, the little restaurant was attractive, homelike, with a first-rate cuisine and chef, and a wonderful location. But what appealed to Reggie most about the eatery had been its proprietor. Reggie had got to know the owner, Jean-Claude Jamet, whose father had been French, his mother English. Although Jamet had proved a bit aloof, reserved, his fish-faced countenance and pencil-thin mustache put-offs, there was something special about the man that appealed. Reggie could discern that Jamet, at heart, was also a promoter. Unfortunately, he did not use his gifts to make a good thing of his restaurant in Lourdes. He used the restaurant only for a small profit. His real devotion was to his lively and innovative travel agency, Full Circle, in London, which arranged numerous money-making pilgrimages to Lourdes during the season.
Yet, Reggie had felt, the restaurant could be more than a minor adjunct, could become a major adjunct, an equal in profitability. True, it needed expansion and modernization—but even more it needed a partner who believed in it. Reggie had gone to Jamet and offered himself as that partner, the right partner, one with get-up-and-go. For his investment Reggie had offered a modest sum of money and his own creativity. Jamet had flatly turned him down. The money offered was not enough and the creativity was not proved. Reggie had not brooded over the defeat. He was a veteran of rejection. He had turned to other things.
But today, his mind was back on Jamet and the restaurant. Because, today, Reggie had the money to invest and a stunning creative idea.
Reggie went quickly to the telephone to learn whether Jamet was still in London, and if in London but out to lunch, to learn when he would be back in the office and available.
He was there, but not easily available. He was eating a sandwich at his desk. He was extremely busy trying to schedule additional pilgrimages to Lourdes because of the demand created by the news of the Virgin Mary's expected reappearance in three weeks, or soon after.
"Great turn, that Virgin Mary bit," said Reggie, "and I've got something super that will tie in with it. I have a wonderful piece of news that will help both of us."
"Like the last time?" said Jamet dryly.
"Jean-Claude, this is something special, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, manna from heaven. I thought of you right away. You've got to find a minute for me?"
"Well, I'm still eating, haven't gone back to work yet. I suppose I could see you while I'm on the dessert, if you can come right over. Might as well get it done with or you'll keep nagging me. If you have to see me, do it now, right now."
"Be over in a flash," said Reggie, hanging up and grabbing for his sports jacket.
Outside, the sprinkles had stopped, the sun was doing its late act, and Reggie was whistling as he strode to the garage. There was trouble in starting his old Rover, but at last he had it going. He backed out of the garage, shifted into high, and raced off in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Jamet's Full Circle Agency was three blocks north of the Circus.
Once at his destination, and snugly parked, Reggie straightened his tie and plaid jacket, pressed down a stray lock of hair, and moved confidently into the agency. It was busy, all right, as Jamet had said it was, and there were at least a dozen would be tourists at the two counters vying for the attention of the three clerks. With a possessive air, Reggie barged in behind the long counter. When the nearest clerk made an effort to stop him, Reggie said airily, "Jamet's expecting me. We have an appointment."
Reggie moved on to Jamet's private cubbyhole of an office in the rear. Jamet, at his desk surrounded by walls decorated with scenic delights of the European Grand Tour and a square of color photos of Lourdes including the Café Massabielle, was shoving the last piece of his apple pie into his mouth.
He gave Reggie an uninviting sour look as his visitor entered breezily. When Reggie was up, nothing could put him down. He had a salesman's armadillo shell, thick and insensitive. Reggie tugged a straight wooden chair around to the front of the desk and quickly seated himself, ready to start.
"What's the big deal this time?" Jamet asked coldly.
"Your restaurant in Lourdes. I'm still interested in buying into it. I still think it can become an enormous winner."
"Do you now? Well, my friend, you'll have to do much better than you did last time."
"I'm prepared to, or I wouldn't be here," promised Reggie with verve. "This time I've got it all together, and you won't be able to resist. Jean-Claude, for a half ownership of the restaurant, I'm ready to put up fifty thousand pounds in cash toward expansion and improvement of your property. The money is my wife's inheritance that she's held on to in case she should ever become ill again. But now she knows she's not going to be ill anymore. She's cured, and she won't need her nest egg. Yes, I'm ready to toss in the whole sum, the entire fifty thousand pounds—"
Jamet had been listening stonily. He interrupted. "Sorry, not enough." He dumped the remnants of his lunch into a wastebasket, prepared to terminate the meeting. "For you to come in, you'd have to have much more to offer."
"But I have much more," Reggie exclaimed. "I have something far more valuable than a mere fifty thousand pounds to invest. I have something unique, a surefire thing that'll make the Lourdes end of your business boom."
"Oh, yes?" said Jamet with unconcealed boredom, twisting to look in the desk mirror as he combed his hair.
"Listen to me. My wife, Edith, was called to a meeting by Archbishop Henning a few hours ago. It was to report something important to her about her cure at Lourdes over three years ago. The Medical Bureau of Lourdes and the Canonical Commission have decided that Edith's cure is of a miraculous nature, and she is being officially added to the 'Cures of Lourdes Recognized as Miraculous by the Church.' Since 1858 there have been only sixty-nine of these—only five since 1978—and now Edith Moore will be the seventieth."
For the first time, Reggie had Jamet's undivided attention. "Really? This is true?"
"You can confirm it. Call Archbishop Henning's office. Tell him I told you."
"I congratulate you," said Jamet, cautiously but interested. "This will be good for both of you."
"Good for both of us?" said Reggie, jumping up from his chair. "It'll be slam-bang sensational. Overnight, Edith will be famous, a living legend. Everyone will want to meet her, everyone. In fact, she's going to Lourdes again, the center of everything, to be honored. She's probably the one the Virgin Mary is coming to see. Now, as to the rest of my proposition, Jean-Claude. Besides the fifty thousand pounds, I'm ready to throw Edith in as well, Edith Moore the authentic miracle woman. Can't you see it? Edith to go along on your pilgrimages and give advice. Why, you could immediately raise your rates for the next pilgrimage groups. And at the restaurant—after you enlarge it, improve it—Edith could be the star, the special attraction, in effect the hostess. In order to meet her, see her, touch her, listen to her, even dine with her, the wealthier tourists and pilgrims would order from a Miracle Menu at our new Miracle Restaurant at double your present prices. I tell you, you'd triple your profit. Pilgrimages arranged at one end, restaurant waiting at the other—and Edith Moore, the latest miracle woman, your main attraction." Reggie gulped for air. "Now, what do you say to that?"
For the first time, Jamet's stony exterior displayed a fissure. It was a reluctant smile, but an actual smile. He stood up, hand extended. "Reggie, my friend, now you are talking my language. Let's shake on our partnership."
Grinning, Reggie pumped the other's hand. "We're celebrating tonight at Le Caprice. Join us, partner, and get to know the miracle woman."
Mikel Hurtado sat tensely at the wheel of the dusty blue Seat Panda parked in the Calle de Serrano across from the iron gate at the entrance to the massive Catholic church and kept an eye on the schoolchildren and Madrid matrons going inside for nine o'clock Mass. This was the tenth and last day of their scouting vigil. If their quay arrived today, as he had the previous nine mornings, the pattern was set. They would place the dynamite in the tunnel beneath the street tonight. They would detonate the explosives and assassinate their hated enemy tomorrow morning.
Hurtado peered at his wristwatch. "You'd better go in now," he said quietly to the girl in the front seat beside him. "If our man is on schedule, he should be here in five minutes for Mass."
"Do I have to?" Julia Valdez protested. "What purpose? He'll never get to the church tomorrow morning."
"For positive identification," said Hurtado. "I want you to see him close up. We've got to be certain he is Luis Bueno, our deputy prime minister in charge of defense, and no other. Go ahead, Julia, it's the last time."
"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.
Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the massive church door. She fell in among other worshippers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.
A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA—the underground Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization—two years ago. When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman—too much nose and jaw, too short and sturdy (he had always preferred the more delicate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)—he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their sexual encounters had usually been for physical release and fun. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.
He consulted his wristwatch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's assassination.
Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the corner of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.
Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little bastard will pay for it.
Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought—go and pray, you bastard, for the last time.
Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in hell alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.
It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming hell.
Hurtado could not deny that the assassination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a classical Basque assassination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.
In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spain's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin Lopez, and Mike Hurtado least of all. The 1973 Basque commandos—there had been a dozen of them—had carefully spied on Admiral Blanco, and learned that every morning he attended Mass at this same church (a practice that Minister Bueno, a more fervent Catholic, happily emulated).
Having been reassured of Admiral Blanco's consistent route to the church every morning, the 1973 Basque commandos had rented a basement apartment on this route near the church. They had painstakingly dug an eighteen-inch high tunnel beneath the street, removing the dirt in baskets, and planted seventy-five kilos of dynamite in three spots in the tunnel. Then they had run electrical wires from the detonating cord into a corner room in the apartment from which Admiral Blanco's approach could be seen.
On the fateful morning, Admiral Blanco had ridden to Mass in his black Dodge, and as the car passed over the tunnel, the dynamite had been detonated.
Admiral Blanco and his vehicle had been blown over a five-story building.
Fantastic.
Tomorrow morning, Minister Luis Bueno, enemy of the Basques, would be given the same free flight.
And this one act of terror, after a long period of passivity, would remind the government that the ETA was prepared to go to any length to unshackle the 2,500,000 Basques in northern Spain from their servitude.
Not that he was by nature a violent person, Hurtado told himself. He had been a writer from the time he had first been able to pick up a pencil, and writers by and large achieved action through fantasy. He had published three books—a collection of his poetry, a play about Lope de Vega, and a short novel based on the life and death of Garcia Lorca—when Franco's terror had struck against his own family and convinced him to put down his pencil for a rifle. Words, he had realized, would never be enough to fight the oppressors. He had joined the ETA to take up arms.
He wondered what was delaying Julia this long, and then as he wondered about it, he saw her emerging from the church.
He started the car, waited for her to settle into the seat beside him, and began to drive the Seat Panda away from the curb and into Calle de Serrano.
Eyes on the traffic, concentrating, because this was no time for an accident, he asked Julia, "Identification confirmed?"
"Confirmed. Minister Luis Bueno himself right there."
Hurtado was jubilant. "We're on target. We blast him tomorrow. Good work, Julia. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
For a short while he drove in silence. "What took you so long?"
"I'll tell you—" But she did not tell him more until the Seat Panda had attained the Gran Via, and they were rolling along the sweeping boulevard. "Fascinating thing," she said. "I heard one of Bueno's bodyguards talking about it to some official, so I hung around to listen. It seems that Bueno had a call from a Spanish journalist in Paris yesterday. A French Catholic cardinal held a press conference. He had an announcement to make about Lourdes."
"Lourdes? What about it?"
"They just found Saint Bernadette's diary. The Virgin Mary told her that She would reappear in Lourdes this very year, in about three weeks, I think. Interesting, isn't it?"
"Not especially. What's more interesting is the news we'll give the world tomorrow?"
"Maybe," said Julia uncertainly, feeling in her purse for a cigarette. "Anyway, this news made our friend Luis Bueno very happy. Even with the solemnity of Mass, he couldn't hold back his pleasure. I'd never seen him smile that broadly before. In fact, he was reading the Lourdes story when he went into church."
"Yeah, I saw him reading the paper," said Hurtado. He spun the wheel of the Seat Panda off the Gran Via and headed for their apartment. "Can't wait to tell the others it's on. They've probably got the dynamite by now. Tonight we'll place it, and tomorrow morning the big bang."
Ten minutes later, Hurtado led the way up the hall to their apartment. He felt good about the apartment, the building, the neighborhood. Despite the cost, it was worth every peseta because it was safe. This was an upper middle-class neighborhood, white collar, and therefore attracted fewer informers or grises, the Spanish security police.
At the door, Hurtado could hear the television playing inside. "They must have got the explosives," he whispered to Julia as he took out his key and let them in. The room was darkened, the curtains drawn, the lights off, obviously to make television viewing better. Hurtado turned on the overhead lights, and to his surprise he saw seated in the armchair not one of his commandos but the husky, rough-hewn figure of Augustin Lopez, their leader and the ETA president from San Sebastian. Lopez had straggly eyebrows and full mustache, a lined, leathery wide face with a jagged scar along one cheek. At first, devoting himself to the television program, he did not look up.
"Why, hello, Augustin, what brings you here? This is unexpected."
Even more surprising was Lopez's attire. He was actually wearing a suit and a tie. Hurtado could not remember when he had seen his leader dressed up before.
With a grunt and the movement of a big bear, Lopez pushed himself out of the armchair, acknowledging Hurtado and Julia, reaching down to turn off the television set. As their leader returned to the armchair, and busied himself lighting a cigar, Hurtado followed him.
"You've come at the right moment to hear good news," said Hurtado. "We've just finished our final check on Luis Bueno. We know he'll be going to Mass tomorrow morning at nine, following the same route and procedure he has followed for ten days. We're set to assassinate the pig in the morning." Hurtado glanced around the room. "Where are the others?"
Lopez drew on his cigar. "I sent them home to San Sebastian," said Lopez calmly, "one in the panel truck with the explosives, the other on the Talgo Express with the detonating device."
Hurtado blinked, uncertain that he had heard right. "You what?"
"I sent them both back to San Sebastian," said Lopez. "I'm sending you and Julia back today. That's what I came here to tell you."
'What the hell," said Hurtado, bewildered. "I don't understand. What about our operation tomorrow—"
Lopez remained unperturbed. "There will be no operation tomorrow," he stated matter-of-factly. "It has been cancelled—or at least temporarily postponed."
Hurtado stepped closer to his leader. "Hey, what are you talking about? What's going on here?"
"Let me tell you," said Lopez, lighting his cigar again.
"There's nothing to tell," said Hurtado. "We're all set—" Julia had gripped the sleeve of Hurtado's jacket. "Mikel, give Augustin a chance to explain."
"He'd better explain," snapped Hurtado.
Augustin Lopez straightened in his chair. He was not a man of many words, but now he mustered the words to relate what had happened. "Yesterday, in San Sebastian, I had a telephone call from Madrid, from the minister himself, Luis Bueno. He wanted to see me at once. He wanted to have a preliminary talk about Basque autonomy. He wanted to see me at his home this morning before he went to church."
Hurtado was astounded. "You saw Luis Bueno?"
"For the first time, yes. Until now we had always communicated through intermediaries. But this time he wanted to do so in person. So I met with him for an hour. It was the first time, also, I ever found him ready to discuss our nationalist cause and our autonomy."
To Hurtado this was beyond belief. It was something that he would never have been able to imagine. "He discussed our freedom with you," said Hurtado. A dark suspicion crept in. "Or did he have word of our assassination plan?"
Lopez shook his head. "He had not even a suspicion of that. It was our freedom he wanted to talk about." Lopez placed his burning cigar on the edge of an ashtray. "It had to do with negotiating our freedom. Luis Bueno is, as you know, an extremely religious man. When he heard about the announcement in Paris yesterday, about the expected return of the Virgin Mary to the grotto in Lourdes—or have you heard about that?"
"Everyone's heard," said Hurtado irritably. "What's that got to do with us?"
"Shh, Mikel," said Julia tugging his sleeve once more. "Let Augustin speak."
"Apparently, it has very much to do with us and our future," continued Lopez. "Bueno was extremely and deeply moved by the announcement of the reappearance of the Virgin Mary. He believes it will happen, and if it does, he believes it will be a sign that Christ wants him, and all those in positions of power, to show more charity on earth. Therefore, with the coming of the Virgin Mary, Bueno will release all Basque political prisoners, proclaim a broad amnesty, and initiate a series of formal talks here and in Bilbao to resolve the Basque problem. These talks, he promised me, will lead to some form of autonomy for us, something satisfactory to both sides." Lopez took up his cigar, waved it. "So, in the light of this real possibility, this reasonableness—and there was every indication that Bueno was sincere—I decided that I should indefinitely postpone any further violent actions."
Hurtado had been fidgeting throughout the recital. He spoke at last. "Augustin, I have always had the greatest respect for your counsel, your judgment, but about this matter I must express my doubts. Surely, you don't trust Luis Bueno, do you?"
"I do. I must. This is the first time the government has offered to negotiate. If we can resolve this through negotiation, it would be the most satisfactory means to a happy end."
"That bastard is just buying time, trying to soften us up," insisted Hurtado. "Augustin, this Madrid operation was your plan. You had lost patience with them. Now, after weeks of planning, days of work, we have everything in order. The operation can be our greatest success. It will make the King see how strong we are, how determined, and that we must be dealt with as equals. Augustin, I implore you, recall the others and the equipment."
"No," said Lopez with finality. "If we can achieve autonomy without bloodshed, all the better. We are not killers. We are patriots. If the enemy wants to give us our freedom peacefully, we must allow him the opportunity."
Hurtado would not let go. "What you're saying is we may not be killers—and what I am saying is that they are. They are oppressors and ruthless murderers who cannot be trusted. I will not forget what they did to my family—that raid—killing my father, my uncle, my cousin in one night, simply because of their anti-Falangist pamphlets."
Lopez stood up, a giant presence. "That was under Franco. This may be a new day."
"New day?" said Hurtado loudly. "Bueno was a Franco puppet."
"Mikel," Julia interrupted, "maybe he's right. Give it a chance. For all the violence, you've never killed a man before. It's worth the risk to avoid that."
Mikel turned on her furiously. "Who asked you? What do you know about killing?"
"I know it's a sin."
"I have already killed him in my heart, for what that's worth. I am not afraid to do what has to be done." He turned to Lopez. "Bueno is a murderer. The leopard does not change his spots. He is no different from before."
"I am guessing he is different, both mellowed and excited by the miracle he expects to happen at Lourdes. I am betting that the possibility of the miracle has wrought a change in him, and if it happens, the change will be permanent. To our benefit."
"What if the miracle doesn't happen?"
"Then we would have to reassess matters. And see how Bueno behaves toward us. Let's wait for the happening at Lourdes. Let's wait and see."
Lopez started across the room to the door, but Hurtado was at his heels, angrily mocking him. "Wait and see, wait and see," Hurtado shouted. "The Virgin Mary, that lousy cave, that's all bullshit. I was raised a Catholic like my father. Where did it get him, get any of us? Bueno's God is not my God. I won't recognize a God that allows oppression and genocide. Dammit, Augustin, come to your senses. Don't let us be handcuffed by their God. Nothing will happen in Lourdes, and nothing, will be changed for us. Their tactic is to pacify us, slow us down, splinter us, bring resistance to a halt. Bueno hasn't guaranteed you autonomy. He's guaranteed you only talks, more talks, more wind. I beg you not to fall for it. We must go ahead with our plan. The language of bombs is the only language they understand and respect."
Lopez stopped at the door. "Mikel, the answer is still no. As of now, for the time being, all plans of violence are suspended. We will listen for a different language, the language of the Virgin Mary. I will see you in San Sebastian."
The leader opened the door and left.
Hurtado swayed on his feet, almost apoplectic with rage and frustration.
After a few seconds, seething, he whirled about to the table next to the television set, uncapped the bottle of Scotch and slopped a glass full of the whisky. He drank it down in long gulps, glaring at a troubled Julia who had dropped into the armchair.
Julia began to plead with him, gesticulating with her arms. "Mikel, maybe Augustin is right. He has always been right before. Maybe there are better ways than bombs to settle things. Let's wait and see."
"You, too," said Hurtado, swallowing the last of his raw whisky, and filling the tumbler once more. "Another Catholic nut waiting to see what? Waiting for the Virgin Mary to show up in some damn grotto and give us the freedom we deserve? Is that what we're waiting to see—the damn Virgin in the goddam grotto—a miracle that will tell that bastard Bueno to free Euskadi? Is that what is holding us up, stopping us dead?" He was drinking steadily, almost done with the second glass of straight whisky.
He set the glass down with a clatter and turned on Julia. "No," he rasped, "now I'm the one saying no. I won't let that happen. I'm putting an end to this nonsense."
He wove his way toward the bedroom.
"Mikel," Julia called out, "where are you going?"
"To the telephone, and don't interrupt me. I'm calling San Sebastian, my mother, and telling her to get hold of her priest and have him put me on one of the Spanish pilgrimages to Lourdes as soon as he can."
Julia was filled with disbelief. "You—you're going to Lourdes?"
Hurtado held himself steady in the doorway. "I'm going to Lourdes," he said thickly. "That's where I'm going. You know what I'm going to do there? I'm going to blow up the goddam grotto, blast the whole shrine to smithereens—so the Virgin'll have no place to show up and Bueno'll have nothing to wait for—and there'll be no more reason to stop us from going ahead with our plans."
Julia had jumped to her feet, eyes filled with fright. "Mikel, you don't mean it!"
"Watch me. I'll blow that grotto into a million pieces!"
"Mikel, you can't! It would be a terrible sacrilege."
"Comrade, sister, there's only one sacrilege. Letting that fucking Bueno stall us, sidetrack us, and keep us in bondage. When I'm through there'll be no more grotto, no more miracles, and no more Basque slavery. No more, ever."