Sunday, August 14
By midafternoon of Sunday, the first day of what the travel agencies were calling The Reappearance Time, thousands of pilgrims and tourists had begun to converge on Lourdes from every point on the compass, from the cities of Europe, from countries as distant as India and Japan, Canada and the United States.
"Lourdes radiates like an appeal," one of the tourist booklets stated. "A unique meeting place, it is for the Christian the revival of his faith, for the invalid a hope of recovery, for the heart a reason to hope."
Despite the haze of heat that hung over the little French town, the winding streets were jammed thick with newcomers. A normal year brought 5,000,000 visitors to Lourdes. But this year, predictions were that the influx of tourists would set a new record. There would be 3,000,000 private automobiles, 30,000 buses, 4,000 air flights, 1,100 special trains disgorging visitors by the hour.
One and all, they swarmed toward the grotto of Massabielle. For some it was curiosity. For others fascination.
For most it was a reason to hope.
Through the dusty window of her Wagon-Lits carriage, Amanda Spenser could see the front and rear cars of the long train as it snaked around a sharp curve in the rocky valley. Soon, in an hour and a half, a voice on the loudspeaker told her, they would be arriving in Lourdes. Once again, a recording on the loudspeaker was playing the Lourdes hymn.
Of the four of them in the train compartment, Amanda was the only one not catnapping, although she ached from the discomfort of the tiresome journey. Ken, rocking in the seat beside her, was blissfully dozing, still blanketed by the sedative taken the night before. To her eyes, he had in recent days begun to look macerated. Next to him, Dr. Macintosh, senior physician on the pilgrimage, mouth open, eyes closed, was snoring lightly. Squeezed into a chair across from them, Father Woodcourt, the veteran leader of the tour, was stirring as the rays of the midafternoon sun touched his face, and he would soon be awake. Like Ken, the priest and the doctor had found the journey pleasant. Of the four of them, Amanda alone, a child of the air age, had found the twenty-four-hour trek tiresome.
The annual pilgrimage by the Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit, led by Father Woodcourt, had begun from London's Victoria Station. They had left the boat train at Dover, on the channel, milled about the departure terminal, and boarded the chartered P & O Ferry for the bumpy crossing to Boulogne. There they had found their reserved places on the French train, and the delay had been interminable because there had been 650 of them—largely British, a few Americans—for the coaches. About 100 of these passengers had been invalids in stretchers and collapsible wheelchairs and they were loaded into the three custom-built ambulance cars.
One of the longest stops had been Paris last night, when Amanda had made her final effort to get Ken to transfer to a plane and make the rest of the journey by air, but once more he had stubbornly refused, insisting on going all the way by train with his fellow pilgrims. And then after the monotonous night, there was the long stop in Bordeaux this morning. Then followed lush forests and meadows with cows chewing their cuds, which was better. While lunch had also improved Amanda's mood, she had wanted only to be off this rattling old train and to be relaxing in the comfort of a luxurious hotel, even if it was in Lourdes.
As the train ran along the river, everyone else in the compartment seemed to sense that they were nearing their destination and began to awaken.
Ken Clayton, straightening, rubbing his eyes, addressed Amanda, "Well, that was quite a snooze. Are we almost there?"
"Almost," said Amanda.
Dr. Macintosh leaned forward, eyeing Ken. "How are you feeling, young man? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
Father Woodcourt was squinting out the window at the sun-drenched hills. "Yes, it won't be long," he said. He rose, stretching. "I think I'll take a walk through the train, see how everyone is doing. What about you, Mr. Clayton? Would you and your wife like to come along? You might find it interesting."
"No, thanks," said Amanda. "I'm not up to it."
"I am," said Ken, wobbling to his feet. "I'd like to have a look before we get off."
"Ken, you should rest," said Amanda.
"I said I'm okay," Ken assured her.
Dr. Macintosh was also standing. "I'll join both of you. There are a few people I want to say hello to, actually see how they are."
"Come along then," said Father Woodcourt.
He left the compartment, with Ken and Dr. Macintosh right behind him.
As they disappeared from sight, Amanda was relieved. She had wanted a short interval to herself, so that she could finish the book that she had been reading at every opportunity since they had left Chicago. Actually, in the three weeks preceding this trip, Amanda had voraciously gone through every book about Bernadette and Lourdes that she had been able to lay her hands on. She had read the one standard novel, The Song of Bernadette by Franz Werfel, an inaccurate piece of historical fiction written to show the author's gratefulness for being given refuge in Lourdes during the Nazi occupation of France. The other books had been factual stuff. The first she had reread. A sticky, religious book by Frances Parkinson Keyes, a converted Catholic, who was inspired by her visits to Lourdes in 1939 and 1952. A book by Robert Hugh Benson—the son of the Protestant archbishop of Canterbury but himself a strict Catholic—which was a rather snobbish defense of the shrine drawn from his stay in Lourdes in 1914. A biography of Bernadette in one volume, a condensation of the seven volumes that the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes had directed Father René Laurentin to write to celebrate the centenary of Bernadette's visions; obviously a pro-Bernadette book but surprisingly fair and balanced.
Throughout her reading, Amanda had constantly come across mention of the book that had intrigued her the most, and she had sought it through a rare book store. It was a scandalous novel called Lourdes by Emile Zola, the anticlerical skeptic and realist who had visited Lourdes in 1892. The novel had been published in English in 1897, and no longer was easy to come by. It was a novel that many Catholics and Lourdes lovers had considered scurrilous. It was intended to debunk the Bernadette story and Lourdes completely. It was just what Amanda had needed as ammunition to bring Ken to his senses, especially since Ken the lawyer had always idolized Zola for defending Alfred Dreyfus, and his daring letter "J'accuse" which exposed the anti-Semitic frame-up arranged by the French general staff.
If Zola had attacked Lourdes, Ken would certainly have to listen.
Luckily, the rare-book dealer had obtained a copy of the novel, which had proven to be an old-fashioned double-decker, the first volume 377 pages, the second volume 400 pages, and small type at that. Cumbersome though it was, Amanda had determined to pack it in her luggage. Obtaining it on the eve of her departure, she had dipped into it steadily since, and now she had only a handful of pages left.
She had found it rather good, the story of a priest named Pierre Froment, a disillusioned clergyman who had lost his faith, accompanying a childhood friend, an incurable invalid named Marie de Guersaint, to Lourdes. After praying at the grotto, Marie would be cured by a miracle, although Pierre would always suspect that she had actually been invalided by hysteria rather than an organic illness. Throughout her reading, Amanda had marked those passages that questioned the validity of Bernadette's vision and the so-called miracle cures at the grotto.
Alone, at last, Amanda reached into her canvas tote bag for the second of Zola's two volumes, and resumed her reading. In fifteen minutes, she had finished the novel. Quickly, before Ken's return, she went back to the first volume to find the pages in which she had inserted slips, pages with marked passages that she would read to Ken as soon as it could be done. This would counteract the brainwashing that Ken had received from his mother and her priest. This would clear his head, bring him back to his senses, make him turn away from Lourdes.
As if to reinforce her argument, Amanda began to pick through the first volume, seeking out more narrative passages that she had marked, especially the ones about Bernadette.
At last, she found one she liked.
"As a doctor had roughly expressed it, this girl of fourteen, at a critical period of her life, already ravaged, too, by asthma, was, after all, already an exceptional victim of hysteria, afflicted with a degenerate heredity and lapsing into infancy. How many shepherdesses there had been before Bernadette who had seen the Virgin in a similar way, amidst all the same childish nonsense! Was it not always the same story, the Lady clad in light, the secret confided, the spring bursting forth, the mission which had to be fulfilled, the miracles whose enchantments would convert the masses?"
Perfect to read to Ken.
Amanda put the first volume down on the seat and opened the second one. Bernadette had been sent away from Lourdes, to Nevers, there to become a nun. Zola had met a physician, whom he called Doctor Chassaigne in his book, who had seen the nun Bernadette six years after the apparitions.
"The doctor had been particularly struck by her beautiful eyes, pure, candid, and frank, like those of a child. The rest of her face, said he, had become somewhat spoilt; her complexion was losing its clearness, her features had grown less delicate, and her general appearance was that of an ordinary servant-girl; short, puny, and unobtrusive. Her piety was still keen, but she had not seemed to him to be the ecstatical, excitable creature that many might have supposed; indeed, she appeared to have a rather positive mind which did not indulge in flights of fancy."
Amanda weighed repeating these words to Ken. They might represent overkill. Amanda decided that she might best overlook this passage. She paused before more of her markings and reread the words to herself. Zola's doctor was speaking. "And if Bernadette was only hallucinating, only an idiot, would not the outcome be more astonishing, more inexplicable still? What! An idiot's dream could have sufficed to stir up nations like this! No! No! The Divine breath which alone can explain prodigies passed here." Listening, Father Pierre agreed. "It was true, a breath had passed there, the sob of sorrow, the inextinguishable yearning toward the infinite of hope. If the dream of a suffering child had sufficed to attract multitudes, to bring about a rain of millions and raise a new city from the soil, was it not because the dream in a measure appeased the hunger of poor mankind, its insatiable need of being deceived and consoled?"
Yes, better, Amanda told herself, that would do nicely to bring Ken back to the realistic world. Zola's was a mind that Ken could not ignore or fail to respect. And, somewhere, Zola had referred to the infallible Bernadette as "a mere imbecile." Yes, Zola might do the trick.
But then, sitting back, she felt a moment of uncertainty.
She knew that already Ken's chances with surgery were far less than they had been three weeks ago. Still, clinging to the thought of Zola, she told herself that there was time enough, that every minute counted. Also, she realized that she needed passionately for her own sake to bring Ken back to her reality, the realm of science. She had to fight this her way. She had to believe Zola counted.
As Amanda sat with the book in her lap, she heard Ken's voice in the corridor, and saw him outside the compartment with Father Woodcourt.
The priest was saying, "Well, I leave you here, Mr. Clayton. You'll need a few moments rest before we pull into Lourdes. I'll just go on to the last few cars. I'm sorry if I tired you."
"Oh, I'll be all right," Ken said. "It was worth anything. Thanks for the tour, and thanks especially for introducing me to Mrs. Moore. That was really a thrill."
Ken watched the priest start off, and finally turned in to the compartment. As he dropped into the seat near Amanda, he tried to smile, but it was a wan smile. His once healthy features were pale, almost ghostly, and Amanda suffered a grip of fear again about his condition.
"Are you feeling all right?" Amanda asked worriedly. "You shouldn't have taken the tour."
"Wouldn't have missed it for anything," said Ken.
He seemed so plainly exhausted that Amanda could not stand it. She took his hand briefly. "Ken, let me give you something. You can use a little relief." She meant a sedative or pain-killer.
He shook his head. "No. I want my mind perfectly alert when we pull into Lourdes. That should be very soon." With effort, he sat up and suddenly his eyes brightened. "Amanda, something truly exciting happened on the train tour. I was introduced to Edith Moore. I spoke to her."
Momentarily, Amanda was bewildered. "Edith Moore?"
"You remember, the miracle woman we heard about in London. She's on this pilgrimage, a few cars down. You should see her. Robust and strong as an Olympic athlete. Five years ago she had the same—or a similar—degenerative bone cancer of the pelvis, very much like mine. The doctors gave her up, she was telling me, and then she made a trip, two trips, to Lourdes, and the second time, after praying at the grotto, drinking the water, taking a bath, she was instantly cured, totally cured, able to walk without a crutch, able to go back to work in London. The destroyed bone area was spontaneously regenerated. Doctors in London and Lourdes have examined her time and again, and they've now agreed that she has been miraculously healed. The official announcement will be made at Lourdes this week. Her cure will be declared a miracle." Ken Clayton sank back in his seat, life returning to his face, his smile broader. "I keep telling myself, if it could happen to her, to Mrs. Moore, it can happen to me. I'm really so happy we came here. I've never been more optimistic."
"I'm glad," said Amanda woodenly. "I'm glad you met Mrs. Moore."
"I'm sure you'll have an opportunity to meet her, too, after we arrive, and you'll feel as reassured as I feel." He glanced at Amanda. "What have you been doing while I've been going through the train?"
She dropped her hand over the title of the Zola novel in her lap. "Oh, just reading—a book."
Hastily, she stuffed the two volumes into her tote bag. She knew that the timing was wrong. She couldn't undermine her darling's optimism with Zola's harsh realities, not at this moment, not when Ken was so hopeful and happy after his encounter with Mrs. Moore.
Turning away from him, Amanda could see out the window that they were still running alongside the river. That would be the Gave de Pau. Gave meant a river from the mountains in this region, she had read. They were passing woods, and the outlying buildings of a town, and in the distance was the spire of what she presumed was the famous Upper Basilica, with an eighth-century castle perched high on a hill beyond it, and farther off, the jagged green Pyrenees. They were definitely approaching the city of their destination, a city circled by nine other venerable French shrine sites.
She had intended to point it out to Ken, but she saw that his eyes were closed and that he might be dozing.
Then the sweet and simple rockaby sound came drifting through the loudspeaker again. The Lourdes hymn, first sung in 1873. She listened to the lyrics:
"Immaculate Mary!
Our hearts are on fire;
that title so wondrous;
Fill all our desire!
Ave, Ave, Ave Maria."
They must be in Lourdes.
Father Woodcourt, followed by Dr. Macintosh, bustled into the compartment to confirm it, and take up their bags.
Amanda started to awaken Ken Clayton, but his eyes, heavy, were open. "We're in Lourdes, my darling," she said.
For an instant his eyes brightened once more, and he made a clumsy effort to rise. She took his arm firmly, and helped him to his feet.
"Lourdes," he murmured as she reached down for her tote bag.
Assisting Ken, Amanda pushed into the crowded train aisle, oppressive and smelling of sweat, trying to stay behind Father Woodcourt. "Follow me," the priest called back several times.
They stepped down from the Wagon-Lits onto a station platform crammed with arriving members of their London pilgrimage. Father Woodcourt signaled Amanda and Ken, and some others near them. "We're on Quai Two, the mainline platform," he announced. "We'll cross the tracks and go into the station. Those three cars you see being uncoupled will be taken to the Gare des Malades, the adjoining station for invalids who'll need wheelchairs to go to their own special buses. Now, just stay with me."
They crossed over the tracks to a doorway above which was mounted a sign, ACCUEIL DES PÉLERINS.
"Means Pilgrims Welcome," said Father Woodcourt. The interior of the main hall of the train depot was no different from many others that Amanda had seen in her travels. Modern brown wood benches sat in rows on black rubberized flooring. The single cheerful sight in the hall was an ordinary mural of a Pyrenees mountain landscape.
The group moved outdoors, past a taxi stand, toward a parking lot lined with buses. "Our bus is straight ahead," said Father Woodcourt. "Can you see the ones with the poles and placards beside them carrying the names of the hotels?" He pointed off. "There we are between the ALBION and CHAPELLE." He headed directly toward the pole with the sign HÔTEL GALLIA & LONDRES.
In twenty minutes they had drawn up before the Hotel Gallia & Londres, and were filing off the bus to trudge after Father Woodcourt into the airy lobby. The priest efficiently herded them together in the middle of the lobby, told them to have patience while he obtained their room assignments.
Amanda kept worrying about Ken, who had recovered sufficiently to speak up for the first time since leaving the train. "We're here," he whispered, "we're in Lourdes. We made it."
Amanda nodded. "Yes, darling, we made it."
Father Woodcourt had returned with a packet of envelopes clutched in his hands. He called for attention, and there was an immediate silence. "I have the room assignments," he announced, "and will call out your names in alphabetical order. In these envelopes you'll find a map of Lourdes, several information sheets, the number of your room, and your key." He began reading off the names.
When he got to the "C's," he called out, "Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Clayton." With a twinge, Amanda accepted their envelope and the lie of their union, which they had agreed in Chicago would be the best way to travel.
When Father Woodcourt had finished with his handouts, he asked for attention once more. "Each of you has all the information you require on your information sheets—your room number, the hours for breakfast and dinner, which are included in your demi-pension rate, and other hotel instructions." He cleared his throat. "Those who wish to can go directly to their rooms to rest, have a wash, unpack—if your baggage is not already in your room, it will be there shortly. We will dine downstairs, the floor below the lobby, and after that, for those who are up to it, we will observe the nightly candlelight procession in the domain, and tomorrow we will participate in it as a group. Meanwhile—" He paused, and resumed. "For those of you who would prefer enjoying a visit to the grotto before going to your rooms or dinner, I am prepared to lead the way. How many would like to go to the grotto before doing anything else? Hold up your hands."
Amanda observed that two-thirds of the group had lifted their hands high. And among these was Ken, standing beside her.
"Ken, no, you're not up to it, I won't let you," Amanda whispered fiercely. "You've got to rest. You can do the grotto tomorrow. It won't go away."
Ken gave her an indulgent smile. "Honey, I've got to see it now, do my prayers there right now. The very thought of it makes me feel better. I'll see you before dinner."
Dismayed, Amanda watched him hobble off with the majority who had chosen to accompany their priest to the grotto. Almost alone in the lobby, except for a cluster of pilgrims waiting for the elevator to return, and discussing their plans to attend Mass tomorrow on Ascension? Day, Amanda opened the envelope in her hand. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton had bedroom 503 on the fifth floor. Gripping her tote bag, Amanda joined the cluster at the elevator. She simply couldn't understand this Ken Clayton, weary to the bone yet plunging forth to hike to a cave in a hill and fervently devote himself to prayer there, exhausting himself to seek salvation, expecting to be saved as that Mrs. Moore had been saved. The sensible Ken she had known in Chicago, the smart and sharp lawyer, would have seen through the Mrs. Moores and all the other miracle cures at once. That Ken would not have expected miracles, would have understood that sudden cures were not miracles but psychosomatic in origin. Such cures could not happen to everyone, especially to those like Ken who were truly and most seriously ill.
The elevator had come, and Amanda, with difficulty, had squeezed in it with the others. The ascent was slow, starting and stopping, and she and an aged and hunched male pilgrim were the last to get off on the fifth floor. There was only one direction to go, and Amanda went up the corridor until she found room 503. She inserted her key and opened the door. At least now she could rest and luxuriate until Ken's return.
What met her eyes as she took a few steps into the double bedroom made her blink, because it was so unexpected. The Gallia & Londres hotel had been advertised as a deluxe three-star hostelry, but what lay before her eyes was an abomination. The room was as confining for two persons as a room could possibly be. It was hardly a room. It was a drab cell. Twin beds, covered with vomitus green bedspreads, filled, or seemed to fill, the entire space. To the left, at the foot of the beds, there was a small table, a side chair, and next to it a bureau. There were simply no other furnishings in the room, and no adornments except a niche on either side of the headboards holding statuettes of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Across the room there were tied drapes on either side of a window. To get to the window and open it for air, Amanda had to press sideways between the table and foot of the beds. Raising the window, she could see a long procession of people marching in the afternoon sun on the other side of a park. They were singing now, and what assaulted her ears once again was the refrain of the Lourdes hymn.
Amanda worked her way to a door leading into a closet of a bathroom containing a short tub, toilet, bidet, and sink. The paint on the medicine cabinet was chipped, and the light over it flickered eerily on and off.
Sitting on the edge of the nearest bed, Amanda wanted to cry. This was no place for them, certainly not for Ken, who needed comfort and rest and quiet. This cell, pretending to be a room, would never do, never.
She tried to think out what could be done. There were no better accommodations in this "superior" hotel. All other accommodations in the town had been spoken for days ago.
There was nowhere to move to, unless something could be found outside the town, something more—more acceptable.
That instant she remembered. The luxury hotel that she had stayed in for two days and one night the summer she had been given a trip to France after graduation. The place had been magnificent, memorable, and she had heard during her visit there that it was not too far from the shrine at Lourdes.
That would be the place to stay, perfect for poor Ken, perfect for both of them. It would make their few days here—and it would be no more than a few days, at most—it would make that miserable time endurable.
What in the devil was the place called?
Eugénie-les-Bains, that was it.
She would telephone the hotel there at once, immediately, for a reservation this very evening, and make the change the moment Ken came back from the grotto.
Sergei Tikhanov came to Lourdes late in the afternoon by way of Lisbon, Geneva, Paris—all short flights.
As he sat in the taxi that had brought him from the airport into Lourdes, he was conscious of the two changes in his person. One was the small blue counterfeit passport in his suit jacket's inner pocket that identified him as Samuel Talley of New York, a citizen of the United States of America. The other was the shaggy false mustache that covered the tell-tale brown wart on his left upper lip, and hung down the sides of his cheeks and masked a portion of his mouth. The mustache, he had decided, was more than sufficient disguise. Without it, his face with the trademark wart, so widely publicized throughout the world for so many years, might have made him recognizable to someone.
The airport taxi was slowing, and the French driver, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror, addressed him. "Here we are, monsieur."
Tikhanov looked out the window to his right, saw that they were on a street called Avenue du Paradis, and there was a parking lot and a wide muddy river flowing beyond it.
He turned to his left to see that they had come to a halt in front of the entrance of the six-story brick-red hotel with the name emblazoned above the top story: NOUVEL HÔTEL ST. LOUIS DE FRANCE.
Since newspaper accounts had made it clear that Lourdes would be overcrowded during this dramatic week, and that all accommodations had been booked by official pilgrimages within a few days of the announcement of the Virgin Mary's reappearance, Tikhanov had worried about finding a place to stay. Fortunately, the concierge at Geneva's Hotel Intercontinental, a longtime acquaintance named Henri whom he had always generously over-tipped, had been someone who might lend a hand. Tikhanov had told Henri that a close friend, an American in New York named Talley, a religious gentleman, was planning to visit Lourdes during the Reappearance festivities. The only problem was that his friend Talley had been too late to sign on with a pilgrimage and had been unable to obtain a hotel reservation on his own. Knowing that Tikhanov was well traveled, Talley had wondered whether he had any contacts who might discover a hotel room in Lourdes for a week or two. Tikhanov had said that he had not been able to promise his friend anything, since he himself had never visited Lourdes nor did he intend to do so. But he had assured his friend that he would ask around, and upon arriving in Geneva, it had occurred to Tikhanov to see whether Henri could make any suggestions.
It turned out that Henri had been ready to cooperate with one suggestion. Henri had, a few years earlier, accompanied his grandfather to Lourdes and they had stayed at the Hotel St.Louis de France and formed a friendship with Robert, the head concierge. In fact, even as Tikhanov waited, Henri had telephoned Robert in Lourdes, to put in a word for Tikhanov's friend—what was his name again? Talley? Talley yes, Mr. Talley from New York—but then Henri had learned that Robert was off on a vacation and would not be back at his desk until the first day of The Reappearance Time. "No matter," Henri had reassured Tikhanov. "Just have your friend present himself in person the day Robert is back, have him invoke my name, and Robert will remember and give Mr. Talley a room. There is always an extra room, believe me."
Believing him, Tikhanov had felt relieved. But now, stepping out of his taxi before the hotel, he was less certain. In life, as in diplomacy, Tikhanov was always cautious, always leaving back doors open, even in the most minute matters. Right now, he decided to keep his taxi on hold. As the driver stepped down from the front seat to remove the suitcase from the trunk, Tikhanov told him, "Not yet. Just wait a few minutes. I must be sure I have a room. They might send me somewhere else."
His condition, as he had come to think of his muscular dystrophy, nagged him today, and Tikhanov went up the outer dark-gray steps slowly. The ground floor lobby was modest and modern, an elevator and staircase directly ahead. Behind the counter, musing over a ledger, was a bespectacled, uniformed concierge.
Tikhanov approached him confidently, and addressed him in French. "Monsieur, I am looking for the chief concierge Robert."
The concierge peered up at him through bifocal lenses. "I am Robert, at your service."
"Ah, good, good. I am here on the advice of a friend of yours, who sends his best regards. I refer to our mutual friend, Henri, the head concierge at the Intercontinental in Geneva."
Without hesitation, Robert said, "Henri, yes. How is he? A fine fellow. Is he well?"
"Never better. Henri advised me to see you about a room for this week. He said you would know better than the hotel receptionist. He realized how crowded it would be, but thought you might be able to accommodate me as a favor to him. Anything will do."
Robert's face fell. "Henri is right. Usually there is something. But today, and for every day of this week, there is nothing, absolutely nothing. I am embarrassed, desolate, not to be able to do something for my friend. But truly, there is nothing, not even a vacant closet."
Tikhanov reached for his wallet. "You are certain?"
"It is no use. I am positive. The hotel is occupied to the rafters. This has never happened before. But this is an extraordinary time. After all, the Virgin has not appeared in Lourdes since 1858. Everyone wants to see her. Next week, I can probably help arrange an accommodation."
"I have only this week."
"Then I am sorry."
"What can I do? Might there be another hotel, someone you know, who would have a room?"
"None. The hotels are filled to overflow." A thought occurred to him, and the concierge held up a finger. "One possibility. In other times when Lourdes has been crowded, there have been some room rentals outside the city. There are many small towns near us, all within commuting distance, and often families decide to let their spare rooms to earn a few francs. Yes, I am sure that is happening now to take care of the overflow. That would be the best thing for you, Mr.—Mr. —"
"Talley, Samuel Talley."
"Yes, that would be best, Mr. Talley. Learn what private housing is available outside the city."
"Where would I find out about that? I've never been to Lourdes before."
Robert offered immediate help. "I can tell you exactly where to go to find out. We have what we call the Syndicat des Hôteliers de Lourdes on the Place de l'Eglise in the Old Town. Here, let me show you." He sought and found an orange-covered map with the heading, Lourdes, lieu de pèlerinage, and unfolded it. He traced the route to the Place for Tikhanov, then refolded the map and handed it to the Russian.
"This should lead you to a roof over your head. I am sorry I could not accommodate you here. Good luck."
Leaving the hotel, descending the stairs, Tikhanov opened the map and handed it to the waiting driver. "There is no room here," he explained. "I must go to the Syndicat des Hôteliers. You see, the concierge drew a line to it on the map." The driver consulted the map, nodding, and gestured Tikhanov into the back seat once more.
During the fifteen minute ride, Tikhanov was completely inattentive to his surroundings. His mind was turned inward, assessing his foolishness in coming here, weighing the risk involved in visiting a "holy land" of which his government and party disapproved against the growing incapacity of his body.
By the time he had been discharged at the Place de 1'Eglise, he had made up his mind that his health and its reward was worth any risk. Moreover, he felt safe behind the camouflage of his new mustache. Paying off the driver, following his directions, he gripped his bag and proceeded toward the nearby building.
Tikhanov found the office unoccupied except for two middle-aged women at their desks. The nearest one, dark bangs, wire-rimmed spectacles, greeted him pleasantly. He introduced himself as Samuel Talley, American, recently arrived in Lourdes on a pilgrimage, but not an official one, and therefore without a place to stay for the week. A friend at the Hotel St.Louis de France had suggested that he come here to obtain a spare room in some private household outside the city.
The lady with the bangs looked sad. "Yes, we had a long list of accommodations earlier in the week, but those are all spoken for. I'm afraid—" She had begun to read her listings, but then halted to study a note paper clipped to the top page. "Wait, monsieur, there may be something here. You may be in luck. This note was left by one of the tour-agency guides, a local girl who lives with her parents in Tarbes. She says here that her parents have a bedroom that can be rented for the week. They would want 225 francs a day for the room and demi-pension. Are you interested? If you are, I'll check to see if the room is still available."
"Please," said Tikhanov. "Where did you say it was?"
"Tarbes. A mere twenty minutes from Lourdes by taxi. Lovely town." She took the receiver off the hook and dialed. "Let me see." She waited as the phone rang. A voice had finally come on. The lady in bangs spoke in French. "This is the Syndicat des Hôteliers. Is Mademoiselle Dupree still there?" The lady in bangs waited a moment then spoke into the phone again. "Gisele? About the note you left this morning. The room your parents were willing to rent out, is it still free?" She listened, then said, "Good. I have a client, a Mr. Samuel Talley from America. I will tell him." She put down the receiver and beamed at Tikhanov. "Good news. You have a room. I will give you the address in Tarbes. It is the home of the family Dupree. Respectable people. I have never met them, but their daughter Gisele is a lovely one, which always reflects on the parents. Here, let me write it out for you, Mr. Talley."
Tikhanov did not get to Tarbes until early evening.
He had lingered in Lourdes, actually in the domain area, until night was beginning to fall. The lady with bangs in the Syndicat had proved to be talkative, and she had told him what he should see in the immediate area. He had walked unsteadily on the Esplanade des Processions, covering much of its distance until he realized that he was going in the wrong direction, toward an exit gate. Reversing his path, he had gone slowly toward the Upper Basilica, even climbed the stairs to the entrance and observed the ornate interior. After that he had descended to seek the legendary grotto, and had seen all the worshippers standing, sitting, kneeling before a cave, but he had not joined them and had made up his mind to have a closer look tomorrow.
What really held him back, he knew, was his feeling of being apart from this scene, a foreign stranger, not belonging to all these ecstatic superstitious people. He had to remind himself that he belonged here as much as anyone, remembering his childhood with a religious mother. What kept him at a distance, too, was that he had never liked crowds, indeed had never been a face in a crowd. From his earliest successes to his rise as the Soviet Union's foreign minister and a world figure, he had addressed crowds, as one above them, lecturing them. Or he had counseled with other world figures, premiers and presidents and kings, as one-to-one equals. Such contacts and situations were acceptable, but for him to be a nobody lost in a throng was unthinkable.
Finally, leaving, he knew the truth of why he had not walked closer to the crowd around the grotto. The truth was that he suddenly ached to the marrow of his bones, felt weak, terribly weakened by his fatal illness, and unable to remain erect much longer.
Somehow, he managed to attain the top of the nearby exit ramp, knowing that he had in some mysterious way been reduced to the low status of all those worshipping pilgrims because he was like each and every one of them. Illness had subtracted from his individuality. He was the same as every person there. He, too, wanted hope, to pray for a cure.
The street above was illuminated by yellow lights, and traffic was humming. He must get to where he was going, and settle in his room, and rest for tomorrow and his first effort to have himself healed.
He hoped it would not take long to find a taxi, and immediately he saw a vacant one, hailed it, and soon, with his suitcase, was on his way to the family Dupree.
The ride on the highway to Tarbes was, indeed, a short one, and to his relief, Tarbes was not one of those dreary, primitive, crumbling French villages but a modern city of pleasant aspect. The driver, noting Tikhanov's interest, was pleased to point out the sights. The wide thoroughfare they were driving on led to a square called the Place de Verdun. Tikhanov could see that most of the shopping streets emerged from this square like spokes on a wheel.
"Is the place I'm going to very far from here?" Tikhanov inquired.
"Five, six blocks, on a side street," said the driver. "Be there in a minute." He pointed off. "First monsieur, observe the little house on our right—France's greatest war hero, Mardchal Foch, was born there." Then the driver announced, "The cathedral of Tarbes, where some cures have been reported this week."
The driver was moving his taxi through a series of one-way streets, and slowing. "The next block," he called back.
Tikhanov's destination proved to be a cheap, four-story apartment building near the Jardin Massey, an extensive public park with unidentifiable outdoor sculpture half-hidden in the darkness. The family Dupree had five rooms on the ground floor, this written out on Tikhanov's Syndicat slip as Apartment 1.
Tikhanov was admitted by Madame Dupree, a thin small-boned woman with loose graying blond hair and faded, delicate features, who might have been young once, and possibly attractive.
"Monsieur Samuel Talley, l'américain?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, also using French. "The Syndicat in Lourdes notified you, then."
"My daughter, Gisele, telephoned that you were taking the bedroom and would be here for dinner. Please, come in."
The living room was dim, lighted by only two bulbs, but Tikhanov could make out that it was a heavily draped room with old-fashioned overstuffed French furniture. The television set was on, and then off, as someone rose from beside it and loomed before him. This was Monsieur Dupree, a squat, powerful man with rumpled hair, a cast in one eye, a square stubbled jaw. Having muttered a "Bon soii" he took Tikhanov's suitcase. "I will show you the room," he said in French. "My daughter's room. She will sleep on the couch for the week."
The daughter's room was another thing. It was bright, recently redone and fresh, and it was feminine. A pastel spread covered the single bed. Instead of a headboard, there was a shelf of books, all French, of course, but no, not all French, several with English titles about New York specifically and the United States in general. There was a bedstand with a lamp wearing a ruffled shade. Tikhanov wondered about the daughter of this lowly French family who owned books in English about the United States.
Dupree had set down Tikhanov's bag. "We will be prepared to have supper in about a half hour, Mr. Talley."
"I'll be ready for it. But in case I doze off, do you mind letting me know again?"
"I'll rap on your door."
After his host had gone, Tikhanov had meant to unpack for the week ahead. But the ache persisted in his arms and one leg, and finally he gave in to it, wishing only to get off his feet and have some relief. He lowered himself to the bed, lifted his legs, rolled over on his side and was at once fast asleep. The sharp knocking on the door awakened him, and he raised his head, momentarily confused, and then he remembered.
"Thank you, Mr. Dupree," he called out. "Be right with you."
A few minutes later, he wandered into the dining room, another dimly lit room, where Dupree was already stolidly seated. Madame Dupree, wearing an apron, hurried from the kitchen to show Tikhanov to his place. She indicated the empty chair beside him. "We won't wait for Gisele. She phoned to say she was still at work and will be late."
Madame Dupree paused at the kitchen door. "We eat modestly," she apologized. "Tonight I have consommé and for the main course an omelette with smoked salmon." Tikhanov held back a smile at the formality of her announcement.
He took in the hideous dining room. Soiled striped wallpaper. A yellowing sketch of Jesus cut from a newspaper and framed. A metal crucifix. On another wall a framed photograph of a marble statue of the Virgin Mary. Serving the soup, Madame Dupree saw Tikhanov studying the hangings. She said, defensively, "We are a religious family, Mr. Talley."
"Yes, I see."
"But you would not have come to Lourdes unless you are a believer."
"That's right."
Once they were served, and Madame Dupree was seated, Tikhanov was about to dip his spoon into the soup when he heard a brief rumble. Startled, he looked up to see his host and hostess with their eyes shut, heads bowed, as monsieur muttered grace under his breath. Embarrassed by this public display, and what he was expected to do, Tikhanov laid down his spoon and bowed his head, also.
After that, they ate. At first the Duprees were silent, but eventually there was some halting conversation. Tikhanov politely wanted to know about them, but the most he could find out was that monsieur was a garage mechanic and madame was a maid at the Hôtel Président on the edge of town. As to recreation and social activity, these were confined to watching the state television programs, attending Mass at the nearby cathedral, and appearing at various church affairs. Did they know anything about Lourdes? A little, what everyone knew, but mainly what their daughter told them.
"Gisele should be here any minute," Madame said. "She can tell you anything you want to know about Lourdes,"
"That will be most helpful," said Tikhanov.
As the plates from the main course were removed, the basket of bread taken away, and the crumbs swept off the tablecloth, Tikhanov's mind went to his Mother Russia. What would members of the Politburo think if they could see their great international diplomat, and future premier, the renowned and respected intellectual Sergei Tikhanov sitting here consorting with two morons, oafs, drones.
About to cut into his tarte aux fruits, he felt the room suddenly come alive. A breathtakingly beautiful young woman, more a girl, with honey-colored hair caught in a ponytail, and incredible green-gray eyes, had burst into the room, was pecking kisses at her parents. Tikhanov watched her round the table, full of vitality and the outdoors, trim and energetic.
She held out her hand to Tikhanov. "And you must be our boarder, Mr. Talley."
"I am Sam Talley," said Tikhanov awkwardly. "And you are Mademoiselle Gisele Dupree."
"None other," she said, switching to English, sitting beside Tikhanov. "Welcome to the house of Dupree and welcome to the town next door to all those miracles."
"Thank you," said Tikhanov. "I hope so. The miracles, I mean."
Madame Dupree had gone into the kitchen to retrieve her daughter's warmed-over soup and make her an omelette.
Gisele babbled on, to her father in French, to Tikhanov in English, recounting her adventures this first day of The Reappearance Time in Lourdes.
Tikhanov listened to her closely, and observed her with fascination, wishing fleetingly not only for health but for youth. No doubt about it, a real beauty, perhaps from the mother's side. But more. Unlike her parents, Gisele was apparently well-educated, knowledgeable, with a perfect grasp of the American English. But still more, as she ate and talked, there was something about her, something that made Tikhanov feel uneasy. He tried to pin it down, this uneasy feeling. Her alertness, that was it, she was too alert, possibly clever, maybe perceptive. He wondered if she might give him trouble. He doubted it. She was too young, too limited, strictly a local who knew little beyond the life in Lourdes and her Catholicism. Still, his fake mustache itched and he told himself to be wary. The young ones were so smart these days, made worldly-wise by television.
He realized that she had finished her food and was speaking to him, curious about what had brought him to Lourdes.
"Why?" he found himself saying. "Well, why not? I haven't been feeling well for some time. An illness I do not like to discuss. Too boring for dinner conversation. I became impatient with my doctors, and a Catholic friend suggested I visit Lourdes, especially now. He knew I was a fallen-away Catholic, but one never falls far from that tree of life, does one? So I had a vacation, so I thought I would take it in Lourdes."
"You never can tell," said Gisele cheerfully. "There are lucky ones here every year. They are cured. I have seen it happen to them. You may be one of this years lucky ones, Mr. Talley. Go to the grotto every day. Pray with the pilgrims, drink the water, take the baths. And have faith."
He met her eyes to see if she was teasing, but she was evidently serious. He decided to be serious, too. "I would like to have real faith, pure faith," he said earnestly. "But it is hard for one like me, a man of certain intelligence, to accept the fact that there are gravely ill persons who have been cured by faith and not science."
"Believe me, it happens. As I told you, I've seen it happen with my own eyes. You know, I'm a guide in Lourdes, and I get around, and I see them all, and now and then I see one lost soul who is totally healed, totally. Not by science, but by faith."
"I'm impressed," said Tikhanov.
"In fact, I know our latest miracle cure personally. I met her a number of years ago. She's been coming to Lourdes for five years. She is an Englishwoman, a Mrs. Edith Moore. She was given up as a terminal cancer case, but on her second visit to Lourdes she was blessed with a miraculous cure. Poof. Cancer gone. The blood cells a healthy red, the bones strong. Actually, she's in Lourdes for a last time, a last examination, before being declared a miracle cure. I ran into her before dinner. She's robust, the picture of well-being, and excited. Would you like to meet her? Would that prove something for you?"
"It certainly would," replied Tikhanov, feeling a surge of optimism. "I'd very much like to meet your Mrs. Moore."
"Then you shall. I'll try to arrange lunch with her. If you'll pay for it. And for my time, taking time off from a tour. The price for the meal and a hundred francs for your guide. Is that too much?"
Tikhanov felt the smile beneath his shaggy mustache. "A bargain, as we Americans say."
"Okay, we've got a date," said Gisele. "Since you are staying here, you can drive to Lourdes with me in the morning. You'll have time to take the baths, and after that have lunch with Edith Moore. Okay with you?"
"Okay by me," said Tikhanov trying to sound like Talley. "I'll be ready to go when you are."