Monday, August 15
It was one minute after midnight in Lourdes, and the second day of The Reappearance Time had begun. At precisely two o'clock in the morning, the alarm of Natale Rinaldi's travel clock on the stand beside her bed in the Hotel Gallia & Londres had gone off shrilly. Immediately awakened, Natale had reached out, fumbled for it, and pressed her hand on it to still the persistent sound. She sat up fully aroused, coming out of a fuzzy dream-filled darkness into alert darkness, mind focusing and remembering that after dinner she had set the unique Braille clock for two in the morning and that she had gone to sleep without removing her dress, only kicking off her shoes which would be below the bed.
Since her helper, Rosa, had not been able to guide her back to the grotto a second time the evening before, Natale had resolved to go back alone when everyone else slept and she could enjoy the comfort of the shrine by herself. Swinging her feet off the bed, pushing them into her low-heeled shoes, she suffered a brief moment of panic. She wondered if she could possibly remember the direction, the count of the steps to each turning, once she departed her room and headed for the grotto alone. But the momentary void in her mind was instantly filled by the rows of numbers in order, the steps she must take to each turning, from her hotel room to the lobby to the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous to the ramp to the Rosary Basilica and the precious grotto itself. The numbers were there in her mind, as certain and vivid as if on a computer screen.
Relieved, she stood up, felt her way to the bathroom, doused her face with cold water, and combed her hair.
She stepped into the corridor, locked the door, and placed the key in an inside pocket of the purse she had slung over her shoulder.
She started to her right, seeking the elevator, and unerringly she reached it. She touched the rosary in her purse, thinking of her lone vigil at the grotto and the prayers she would offer to the invisible Virgin.
When she heard the elevator arrive, she was ready to go on. Nothing could keep her from the One she loved and would be able to speak to alone.
Slumped in a chair behind the reception desk, chin resting against the exposed mat of hair on his chest, Anatole was dozing. A sound of some kind, a familiar but unexpected noise, intruded upon his subconscious, awakening him. Opening his eyes, he could hear the elevator across the lobby descending. He listened as it rattled to a stop at ground level.
A quick check of the reception desk clock told him it was five minutes after two o'clock in the morning.
This was unheard of, someone using the elevator at this hour. Since arriving in Lourdes from Marseilles, and taking this boring job, Anatole had never seen anyone awake two hours after midnight in this dead-ass hotel. During the entire week of his employment here, the lobby had been like a morgue between one o'clock in the morning and five.
And now, at five minutes after two o'clock, someone was actually emerging from the elevator.
Anatole came to his feet, bending over the counter as he squinted across the lobby.
Of all people, the young woman, the great-looking girl, was emerging from the elevator. He recognized her at once. The absolutely dazzling blind girl.
There she was in person. And all alone. Crazy, crazy. What the hell was she up to at this hour?
She seemed to know what she was up to, because she was making her way, with some certainty, toward the hotel door and the street.
Anatole remembered that he had locked the hotel door, as he had been instructed to do, before taking his nap. The girl, the sexpot, would find it a secure barrier that would prevent her from going wherever she was headed. She deserved the courtesy of the hotel, he told himself, and he deserved a closer look. Immediately, he was moving, hastening along the reception counter and around it toward the door.
She had reached the door when he called out, "Mademoiselle."
She stopped in her tracks, startled, and turned her head. "I am Anatole, the reception clerk on the night shift," he quickly explained. "You know it is after two in the morning?"
"Yes, I know," she said without hesitation.
"You want to go into the street at this hour?"
"I have an appointment," she said.
"Well, the front door is locked. We always keep it locked after everyone goes to sleep. But I can unlock it for you."
"Please do," she said.
He was releasing the dead bolt. "If you expect to be back soon, I can leave it unlocked for you."
"I would appreciate that."
"Here, let me open the door," Anatole said.
He stepped in front of her, brushing against her, feeling the soft give of those fantastic young breasts against his arm. Easing the door back, he had a close look at her. A breathtaking pale face enlivened only by dark glasses. The pointed breasts. The soft short dress that clung to her hips and showed off the shapely legs.
"Is the door open?" she asked.
"Yes." He could hardly find his voice. "Can I help you in any way?"
"Thank you. I'm all right."
She went unhesitatingly past him into the street. The second her foot touched the sidewalk, she turned to the right. He stepped out to watch her. Her stride was measured, but sure, almost defiant. Anatole grinned. A gutsy little bitch. She'd be something in bed. He kept his eyes on her, the wonderful legs, the undulating hips, and he was inflamed with desire.
He'd had many women in Marseilles, mostly whores paid for out of his meager earnings from rotten jobs that required manual labor, those and a few beat-up drunken dames who would do anything with anyone, but he had never made it with a young lady, with a high-flying lady, certainly not with someone who looked like this one did.
He continued to keep his eyes on her receding figure in the patches of street lights that defied the darkness. In the distance, she had come to the corner, expertly stepped off the curb, crossed the street, and was going on past the café.
To an appointment? With whom?
And then he knew. The grotto. She was going to wait for the Virgin at the grotto. Dumb kid. How could she hope to see the Virgin or anyone? When she realized that there was no Virgin there, she might want someone else, someone who could really keep her company.
Turning back to the hotel, he could barely walk, the erection between his legs was so enormous.
It was difficult to do in the flickering light of the candles far below, but Mikel Hurtado continued to crawl on hands and knees from the vegetation nearest the niche that held the statue of the Virgin Mary into the bushes and forest of trees.
Upon awakening from his nap in the hotel a half hour ago, he had at first planned to carry his dynamite and detonator to the grotto and either hide the equipment or set it up. Dressing, he'd had second thoughts. Yesterday, he had seen the grotto area in the evening, and it had been promising. Now he decided that he had better have another scouting exploration by night when there were no pilgrims around, but when there might be some guards on hand. His experiences in Spain had taught him it was essential to know the security situation at any target. So, without his equipment, he had gone down the stairs to the reception lobby, been let outside by the sleepy reception clerk, and gone along the empty street toward the domain.
From the shadows at the bottom of the street ramp, Hurtado had been able to make a preliminary survey of the area near his destination. There was not a soul in sight around the Rosary Esplanade, nor on the double walks rising to the Upper Basilica. There appeared to be no one in the entrance to the grotto. As for the Esplanade des Processions, as the map called it, not a human could be seen on its entire length.
Hurtado had started to move out of the shadows when, from nowhere it seemed, a figure appeared a short distance away—a man, an older blue-shirted night watchman wearing a shoulder holster. He was not exactly walking, really just shuffling along, coming up the Esplanade des Processions, probably from the gate at the far end, moving toward the Rosary Basilica. The watchman seemed to be sleepwalking, yawning, looking neither to right nor left, as he advanced toward the churches. Reaching the steps before the Rosary Basilica, he seated himself to have a smoke. This had taken five minutes. He had finally dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with his shoe. Then he stood up and resumed his circuit of the domain.
Eyeing the guard's retreat, Hurtado consulted his wristwatch and decided to time him. Crouching, finally sitting out of sight on one side of the ramp from the street, Hurtado patiently waited. Twenty-five minutes had gone by before the guard could be seen advancing from the far side of the domain toward the basilicas. Over thirty minutes, closer to thirty-five, before he reached the entrance to the Rosary Basilica, once more resting and enjoying his ritual smoke. Five more minutes and the guard was again on patrol.
Hurtado was satisfied with the timing. The guard came into this immediate area every thirty minutes, roughly on the hour and the half hour. Hurtado would wait until he was out of sight, and then make his way to the grotto. He would examine the shrubbery, bushes, trees beside and above the cave, and he would make sure to take his leave when he knew that the single guard was elsewhere in the domain.
No problem. None whatsoever.
When the guard was out of sight once more, Hurtado hurried down off the ramp, and silently as possible made his way around the corner of the church to the grotto. Again, there was not a human being in sight. The pilgrims slept in their beds through the night and early morning hours, and the grotto was abandoned.
Hastening past the benches and the tiers of burning waxen candles, Hurtado did not give the grotto a second look. He went to the grassy slope beside it, trying to find the best way to climb up the steep incline. He did not want to take the regular path, the one that led to the top of the hill much farther on. Fortunately, there was the semblance of a worn path, overgrown, that earlier adventurous visitors had trodden in making their way toward the basilicas for a view of the extent of the domain below. Having come to a midpoint in the hill, parallel to the statue of the Virgin in the niche overlooking the grotto, Hurtado cut to his left, going crabwise toward the niche so that he could examine it close-up and consider the practicality of planting the dynamite and running the wiring off.
Now that part of it was done, every aspect studied with care, and he was crawling upward again, into the more thickly wooded area, hunting for an obscure but perfect spot where he could set his detonator. In less than ten more minutes he had found the spot he wanted, a natural depression in the earth beside the broad base of a leafy oak tree. He marked it carefully in his mind. He would be ready tomorrow night.
He brought his wristwatch with its luminous dial up to his face in the darkness. The time was right to leave. The guard would already be departing the immediate area of the church and walking away on his circuit of the domain.
On his feet once more, a trifle uneasy about the slippery footing, Hurtado slowly made his way downward until the tops of the burning candles came in view. Cautiously, before crawling down the rest of the way, he bent forward to see if the area in front of the grotto was still devoid of life.
It was.
It wasn't! His heart skipped a beat. Someone was there.
Crouching at his high perch, holding onto the branch of a stunted tree, he tried to focus on the figure below. The figure, he could make out, was that of a young woman with dark hair, wearing black glasses, on her knees in a position of prayer. Her hands were clasped at her breast, and apparently she was silently praying before the grotto. There was something about her, the lack of movement, the stillness of her person, that indicated she was praying fervently, in a trancelike state. There was also something about her that Hurtado found vaguely familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before. Then it came to him—the dark hair and black glasses—the girl he had seen leaving the room next to his own at the hotel during the dinner hour last night. But to be here alone, at this ungodly hour, holding communion with the Virgin Mary really exceeded religious fanaticism.
Also, her presence hampered his own plan to leave the area. The one thing he could not risk was being detected by anyone. He would have to remain in hiding until she had ceased petitioning the Virgin and departed.
He continued to stare down at the immobile, entranced young woman, when suddenly she began to move, or rather her body involuntarily moved. She seemed to be swaying, leaning sideways, and then she toppled over, collapsed on the ground and lay unconscious. Obviously, succumbing to religious ecstasy, she had fainted. Now she lay crumpled on the ground, as inert as if she were dead.
Instinctively, Hurtado wanted to scramble down the hill—or at least crawl down as swiftly as possible—and go to her aid. But if she became conscious, and he was revealed to her, she might be able to recognize and identify him later when suspects were sought after the explosion. Caught between the desire to help and the fear of danger, Hurtado wished the security guard would return and spot her and revive her. But the watchman would not be returning for another twenty minutes, and he would be passing at some distance from the grotto area, and might overlook her inert figure.
As the inner debate continued to worry Hurtado's mind, something unexpected happened below.
A second figure had appeared, on the run, a young man, going directly to the woman who had fainted before the grotto, and quickly kneeling beside her. He was making an effort to revive her, rubbing her limp wrists, patting her cheeks, pulling her up to a sitting position. At last she moved her head, shaking it, regaining consciousness. The man continued speaking to her, until she finally nodded. The man jumped to his feet, bounded to the water spigots, collected some water in a cupped hand, and hastened back to her. He dabbed the water on her face with a handkerchief, and at once she was fully conscious and speaking. The man was helping her to her feet, and on her feet she seemed completely revived, yet confused in some way. There was something odd about the way she reached out a hand, as if trying to feel her way, before the young man took a grip on her arm and led her from the grotto.
It was during this that Hurtado realized the woman who had been praying so fervently at the grotto was probably blind. Trying to recall the moment he had set eyes on her at the hotel, Hurtado remembered that he had thought then that she was blind. He had completely forgotten it.
Hurtado cursed beneath his breath. Her affliction meant that she would not have seen him if he had chosen to leave the area fifteen minutes earlier. Now he was uncomfortably stuck on the hillside near the grotto until the pair had gone, and the guard had come again and gone once more. Hurtado watched the couple leaving. He tried to understand their relationship. She had undoubtedly told her boyfriend that she was going to the grotto by herself, and had made an appointment with him to pick her up at a certain time, and he had come to get her just after she had fainted.
The pair was gone now. But the guard could be seen at a distance on his patrol. Gradually, Hurtado began to crawl down the hillside, to be ready to depart once the guard was out of the way.
Near the bottom of the hill, Hurtado waited for the guard to have his smoke, and to start patrolling again. Seven or eight minutes passed, and Hurtado knew that the man would now be on his long amble around the domain. Hurtado carefully picked his way down the remainder of the hill and was relieved to be on level terra firma once more.
Satisfied with his exploration, despite the delay, and pleased that everything was set for his final act, which would bring the Basque nationalists closer to success, he strode hurriedly past the eerie grotto and the towering Upper Basilica, and made for the street ramp and the Hotel Gallia & Londres.
Leading the grateful girl—he had learned her name was Natale and that she was Italian (the best kind)—into the hotel lobby, ignoring the reception desk that he had left unattended, Anatole took her to the elevator that was waiting. She thanked him for the hundredth time, and insisted that she could make it up to her room by herself, but he was equally insistent that he wanted to escort her safely to her room.
Going up in the elevator with her, Anatole was pleased with this lucky break. After she had left the hotel, he had intended to go back behind the desk and resume his nap. But all interest in sleep had vanished. His mind had been filled with images of the girl, those tits, that ass, undressing her, putting it into her, and his erection had not abated. At last, he had determined to seek her out at the grotto, speak to her, try to seduce her. He had convinced himself that she might want a warm body, a French lover, and that she might be impressed by his pursuit of her in the early hours of the morning. His intention had been to encourage her to invite him to her room or to invite her to his own room several blocks away from the Gallia & Londres, for a few drinks and finally some real lovemaking. But finding her in a faint, being the big hero who had saved her, had been more than he had counted on. Now he had her gratefulness, and this would make her vulnerable. He knew that he need but ask her if he could stay the night, and he would have her immediate compliance.
His erection, briefly down, was growing once more.
The elevator had stopped and they were on the second floor.
"Let me see you to your room," Anatole said. "What's the number again?"
"You needn't bother. I know my way."
"Well, I've brought you this far, so let me get you to where you're going. The number?"
"Room 205," she said.
At the door of the room, she fished inside her purse, found her key, and put it in the lock.
Aware of his continued presence, she said, "Thank you." She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and went inside. He followed her, shutting the door behind him.
"I thought I'd see you safely inside," he said.
"You have," she said. "I appreciate it."
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I'd better get to sleep. Thank you again." She put out her hand, and taking it, feeling the warm flesh of her hand, he was further aroused.
He held her hand tightly. "Any time," he said quietly. Abruptly, he pulled her to him, and pressed his rough lips against hers, kissing her hand. She struggled, tearing herself free.
She was breathing fast. "What are you doing?" she gasped.
"Natale, I just wanted to kiss you. I—I'd like to stay here tonight."
"You can't. I don't want anything like that. Now please go."
"Come on, be a sport, Natale. You owe me. Don't you want to do something for me? Sure you do."
"Not that," she said, her voice rising. "I don't owe you that." She tried to contain herself. "You were nice to me, and I appreciate it, but now you're not being so nice, and I don't like it. I'd suggest you not cause any trouble. Just be a gentleman and leave right now."
"All right, you win," he said with mock contriteness. "But you are something special, so don't blame me for trying. Sorry it didn't work out. Good-night."
"Good-night," she said with finality.
Anatole walked to the door, opened it noisily, and then banged it shut firmly, but remained in the bedroom. Soundlessly, he eased himself against the wall beside the closed door.
She stood at the foot of her bed a few moments, sagging with relief. Then with a sigh, she felt her way along the bed to the closet, reached inside for her white nightgown and threw it on the bed.
Anatole held his breath, wondering whether or not she was aware that he was still in the room.
Then he was sure that she was not aware of him, was certain that he had left and that she was quite alone.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched her. She had unbuttoned her dress and was pulling it off. She was wearing only a flimsy brassiere and tight string bikini briefs now. She turned away from him to hang her dress in the closet, and then stepped back to the bed, unhooking her bra. The bra was off now and those fantastic firm breasts, with the great brown buttons of nipples, bobbed free, were facing him. She was reaching down to take off her panties. He caught his breath, his heart hammering with excitement, and the bulge at his crotch about to burst.
Her bikini panties were coming down now, she was lifting one bare leg and then the other to step out of them, and the triangle of curly pubic hair was visible, and Anatole was out of control, unable to restrain himself a second longer.
He zipped open the fly of his trousers, let his full erection burst out, and charged across the bedroom toward her.
Mike Hurtado, having left the elevator at the second floor, proceeded down the corridor toward room 206. He had just passed the door of 205, and was nearing his own door, when he heard a muffled scream, a scream from somewhere nearby.
Startled, Hurtado halted in his tracks, listening intently.
Another muffled drawn-out scream, high-pitched, a woman's, and definitely from inside the room next door to his.
Next door. The blind girl, the blind girl at the grotto. The beginning of another scream, abruptly choked off. Something was going on in there, something terribly wrong, and Hurtado did not bother to think, did not hesitate.
Whirling around, he rushed back to the door of 205. He could clearly hear scuffling. He had grabbed at the doorknob, meaning to grip it and heave himself against the door to break it down, when the door, unlocked, flew open.
Hurtado was inside the room.
Instantly, he saw what was happening—the young girl naked on the bed, beating with her fists, as some animal, the palm of one hand clamped over her mouth, trousers half down, was trying to get on top of her and between her legs.
Rape, savage attempted rape, was what Hurtado saw. Neither of them on the bed, in their struggle, was aware that someone else was in the room.
Enraged by what he was seeing, in a mindless fury at what the monster was trying to do to this helpless girl, Hurtado hurtled himself across the room to the bed. His hands clutched at the assailant's shoulders, yanking him off the girl, and throwing him on the floor. Anatole, stunned by surprise, scrambled to his feet, hampered by the trousers around his ankles, too amazed to lift his hands. Hurtado was on Anatole in a single motion, driving his right fist to the assailant's jaw and smashing his left fist into the rapist's abdomen. As Anatole groaned, doubling up, Hurtado unleashed more punches, battering the other's head and face. Anatole began to crumple, and Hurtado kept landing his pile-driver punches.
Anatole lay sprawled on the rug, half senseless, blood trickling from his mouth.
Hurtado reached down, hooked his hands under the man's arms and dragged him across the room and through the doorway into the hall. There, he dropped the dazed rapist. Briefly, Hurtado considered whether he should summon the police, but quickly decided against it. He wanted no contact with any police while he was in Lourdes.
Instead, he kicked the rapist in the ribs, and in a low voice, so as not to awaken any guests, he warned him. "You get out of here, you fucking bastard, you get out of here and get out fast, or I'll grind you into a meatball."
With effort, fright showing in his puffed eyes, Anatole climbed to his feet clutching his trousers, dribbling blood and nodding. He turned, almost tripping, and staggered toward the staircase. Snatching at the rail, he plunged down the stairs and out of sight.
Hurtado grunted, and slowly went back into the girl's bedroom. She was standing in a bathrobe, tying the sash, and groping for her dark glasses on the bed and putting them on.
"Don't worry, señorita, he's gone" Hurtado said in Spanish. She asked him something in Italian. He said in English, "I don't understand Italian. You speak English?"
"Yes, English . . . Did you call the police?" she asked, still trembling.
"Not necessary," Hurtado said. "He won't be back. I think he's the fellow who works as a night receptionist downstairs. But I'm sure he won't be back on the job or even stay in town. Are you okay?"
"Just scared," she said.
"Don't blame you," Hurtado said. "That's an awful thing to have happen. How did it happen?"
She explained what had taken place, how she had gone down to the grotto by herself to pray, how the spiritual intensity had made her faint, how this person had come out of nowhere to revive her and bring her back to her room, how he'd tricked her into believing that he had left the room when he had actually remained inside determined to rape her.
"Thank God for you," she concluded. "How you got in here in time I don't know, but I owe you a lot."
"It was sheer luck," Hurtado said matter-of-factly. "I was out for a late night walk, was coming back to my room to go to sleep—I have the bedroom next to yours—when I heard you scream. I was going to break in to see what was happening, but the door had been left unlocked." He paused. "Are you better now?"
"Much better," she said with a wonderful smile. She came hesitantly around the bed toward him, stumbling once, righting herself, apologizing. "I—I'm blind, you know."
"I know," he said.
She put out her hand. "I'm Natale Rinaldi, from Rome." He took her hand, shook it, released it. "I'm Mikel Hurtado," he said, "from—from Spain."
"Pleased to know you," she said, "to put it mildly. Are you here for the Virgin?"
He hesitated. "For a cure, an arthritic condition."
"Maybe both of us will be fortunate."
"I hope so," he said.
"Well, I don't know what more to say except thank you again. Thank you a million times."
"If you really want to thank me," he said sternly, "you can do so by promising never to let strangers see you to your room—and by keeping the door locked from the inside from now on."
She held up one hand. "I promise," she said.
"Now you get some sleep, Natale, and I will, too."
"Good-night, Mikel."
"Good-night," he said, and he went through the doorway, closing the door.
He listened for the lock to turn. The lock turned. He put his mouth close to the door, and said, "Good girl."
He heard her say, "I hope we run into each other again."
"We will," he assured her. "Good-night."
At his door, unlocking it, he knew that he wanted to see her again. She was a delicious girl, so lovely, so sweet. He had never met a young woman quite like her, and he did want to see her again. Maybe he would. But he reminded himself he was here for business not romance.
He must be all business from now on. No diversions. No failure.
Euskadi was his life. The freedom of Euskadi came before anything. There was work to do. Sorry, Natale, he thought. There is only one love, the homeland I've never had, and will have yet.
Behind the steering wheel of her venerable Renault, Gisele Dupree, her blond hair tied in a neat ponytail, her features scrubbed and shiny and without makeup, drove unhurriedly through Tarbes and on the highway toward Lourdes. Sergei Tikhanov sat uneasily in the passenger seat beside her. His uneasiness came from Gisele's disturbing habit of turning toward him when she spoke instead of keeping her eyes on the road.
But then he realized that the deeper uneasiness he felt came from an unnerving happening that had occurred last night. With a shudder, he relived it—
Last night, asleep in the Dupree apartment, Tikhanov had awakened from a terrible nightmare in a cold sweat at four in the morning. Once fully awake, the nightmare had swum vividly before his eyes: He was running frantically from members of the KGB, desperately trying to find a place to hide.
Sitting up in bed, turning on the lamp, he found that the horror of the nightmare had blurred slightly, and in the light he sought reason. What had brought on the scare? General Kossoff and the KGB weren't chasing him. They were, in reality, honoring him. He was their star, soon to be the most shining star in the Soviet Union. But he had tried to hide from them in the nightmare—and immediately he'd understood that aspect of the nightmare and tried to interpret it.
The hiding part had to do with the present risk he had undertaken, and his total failure to sublimate his fear of being found out.
By coming to Lourdes, he had put himself in a precarious situation, watching each step he made in his frontal move on faith and the hope for a cure. Yet, intent on this daring effort, he had neglected to protect his flank sufficiently. He had neglected to keep in touch with those in the Soviet Union who might need him most any minute and not be able to find him. What if they searched for him, and somehow managed to find him here?
A tremor went through Tikhanov.
And then he realized he could prevent any suspicions by simply being in touch with his colleagues by phone before making himself visible to them once more in person.
At the first opportunity he would contact the Soviet Embassy in Paris. He would call there, supposedly from Lisbon—no, he had called from Lisbon already—better to have returned to France to meet secretly with an arm of the Communist apparatus near Marseilles.
Having decided this, he felt a weight lifted off him. For now, he had better concentrate on what was before him, meaning his absolute anonymity in Lourdes.
Worriedly, he glanced at his talkative driver behind the wheel.
Tikhanov was in no mood to engage in conversation with anyone, let alone this country girl. He wanted only to restore his health, and get to the seat of power that awaited him in the Kremlin as soon as possible. From a corner of his eye he saw a road sign. Twenty kilometers to Lourdes. Last night, in the taxi, the journey had taken a good half hour. At the rate the Dupree girl was going, it might take almost a full hour—and give her too much time for conversation.
As if reading his mind, she turned her head and said, "No hurry. It's just after eight and I don't have my first tour until nine this morning. It is such a glorious day, not hot like yesterday." She inhaled the fresh air through the open window. "On days like this I could stay here forever." Then she added enigmatically, "But I won't." She looked at him. "Have you ever been to Lourdes before, Mr. Talley?"
At first he was unaware that he had been addressed, his mind drifting, and he did not respond. He had forgotten that he was Mr. Talley, but with a start he remembered his acquired name. Hastily he became more alert as he replied. "No," he said, "no, I have never been anywhere near here."
"When did you get here?" she inquired. "Oh, yes, it was yesterday when you were trying to find a room."
"Yes, yesterday late."
"From Paris?"
"I stopped over in Paris, yes, I have friends there."
"And you came here for a cure you told me last night. Is yours a recent illness?"
He was uncertain of how to answer her. He said, "Something I've had off and on for several years."
"What made you finally decide to come here? The news about the Virgin Mary reappearing?"
"I suppose that inspired me. It made me curious. I thought I would give it a try."
"Nothing to lose," she said with a lilt. "Possibly everything to gain."
"I am hoping."
"You will remain the entire week?"
"If necessary. I hope to go back home no later than next Monday. My vacation will be nearly over."
"Home," she said, eyes now on the road. "Where do you make your home in the States, Mr. Talley?"
He thought quickly. He had not anticipated personal questions and had not thought about this before. He tried to recall some remote places he had visited in the American East, places a person like Samuel Talley might have come from. He recalled a weekend trip he had made to a small town and resort called Woodstock, Vermont. "I come from Vermont," he said. "My wife and I have a modest farm in Woodstock."
"I've heard of it," she said. "I've heard it is picturesque."
"It is, it is." Tikhanov was worrying. He wondered if she had detected an accent in his English. He had better cover the possibility. He went on casually, "Actually, my parents emigrated from Russia, separately, when my mother was fourteen and my father eighteen. They met in New York at a social event, and fell in love, and were married. My father had been a farmer, and he found this property in Vermont and bought it. I was born there." Very casually, the next. "Growing up, I learned to speak Russian. It was natural. There was always Russian, as well as English, spoken around the house."
"I love languages," Gisele said. "I speak four but Russian is not one of them."
“No loss," said Tikhanov.
“And you work the farm?" inquired Gisele.
This girl was too inquisitive and smart. It was no use lying. She might see that his soft hands were not those of a farmer. He forced a short laugh. "Me labor on the farm? No, no. The truth is I'm a professor." He was feeling his way now. "Uh, a professor of the Russian language. I went to Columbia University, in fact majored in Russian and linguistics. After I got my doctorate, I became a member of the language department at Columbia. I teach Russian there."
"How do you manage to do it? I mean, live in Woodstock and teach in New York?"
Traps, everywhere there were traps, but as a diplomat Tikhanov was used to avoiding them. "Quite simple," he said. "I keep a small apartment in Manhattan to use during the school year, but maintain our home in Woodstock, and commute there whenever I can. My wife stays mostly at the Vermont house these days. She's a Vermont native and we have a son at—at the University of Southern California. He is studying theater arts." In an effort to leave the fictitious past behind, he made a transition into the present. "My wife was a Catholic, so I became a Catholic, too. I am not too religious, as I mentioned last night. Still, enough so to come to Lourdes."
"But you work in New York City?" she said.
"Yes, of course."
"I love New York, absolutely love it. I can't wait to get back."
Tikhanov was worried again. "You've been to New York?"
"I've lived there," she said cheerily. "I had the best time ever. There is so much to do in New York. I lived in New York for over a year."
Tikhanov tried not to be too interested. "You did? What were you doing there?"
"I had a secretarial job at the United Nations."
"At the United Nations?"
"With the French delegation. I'd met the French ambassador to the UN in Lourdes. He hired me to be one of his secretaries, and took me along when he moved to New York. It was a memorable experience. I can't wait to go back. I made so many friends there. Some of my best friends are Americans. One of them was in the United States delegation to the UN. As a matter of fact, if I remember right, he was a graduate of Columbia University. Maybe he was a student of yours, for all I know. His name is Roy Zimborg. Does that ring a bell? Did you ever have a Roy Zimborg in any of your classes?"
A big trap and danger. "I have had so many students it is difficult to remember names. Maybe he did not study Russian?"
"Probably not," said Gisele.
Tikhanov could see that they were approaching Lourdes, and he was relieved. He could not wait to get away from this country girl who had lived in New York and worked at the United Nations where he had appeared and spoken so often. Her inquisitiveness and persistent prying made him uncomfortable. Sooner or later she might catch him out in some error or inconsistency. He must rid himself of her.
Presently, they were on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and entering the parking lot of number 26, which was connected to the Hotel Gallia & Londres.
"What's this?" Tikhanov asked.
“The hotel where Edith Moore and her husband are staying," said Gisele, getting out of the car. "I told you last night about Edith. She's our miracle woman, had a miracle cure of cancer right here in Lourdes. You'll find it encouraging to talk to her. You still want to, don't you?"
“Certainly I do."
"Let me see if she's in."
He watched the French girl go into the hotel. His resolve had hardened. He must separate himself from her and from her prying. If he continued to lodge in Tarbes with her family, he would have to commute to Lourdes with her every morning and evening, and answer a continual outpouring of questions, and inevitably be tripped up. He had to find a room of his own in town as soon as possible. That was the immediate priority.
Gisele had returned, and was slipping into the driver's seat. "Edith is at the Medical Bureau, checking in, but she'll be back at the hotel for lunch. I left her a note, and told the girl at the desk to reserve two places at Mrs. Moore's table for twelve o'clock noon. How's that, Mr. Talley?"
"Perfect."
"What are you going to do with yourself until then?"
"You are the expert on Lourdes. What do you suggest?"
"Well, you're here for your health, aren't you? You're after a cure? You're serious about that?"
"Most serious."
Gisele started the car. “Then here's what I suggest. Go through all the routine that every ailing pilgrim goes through. First, go to the grotto and pray."
"I'd like to. How long should I give it?"
She blinked at him. "Why, that's up to you—five minutes, sixty minutes, whatever you feel. After that, walk over to the second trough, the one past the grotto, turn on one of the faucets and drink some of the curative water. Finally, next door you'll find the bath houses. Go inside, shed your clothes, and take a dip. And think of the Virgin Mary when you do so. The baths have proved to be the most effective remedy yet."
"The water cures?"
"No," said Gisele, shifting gears, "the water has nothing in it to cure. But your head does. Don't forget to meet me in front of this hotel for lunch. Now I'll drop you off at the domain, Mr. Talley."
"My thanks," said Tikhanov. "I'll do everything you say, Miss Dupree."
Amanda Spenser had not been in a hurry to leave Eugénie-les-Bains and return to Lourdes. She had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the table on the balcony of her suite, thinking constantly of Ken, his illness, and finding it inconceivable that Ken, the fool, could have left this elegant paradise for that hovel in Lourdes. After breakfast she had dressed in pants, blouse, sandals, and taken a long stroll over the hotel's lawn.
The drive from beautiful Eugénie-les-Bains to miserable Lourdes had taken an hour and a half, but as she neared Lourdes, its monotony and accompanying depression had been alleviated by one valuable tidbit of information from her elderly balding driver. The driver had known a good deal about the Lourdes story and especially Bernadette herself. In passing, as they drove, he had mentioned Bernadette's early illness, and Amanda had been attentive. Amanda had known that Bernadette had been a frail youngster, but she had not known that the little girl had suffered so seriously from asthma.
"It is a curious thing,” the driver had said, "that when Bernadette sought a cure for her severe asthma attacks, she did not go to the grotto. By the time Bernadette had seen the seventeenth apparition of the Virgin Mother, there had already been four miracles cures at the grotto. But in truth, Bernadette did not herself believe in the curative powers of the grotto. Instead, when she was so sick, she went to Cauterets."
"Cauterets?" Amanda had said. "What's that?"
"A mere village. But also a fashionable spa in those days, not far from Lourdes. There was a healing spring, a thermal bath, that was supposed to be useful for an asthma cure. So Bernadette went there, not to the grotto, for her cure. Of course, she was not cured, but she tried."
"But not at the grotto," Amanda had mused. "She really did not believe in it?"
"Not for cures, no. She went to Cauterets instead."
"What's Cauterets like today?"
"It is still there, less fashionable perhaps. It's nearby. You drive up the valley into the mountains. I believe that there is even a shrine to commemorate Bernadette's visit."
"How interesting," Amanda had said. "I'll have to remember that." If Bernadette did not believe in a cure at the grotto, she would dare to ask Ken, why should he?
Now, in the reception lobby of the hotel, she wanted to find Ken. Perhaps he was still kneeling hypnotized before the grotto. Or perhaps he was in their awful room getting some rest. Maybe the plump receptionist at the desk, the one called Yvonne, would know.
Amanda went to the desk. "I'm Mrs. Clayton," she said. “We had to go out of town last night. My husband, Mr. Ken Clayton, came back this morning. I wonder if you've seen him around?"
"Actually, I did," said Yvonne. "He's asked me to arrange for him to have lunch downstairs at Mrs. Edith Moore's table. He should be in the dining room right now. You know where it is?"
"You said downstairs. I'll find it. You can send my bags up to our room."
Amanda made for the staircase near the elevator, and hurriedly descended to the entry of the dining area. She could see the main dining hall, plain, every table filled with nondescript pilgrims, with a second narrower dining hall beyond it, and alcoves and booths off that room for more private dining.
A maitre d' materialized to inquire if she was a resident of the hotel, and Amanda gave her room number. "I'm told my husband is lunching here now, and he's expecting me."
"His name?"
"Mr. Kenneth Clayton."
"Yes, of course, he is dining at Mrs. Moore's table. Please follow me."
Amanda was brought to an oversized round table at the far side of the main dining hall. She spotted Ken immediately, and he wobbled to his feet to greet her. She went around to embrace and kiss him. "I'm back, darling,” she whispered.
"I'm glad," he said. "I hope you'll join us for lunch."
"I'm famished."
Clayton signaled the maître d' for another chair, then took Amanda by the elbow and introduced her to the others at the table. "This is my wife, Amanda,” he announced. "Amanda, I want you to meet my friends. Right here we have Mrs. Edith Moore, from London. And this is Mr. Samuel Talley, from New York. And Miss Gisele Dupree, who works in Lourdes as a guide."
When her chair was in place, between Ken and Mr. Talley, Amanda tried to orient herself to the strange mixed group.
Edith Moore was obviously the dominant, central personality, although everything about her from her flat, square countenance to her unadorned, inexpensive dress was commonplace. The Talley gentleman, was more distinctive with his beady eyes, bulbous nose, and flowing mustache. The Gisele youngster resembled a French starlet on the make.
Ken was speaking to Amanda. "You remember, I met Mrs. Moore on the train from Paris to Lourdes. The miracle woman—"
"Oh, now," Edith protested modestly.
"I wanted to hear her whole story," Ken continued, "and I invited myself to lunch with her. She was kind enough to have me."
"I'm pleased to help anyone I can," said Edith.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," said Amanda, apologetically.
"We've hardly started yet," said Ken. “We just ordered our lunch. Do you want to see the menu?"
Amanda felt oppressed by the ordinary dining room and the company. "I—I'll have whatever you're having."
“We're all having the same," piped up Gisele. "For the main dish it's grilled steak and potatoes today. Is that all right?"
"Suits me perfectly," said Amanda, without enthusiasm.
Gisele gave the order to the maitre d', and then directed herself to Edith Moore. "Anyway, Mrs. Moore, you were telling us that your malignant tumor of the iliac bone was discovered five years ago."
Edith gave a deprecating wave of one hand. "Well, if you're sure you want to hear all that—"
"Mrs. Moore, I am anxious to know how your cure came about," said Talley.
"Yes, do tell us about it," added Ken.
Amanda kept her lips compressed. She wanted to tell them all that despite what they heard from Edith Moore about a cure at the grotto, Bernadette herself, the instigator of all this miracle nonsense, had put no faith in the powers of the grotto, had instead been taken to a spa called Cauterets. But Amanda maintained her silence. She would not diminish the glory of this ordinary Englishwoman, and certainly she did not want to upset Ken, not right here in this odd group.
"To make it brief," Edith Moore was saying, "I had been forced to quit my job with a movie talent agency, and I could get around only with the use of a crutch, when Father Woodcourt—the very one on the train yesterday—suggested I join his next pilgrimage to Lourdes. Although I was a believer, I did not have much hope, nor was I given any great hope by Father Woodcourt. But I had reached a state where I was ready to try anything, you understand."
They all, except Amanda, bobbed their heads with full understanding. Ken, Amanda observed, most vigorously of all. Edith Moore halted her recital to allow the first course of the lunch to be served. The moment the plates were on the table, the English lady resumed, and Amanda found herself irritated by Edith's monotonous voice, no inflections whatsoever, and her colorless language. Nevertheless, Amanda made a pretense of being extremely attentive.
"The first visit to Lourdes produced no change in me," Edith Moore recited. "Perhaps the visit was too brief, and I did not pray enough, even permitted doubts to enter my prayers." Her gaze went around the table. "One must believe," she said. She chewed her shrimp piously, and resumed with her mouth full. "The second visit, four years ago, I was determined to try harder. To stay longer and try harder. I prayed by the hour at the grotto. I drank water from the spring without stop. I immersed myself in the baths. On my final day, being assisted out of the bath, I found that I could stand and walk without aid. I went to the Medical Bureau and was examined. Over the next three years I returned to Lourdes, and realized I was cured."
"It was verified?" asked Talley.
"By sixteen different doctors," said Edith. "Even the iliac bone, which had degenerated, began to grow back to normal. There are X rays to prove it."
"A miracle," said Ken with awe.
"It has already been declared a miracle," chirped Gisele enthusiastically.
Edith Moore retreated behind a modesty that Amanda was sure she did not possess. "The miracle is not official yet," said Edith. "I have one more examination with a famous specialist in Paris, Dr. Paul Kleinberg, who will be arriving here this week to confirm my—my full recovery."
"But that's open and shut," said Gisele, employing one of her favorite Americanisms. "Everyone in Lourdes knows you are the one, the latest, of a favored group closest to Saint Bernadette."
"Oh, I don't know," said Edith with a seraphic smile, but not actually denying it.
"So it does happen," said Ken with continued awe. "It can happen to anyone."
"If they have pure faith," pronounced Edith as high priestess.
Amanda, bending over her plate, felt sick to her stomach, with no desire to eat and with the single desire to get Ken away from the banal, stupid Englishwoman.
Talley, his voice serious, said, "You attribute it all to the baths?"
"To everything here, to belief in the Immaculate Conception above all else," said Edith. "But my cure happened after the bath on the last day of my second visit."
As Edith finished speaking, a rather large, florid gentleman—he reminded Amanda of pictures she had seen of Phineas T. Barnum—had appeared behind Edith, stooping to kiss her on the cheek.
"Reggie—" said Edith, pleased. "Everyone, this is Mr. Reggie Moore, my husband." She proceeded to introduce Reggie to everyone at the table, one by one.
"Edith," Reggie said, "I hate to interrupt your tête-a-tête, but I must see you alone on something that's come up."
"But Reggie," Edith complained, "I haven't had my dessert yet."
He was half lifting the miracle lady out of her chair. "I'll treat you to some ices later. Please come along." He saluted the others. "Glad to have made your acquaintance, everybody. Hope to see you again soon."
Pushing and then pulling, he was leading the reluctant Edith out of the room.
"So it is the baths," mumbled Talley to no one in particular. He twisted toward Gisele. "You heard. She said it happened after the bath."
"Well, you're on your way," said Gisele. "You started your baths this morning."
"I am afraid I did not," admitted Talley. "I prayed by the grotto, but I did not go in the baths."
"Then go this afternoon, Mr. Talley."
"I shall. But first I must find a room in the city." He added quickly, "It is a pleasure to room with your parents, Gisele, but it is too far from here, too removed. I want to be close to the baths. I must find a hotel room in this city. I have tried, and I will try again."
Gisele eyed him shrewdly. "Is that all that's bothering you, a hotel room in Lourdes?"
"I know it is impossible, but it is important."
"Maybe I can find you a hotel room, but it'll cost you extra. Are you willing to pay extra?"
"I will pay anything reasonable."
"Say four hundred francs, for me to give to a reservations clerk."
"I will pay it."
"Let me see what I can do," said Gisele, rising. "As a matter of fact, I'm moving into town myself tonight. One of my girl friends is going to Cannes for the week, and she's turning her apartment over to me. I have to be here for the overload of work. I'll walk you to the baths now, and you can start in. You can meet me in front of the Information Bureau at five o'clock, and we can drive to my parents, pick up our things, and both move back to Lourdes tonight if I can get you that hotel room."
"You will?"
"I think so," said Gisele. She waved to Ken and Amanda. "Excuse us. You heard our heavy business. Pleased to have met you both. Good luck."
Amanda watched the trollop leave with the older man, and finally she turned to Ken, intent on bluntly telling him what the taxi driver had told her, that Bernadette had never believed in the grotto or that its waters could cure, and had gone to another village to seek her own cure. But facing Ken, Amanda saw his expression. Oh, Christ, she thought, he's been lofted to another plane, all spirituality and faith in his future.
"Mrs. Moore is quite a lady," he murmured. "She's done a lot for me, she's renewed me."
“Jesus,” Amanda said under her breath. This was no time to shake him up with the truth.
Besides, she told herself, she had better be sure of the taxi driver's story about Cauterets. She had better go to Cauterets and find out for herself if what she had been told was actually a fact. Telling Ken about the incident could wait a day longer.
"Ken, maybe you should go up to the room and rest for a while."
"I'm going back to the grotto," he said doggedly, starting to rise.
Amanda stared at him. That her man, sharp and brilliant attorney, athlete and handball player, marvelous lover, had been reduced to this puddle of piety was almost impossible to believe. But here it was, and she would somehow have to deal with it, with him, a tougher case than any she had ever encountered as a clinical psychologist.
She sighed and stood up. "Very well."
"See you for dinner early."
She wondered what she would do in the desert of the afternoon. Maybe buy her future mother-in-law a souvenir, a plastic Virgin Mary.
Going up in the elevator to the fifth floor of the hotel, Reggie Moore had been uncharacteristically quiet, but Edith knew that he had something on his mind. She knew that he was waiting for the privacy of their room before speaking to her.
Once they were in their room, the door shut, Reggie all but pushed his wife into the straight chair at the table as he remained standing over her. Dutifully, Edith waited, letting him have the floor, prepared for him to speak what was on his mind.
He spoke. "Edith, I had to get you off alone. I felt there was something I must discuss with you."
"Couldn't it wait a few more minutes? Those lovely people at lunch, they were hoping to hear more about my cure."
"That's just it," said Reggie emphatically, "the very thing I want to talk to you about."
"I don't understand. What do you want to talk about, what very thing?"
"Your cure," said Reggie. "The minute I came on you with all those people, I knew those freeloaders had cornered you to get some advice and inspiration."
"But they weren't freeloaders. That nice Mr. Talley said he would pay for my lunch."
Reggie showed his exasperation. "Edith, I didn't mean money. I meant they were freeloading from your—your mind."
"I don't know what you mean."
She was used to Reggie speaking to her as if she was a child, and she was ready to endure it now.
"I mean everyone wants to use you," Reggie answered. "Everyone wants to draw strength from you for themselves, selfishly in a way. My point is you shouldn't be going around giving away your story for free. You shouldn't do it."
"But why not?" she asked, utterly bewildered. "What's wrong with it? If the story of my cure gives people inspiration, gives them hope, why shouldn't I tell it to them? I'm an example to them, a fortunate one who was blessed with a miracle. They want to hear that it's possible. Why shouldn't I tell them?"
Reggie was momentarily without an easy or logical answer. "Well, because—" he said hesitantly, "because—well, I'd feel better about what you're doing once the miracle is officially confirmed."
"Oh, that," she said, dismissing it, "if that's all you're worried about, you needn't bother. My cure has been confirmed, really. It'll be officially confirmed—a technicality, as we both know—the day after tomorrow. I spent the morning with Dr. Berryer at the Medical Bureau. He's obtained the services of one of the two best men in the field—one with much experience in sarcoma cases—a Dr. Paul Kleinberg in Paris, who is arriving tomorrow to review the papers on my case and have the final look at me."
"Tomorrow?"
"Absolutely. Dr. Berryer will phone me after Dr. Kleinberg arrives, and let me know when to see him on Wednesday. Dr. Kleinberg will then confirm the miracle and it will be announced."
"Well, in that case,” said Reggie, displaying his relief, "that's different, and I shouldn't be worrying. Since that's happening, I guess it's all right for you to talk about your cure."
"Of course it is, Reggie. I'm glad you agree."
"Yes, I'm sure it's all right," said Reggie smoothly, "and, as you say, it does give so many suffering people the belief that they can be cured, too. Yes, I'll go along with you, Edith. You are doing wonderful missionary work, just like the first apostles, spreading the word of miracles." He paused, his face lighting up. "In fact, we should celebrate again. Jamet has finished remodeling the new restaurant—it's a grand place now—and he and I are having our reopening tonight—we're plastering the town with handbills announcing the great event—"
"How wonderful!"
"—and I want you right there beside me to greet the guests. There should be a huge turnout. We'll have a special table and we've invited eight or ten important people, not just from Lourdes, but pilgrims from everywhere, to join us. I know they'll all be thrilled to meet you. And you can answer their questions. They'll be inspired to hear every detail of your story. What do you say, old girl?"
"Of course I want to be there, and tell them whatever they want to know. I don't mind if you're sure you don't mind."
"I insist on it," said Reggie with a half-smile. He bent over and kissed Edith's cheek. "You're my little lady, my miracle lady. We're going to go far together."