. . . August 17
They were coming out of the parking lot on the Rue de Lourdes in Nevers, where they had left their rented Peugeot and were starting uphill toward the Saint-Gildard Convent, Bernadette's last resting place and their destination.
Early this morning Liz Finch and Amanda Spenser had taken an Air Inter fight from Lourdes to Paris, rented the car, and driven down to Nevers in three hours.
Walking now in the midday heat, Amanda spoke. "Do you think anything will come of this?" she wondered. "Maybe it's a wild goose chase."
Liz shrugged. "Never can tell. In my profession, you don't miss a bet. You just keep burrowing and burrowing, and hope for a gleam of gold. I don't expect we'll find anyone here as bitchy as Father Cayoux. Yet, we might find something—we just might."
They had reached the eight-foot-high convent wall that led to the open gates at the entrance. A diminutive middle-aged nun, in gray habit, short skirt, standing inside the gates, was waiting for them. She had a broad smooth brow, unlined peach complexion, bright intelligent dark eyes, and a gentle smile.
"Miss Liz Finch? Miss Amanda Spenser? You are the Americans we are expecting?"
"None other," said Liz.
"I'm Sister Francesca—"
"Who speaks perfect English," said Liz.
"I hope so," said the nun, "coming, as I do, from an American father and a French mother. Well, welcome to Saint-Gildard Convent." She paused. "I understand you are writing a story on Saint Bernadette, Miss Finch, and that Miss Spenser is your assistant. We are glad to cooperate. You'll have to give me an idea what you want to know. Saint-Gildard Convent was, of course, Saint Bernadette's last station on earth. Do you want me to show you around first?"
"Definitely," said Liz. "Miss Spenser and I want to see everything related to Bernadette. After that, we'd like to spend a little while with you asking some questions."
"I hope that I have the answers," said Sister Francesca. "But let's begin with a brief guided tour."
The nun was leading them past a long bank of lavender-colored flowers, and they followed her until she slowed down.
"La Grotte de Lourdes," Sister Francesca announced.
To Amanda's surprise, they were standing in front of a replica of the original grotto at Lourdes, smaller than the real one, but hardly miniature, either, a replica of the real grotto created on a slope that ran uphill to street level.
"For outdoor Masses," the nun said.
Then Amanda realized that, behind them, but facing the duplicate grotto, were rows of benches for pilgrims, and that a horde of pilgrims was this moment leaving the benches and filing out toward another exit on the side.
"Those are the members of a German pilgrimage from Cologne and Dortmund, about four hundred of them," the nun explained. "They have finished their religious services now and are going across the Boulevard Victor Hugo to our Abri du Pèlerin—our pilgrim shelter or dormitory for visitors. This group will remain for tonight and then go on to Lourdes itself."
Amanda was examining the replica grotto once more. There, at the upper right, inside the niche, was a blue and white statue of the Virgin Mary.
"The plaque beneath the statue," said Sister Francesca, "tells us that the little piece of rock mounted on it is an actual rock fragment from the real grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes. Now, let me show you our convent church and Saint Bernadette herself." She had started away from the replica grotto toward a courtyard, and was beckoning Liz and Amanda past a tall, white marble statue of the Virgin Mary to a side door of the church.
Once inside the convent church, and proceeding down the center aisle between pews, Sister Francesca resumed speaking in a hushed tone. "This church was constructed in 1855. It was modernized twice, the last time in 1972. The white altar ahead is concrete."
Except for the modernity of the church's interior decoration, Amanda felt that she had been inside this church before. She had visited at least a hundred churches in Europe, and they were always the same. High above the altar the arched ceiling and the multicolored windows. Behind the altar a crucifix, a bronze Jesus on a pale wooden cross. Immediately on either side of her, the rows of oak and walnut pews and a scattering of worshippers in silent prayer or meditation.
Liz and Amanda had arrived at the two steps leading up to the altar, and halted with their nun guide. Sister Francesca's voice dropped lower. "After the apparitions, Bernadette was at a loss as to what to do with herself. True, she was going to school at last, and sometimes acting as a baby-sitter to earn money for her parents, but she was constantly the object of attention from both neighbors and the endless stream of visitors coming to Lourdes. She could not be alone. She was daily exposed to intruders with their questions. By 1863, her mentors had decided that she needed a vocation, and suggested she enter some holy order as a nun."
"Maybe the church people just wanted her out of sight," said Liz provocatively. "By then, she was a growing legend, yet she sometimes did not behave like one. She had a streak of stubbornness, I've heard, and she disliked discipline, enjoyed playing pranks, had too lively an interest in fancy clothes. Maybe the churchmen wanted to get her off the streets and out of the way. To them, probably a convent seemed a convenient place to put her."
In this setting, Liz's assessment seemed harsh, and Amanda wondered how their nun guide would react. But Sister Francesca reacted nicely. "Some of that may have been true," she agreed, "but actually many convents considered her a prize and were after her, although with reservations because her health was so poor and her fame might disrupt their routines. The Carmelites and the Bernardines were both after her. She rejected the latter because she did not like their ungainly headdress. When she settled on the order in Nevers, she remarked, 'I am going to Nevers because they did not lure me.' The mayor of Lourdes wanted her to become a dressmaker, but she told him she preferred to be a nun. On July 4, 1866, at the age of twenty-two, she left Lourdes forever, and took a train, her first and last train ride, to Nevers and entered our order. She remained here until her death on April 16, 1879, at the age of thirty-five. She was elevated to sainthood in 1933," The nun paused, smiled, and said, "Now we can have a look at Saint Bernadette herself. She rests in the chapel near the altar."
Trailing after the other two, Amanda could not imagine what to expect.
They were facing the chapel, a restricted alcove, a narrow room almost sterile in its simplicity. The ceiling was a Gothic arch, the high windows dark blue, the three walls gray stone, and the centerpiece of the chapel was a large glass-and-gold casket, and inside it lay the body of a young woman, the object of their quest.
"Bernadette," the nun whispered.
Unaccountably, Amanda found herself drawn closer to the casket. When she had approached the low railing that protected the chapel, her emotion had been combative, as if she were about to come face to face with the other woman, this woman who stood between Ken and herself and their planned life together. But now, preceding Liz and Sister Francesca to look closely at the casket, Amanda found that her anger had dissipated. She was enveloped by a sense of awe at what this young woman, little more than her own age, an unlettered peasant girl, had achieved, the unswerving beliefs she'd held, the indomitable strength of her belief.
The casket itself was trimmed in gold, with glass sides, quite ornate, and rested on a carved solid-oak stand. Inside the reliquary, attired in the black and white habit of her order, eyes eternally shut, hands crossed on her breast as if in prayer, lay Bernadette. She seemed like one asleep, and at peace, after a long wearying day.
"It's really Bernadette?" asked Amanda softly, as Liz and Sister Francesca joined her.
"Yes, the blessed Saint Bernadette," said the nun, "all but the face and hands, that is."
"All but the face and hands?" Amanda said, surprised.
"In truth those are wax impressions of her face and hands that were fitted after her third and final exhumation."
"No wonder she looks so smooth and unblemished," said Liz.
"I'd better explain," said Sister Francesca. "Bernadette's physical condition was poor at the time of her death—bed sores on her back, a knee swollen from tuberculosis, lungs collapsed—therefore what followed is all the more remarkable. Her corpse was displayed for three days after her death. Then she was placed in a lead coffin, which was set in an oak coffin, and this was buried in a vault beneath a garden chapel. Thirty years after her burial, when efforts were first being undertaken by an episcopal commission to start Bernadette on the road to sainthood, her coffin was opened. That was in 1909."
"Why?" Liz wanted to know.
"To observe her condition," said the nun. "Most bodies of ordinary corpses suffer putrefaction. But a church tradition has always held that the body of a candidate for canonization would escape decay, be found in good condition. Well, when the coffin was opened, Bernadette's remains were found to be in an excellent state. The report by the examining doctor read: 'The head was tilted to the left. The face was matte white. The skin clung to the muscles and the muscles adhered to the bones. The sockets of the eyes were covered by the eyelids. The brows were flat on the skin and stuck to the arches above the eyes. The lashes of the right eyelid were stuck to the skin. The nose was dilated and shrunken. The mouth was open slightly, and it could be seen that the teeth were still in place. The hands, which were crossed on her breast, were perfectly preserved, as were the nails. The hands still held a rusting rosary.'"
"What happened next?" asked Liz.
"Bernadette's body was washed, dressed, reburied. There were two more exhumations as sainthood came closer, one more in 1919, and the last one in 1925. Each time the body was found well preserved, a good sign of sanctity. But after all those exposures to air and light, the body began to be affected and blacken. So impressions were made of Bernadette's face and hands, and in Paris a mask of wax was made for the face and wax covers for the hands. I will admit the artist took a few minor liberties—in the face mask he straightened Bernadette's nose a wee bit, plucked her eyebrows a little, and he added polish to her fingernails on the hand covers. Finally, the mask was fitted, Bernadette's body was wrapped in bandages and dressed in a fresh habit, and she was ready to be shown to the world. Here she has rested ever since, if there is anything else you would like to know—"
"I have a few questions," said Liz firmly.
A man with an armband had come into the chapel from the altar area and held some kind of photograph over the casket. In a few seconds he left.
"What was that?" Amanda wanted to know.
"Probably a supplication," said Sister Francesca. "Some pilgrim sending in the picture of a loved one who is ill, and by this, hopes for a healing, and a guide agreed to take it right to the casket to have it blessed, in a sense, by proximity to Bernadette." She glanced at Liz. "You have some questions?"
"Yes," said Liz.
"Very well. I think it best if I try to answer them outside the church. Less disruptive. Let's go back to the courtyard."
The moment that they left the church and emerged into the sunlight, and gathered together at the foot of the statue of the Virgin Mary, Amanda had a question of her own to ask, before allowing Liz to begin her promised interrogation.
"I was wondering," said Amanda, "what Bernadette did with herself in her thirteen years here at Saint-Gildard. Was it all prayer?"
"Not quite," said Sister Francesca. "True, the nuns here today—they live in the upper floors of the convent and keep to themselves—devote their time largely to prayer and various household tasks. Some few of us, of course, work with the tourists. But in Bernadette's time she had many things to do. Her main job was in the infirmary, serving as assistant infirmarian. She loved to nurse ailing patients. She never fully escaped public exposure, of course. Her fame grew steadily during her lifetime, and notable visitors came and went. Sometimes biographers sought to see her, speak with her. And don't forget, she was frequently ill and bedridden, several times on the verge of death."
Impatient to try out her own questions, Liz aggressively stepped nearer to the nun. "I've also heard that Bernadette was pretty busy in the convent fighting with her superior, the Novice Mistress Mother Marie-Therèse Vauzou. Is that true?"
"Not exactly fighting," said the unruffled Sister Francesca. "After all, Mother Vauzou was Bernadette's superior. Bernadette would not have dared to fight with her."
"Let's not quibble," said Liz. "I've heard from good authority that the two of them were on the outs from day one."
"I would put it another way," said Sister Francesca, still not flinching. "Allow me to be strictly factual based on what we know. At first Mother Vauzou welcomed Bernadette as 'the privileged child of the Virgin Mary.' But then she had certain reservations about her new novice. For one thing, she never quite believed that Bernadette had actually seen the apparitions of the Virgin. Moreover, she did not like the whole Virgin Mary cult that was growing, since her own devotions were based on the all-importance of Jesus Christ. As to the talk that the mistress of novices treated Bernadette severely, even making her kiss the ground, that was common in those days. The task of the superior was to teach all novices humility and make them do penance."
Liz persisted. "I heard that Bernadette was afraid of Mother Vauzou."
"Some witnesses say that is true. But Mother Vauzou had her reasons to treat Bernadette a trifle harshly. She worried about what some call the Bernadette legend, that the keen interest in Bernadette may have gone to her head, that she had become too vain and prideful to become a proper nun. Also, Mother Vauzou believed that Bernadette lacked frankness, once describing her novice as 'a stiff, very touchy character.' Above all, I repeat, Mother Vauzou may have had lingering doubts that Bernadette had ever seen the Virgin Mary. She could not imagine the Virgin coming before such a simple girl with so lowly a background. Mother Vauzou remarked of Bernadette, 'Oh, she was a little peasant girl. If the Holy Virgin wanted to appear somewhere on earth, why should She choose a common, illiterate peasant instead of some virtuous and well-instructed nun?' On another occasion, Mother Vauzou said, 'I do not understand why the Holy Virgin should reveal Herself to Bernadette. There are so many other souls more lofty and delicate! Really!' When there was talk of introducing Bernadette's cause, it was set aside in the period when Mother Vauzou was promoted to superior general of our convent. When her successor came along and mentioned the possibility of sainthood. Mother Vauzou begged her, 'Wait until after I am dead.'"
"Wasn't that enough to put down the Bernadette legend?" asked Liz.
"Not really," said the nun. "Because on her death bed Mother Vauzou confessed that her doubts were created by her own weakness and not Bernadette's. Mother Vauzoi's last words indicated that she had capitulated to Bernadette and to the reality of Lourdes. Her last words were, 'Our Lady of Lourdes, protect my death-agony.'"
Liz herself seemed to capitulate at this point. "All right," she said, "enough of that. But there's one more thing I must ask you. It touches on church politics, the desire by some to get Bernadette out of Lourdes and tucked into relative anonymity in Nevers. You know, of course, that someone of high social standing wanted to marry Bernadette before she became a nun?"
"I do," said Sister Francesca.
"Well, I for one would like to know why the church did not permit the suitor to propose to Bernadette, or even tell her that someone had asked for her hand? Wasn't that because the church didn't want her to remain in the open, become as normal as any other young woman, but preferred to keep her from view in order to maintain her legend and to build the fame of the shrine at Lourdes?"
"No, that wasn't so," said the nun. "I'm afraid you have it quite wrong."
"Then tell me what's right," said Liz testily.
"What's correct is this: A young nobleman and medical student in Nantes, Raoul de Tricqueville, wrote Monsignor Laurence, the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes, in March, 1866, and stated that the only thing he wanted in this world was to marry Bernadette, and would the bishop intercede for him. The bishop replied somewhat tartly that any marriage for Bernadette was opposed 'to what the Holy Virgin wanted.' Shortly after Bernadette came to Nevers, the young man pressed his suit again. This time he wrote to Bishop Forcade, and asked if he could visit Bernadette and propose marriage to her in person. 'Let me at least ask her myself to many me. If she is as you say, she will refuse me; if she accepts, you will know she is not truly suited for the vocation she has chosen.' The bishop replied that Bernadette was, indeed, perfectly suited for her vocation, and he did not intend to disturb her peace of mind. He did not bother to tell Bernadette about the young man or the proposal. There is not one shred of evidence that either of these refusals was engendered by a church plot or politics. Bernadette's superiors were merely looking after her best interests."
"If you say so," said Liz grimly.
"The facts say so," said Sister Francesca with equanimity. "Now I had better get back to my duties. You'll be driving to Lourdes?"
"To Paris to catch the last flight to Lourdes tonight," said Liz.
"Let me see you to the front gate," said the nun.
They strolled in silence to the gate, and were about to part company, when Amanda held back.
"Sister, just one last thing, if you don't mind," said Amanda.
"Please, go ahead."
"About Bernadette's private journal," said Amanda. "I've heard everyone refer to Bernadette as illiterate, unable to write. So how could she keep a journal?"
Sister Francesca nodded. "She was illiterate and unable to write at the time of the apparitions. After that, preparing for her First Communion, Bernadette went to school, studied at the Hospice in Lourdes, and learned to write very well. She then wrote a number of accounts about the apparitions. She wrote numerous letters, including one to the Pope in Rome. She wrote quite easily, not in French at first but in her regional language. Eventually, she did learn French."
"But this journal, the one that was recently found," said Amanda, "I read that it was written by her right here in Nevers, in this convent."
"So I am told," agreed Sister Francesca. "She kept this journal toward the end, setting down all she could remember of her young life before the apparitions and more detail of what she could recall of her visions at the grotto. Before her death, she sent the journal to a relative or friend as a memento."
"How was it discovered after so many years? And where?"
"I know only that it was located in Bartrès, and that someone from Lourdes acquired it—or at least the latter part of it—for the church."
"Acquired it from whom in Bartrès?" Amanda wondered.
"I don't know." For the first time, the nun appeared evasive. "You might ask Father Ruland when you return to Lourdes."
"I may do that," said Amanda. "Anyway, thank you for everything."
"God go with you," said Sister Francesca, and left them. Liz glared after the nun. "Thanks for nothing, Sister," she muttered. "What a bust. The straight party line."
They started away.
"I don't know," mused Amanda. "There may have been something. I keep thinking of that journal."
"You can be sure it's authentic," Liz said grouchily. "The Pope would never have announced its contents unless he was positive it was genuine.
"Not that, that's not what I'm thinking. I'm thinking about the rest of the contents. The church announced only the part about the apparitions, especially the one apparition where the Virgin passed on her secret to Bernadette. But you heard Sister Francesca. There was more to the journal than that. There was all kinds of material Bernadette set down about her early life."
"So what? Where will that get you? Forget it. We've reached a dead end. Admit it. We've lost. I've lost with my boss, Trask. And you've lost with your boyfriend, Ken. We're through."
Amanda shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I'm still not quitting. I'm going to follow up."
"On what?"
"On that journal. I want to know more about the journal that brought us all to Lourdes."
"Oh, that," said Liz. "Believe me, you're not going to get anywhere."
"We'll see," said Amanda.
Edith Moore had kept her second appointment of the day at the Medical Bureau in Lourdes exactly on time. She had come, and in less than a half hour she had gone, and Dr. Paul Kleinberg had barely seen her. He had thanked her for coming in again, apologized for the X-ray botch, and turned her over to Esther Levinson for another set of X-rays.
Now Kleinberg paced restlessly in the examination room of the Medical Bureau waiting for Esther to hang the X-ray negatives and turn on the view box. It was all mechanics now, routine, and he would be through with the case and in Paris again by evening.
"Ready for you," Esther said, turning on the view box. She stepped aside as Dr. Kleinberg moved toward the X rays. "This won't take more than a minute," he said absently. But it took more than a minute.
It was ten minutes before Kleinberg came away from the X rays and wandered over to the chair and sat down heavily. Briefly, he was lost in thought. When he looked up, he saw his nurse's worried expression.
"Didn't they come out again?" Esther wondered.
"They came out very well," Kleinberg said.
"Then you can confirm our miracle woman?"
"No, I can't," said Kleinberg flatly.
"What?" Esther came forward with surprise. 'What are you saying?"
Kleinberg met his nurse's stare, and shook his head. "She's not a miracle woman. Probably never was. The sarcoma is plainly there. Either the tumor has come back—something I've never seen happen before—or it has never gone away. Whatever took place, Mrs. Moore is not cured."
The nurse's poise had evaporated entirely. "But, doctor that—that can't be."
"It's a fact, Esther."
"Those other X-rays." She was almost pleading for Mrs. Moore. "The previous pictures, the recent ones, they don't show the sarcoma. And the negative biopsies—what about them? She must have been cured."
Kleinberg was shaking his head again. "I can't explain this. It makes no sense."
"Unless the other doctors—in their zeal, or whatever—maybe they tampered with the previous X rays? But no," she corrected herself instantly, "that wouldn't explain it either, because Mrs. Moore became well, from an invalid she became a healthy person again."
"I can't dispute that," Kleinberg agreed, "but Esther, pictures don't lie. She's suffering the cancer once more—or still. Soon she won't be functioning. The condition is sure to worsen, to deteriorate. There was no miraculous cure. Our miracle woman simply isn't."
"That's terrible, doctor. You—you'll have to tell Dr. Berryer."
"I can't." Kleinberg amended his response. "Not yet." He added, "This diagnosis might not be acceptable—from a person of my persuasion. They'd all think a nonbeliever is trying to obstruct them."
Esther's fingers touched the nearest X-ray. "This picture is also a nonbeliever. It doesn't obstruct. It's ruthless. It tells the truth."
"Not to everyone, and not that easily," said Kleinberg. "A general physician might overlook what a specialist in sarcoma can see."
"There can be no mistake about what you see?"
"None whatsoever, Esther. Our miracle woman is in trouble."
"You just can't leave it at that."
"I won't. But I haven't the heart to break this to Edith Moore. I think her husband should do that, and then I'll follow up. If you can get Berryer's secretary to locate Mr. Moore—Reggie Moore—tell him I'd like to see him as soon as possible."
In the ten-minute period in which Esther was gone, Kleinberg stood up and studied the X-rays once more. When he was through, his diagnosis had not altered. The British lady was, indeed, in trouble. He tried to think what could be done. She was doomed unless some effort was made to deal with the sarcoma. Of course, only one possibility existed. Surgery. Normal surgery would not promise much hope in this case. But what came to mind was his colleague, Dr. Maurice Duval, the other major specialist in this field who had been experimenting with a new kind of surgery involving genetic engineering. Judging from the recent scientific papers on the subject that Kleinberg had studied, Dr. Duval seemed on the verge of stepping out of experimentation on animals and moving closer to surgery on human beings.
Kleinberg's thoughts were interrupted by the return of his nurse.
"I'm sorry, doctor," Esther was saying, "but we can't locate Mr. Moore anywhere. We only know that he and possibly his wife will be at a restaurant they own in Lourdes around eight this evening for dinner."
"Then we'll have dinner there, too."
"What if Mr. Moore is with his wife. What will you tell her?"
"I'll have to stall her until I've been able to inform her husband about what's happened. Make the reservation for the two of us, Esther. It won't be a digestible dinner, but make the reservation for eight-fifteen."
It was a warm evening in Lourdes, and many pilgrims were on their way to dinner, some hastily in order to eat quickly and catch the nightly procession in the domain. Among those going more leisurely, perhaps hesitantly, along the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous were Dr. Kleinberg, in a freshly pressed lightweight tan summer suit, and his nurse, Esther Levinson, wearing a striped cotton dress.
Kleinberg was noting the street numbers they passed. "We must almost be there," he said. "Probably across the intersection, on the corner."
They crossed over to the corner. Kleinberg sought the address, and checked his watch. "Here it is," he said, "and we're just on time."
Going to the entrance, he abruptly stopped, his eyes on the sign above. He read it aloud. "Madame Moore's Miracle Restaurant." Kleinberg sighed. "Well, they'll have to change only the name—not the cuisine."
The dining room was spacious, expensive, and filled with chattering customers. The maitre d', formally attired, took Kleinberg's name, consulted the reservation list on a stand, and immediately led his guests through the room to a vacant table along the far wall.
After ordering their drinks, Kleinberg settled back and tried to size up the room's occupants. He made out the main table, and Edith Moore commanding it, at once. She was holding sway, the dominant figure, speaking animatedly to the others and full of obvious good cheer. Except for two empty chairs, the table was occupied by guests who were listening to her intently.
Someone, a woman, had suddenly appeared from the adjacent bar and was blocking his view. Kleinberg looked up.
After an instant's blankness he recognized her, just as she identified herself. "Michelle Demaillot, your friendly press officer," she said gaily. "How are you, Dr. Kleinberg? And you, Miss Levinson?"
"Very well, and you, Miss Demaillot?" replied Kleinberg, half rising, then lowering himself to his seat again.
"I'm glad you could find time for our favorite restaurant," said Michelle.
"Yes, very nice," said Kleinberg.
"I'm sure you've been busy at the Medical Bureau," Michelle went on. "I presume you'll have some news for us any minute?"
"Any minute," said Kleinberg uncomfortably.
"You know, of course, your patient Edith Moore is here. Her husband is one of the owners."
"I've seen her," said Kleinberg. "By the way, is Mr. Moore at the table with her?"
Michelle stepped back, half turning to take in the table. "He's there, all right. The one to her left."
Kleinberg narrowed his eyes and found the beefy, ruddy-faced Englishman in the plaid sports jacket next to Mrs. Moore. To Kleinberg, Reggie Moore appeared an amiable sort, and perhaps one who would not be too difficult to deal with after dinner.
"I see him," Kleinberg said. "Do you know any of the others at the table?"
"Sooner or later I get to know everyone," said Michelle. "The others, counterclockwise are Ken Clayton, an American lawyer, the empty seat is probably for his wife, Amanda. Next there is Mr. Talley, an American professor. He's been here every night. The French couple beside him are the Marceaus, in the wine business, they own a vineyard. Then the lovely girl is Natale Rinaldi, Italian. Poor thing, she's blind. With her is a friend—I don't know his name—but obviously he's Spanish or Latin American." Michelle was momentarily distracted by two tardy arrivals coming through the front door. "Ah, the two others for the table. Amanda Clayton, whom I mentioned. And her companion is one I've talked to every day. Liz Finch, an American correspondent in Paris. I know she went to Nevers early this morning."
"Why Nevers?" Kleinberg wondered. "It's a bit of a distance from here."
"Miss Finch is doing some stories about the events of the week. She most likely wanted a look at Bernadette. Our saint lies in state, visible to all, in a Nevers chapel."
"Who would want to go that far to see a corpse?" Kleinberg said.
Michelle raised her shoulders. "Americans. They must visit everything. Well, I see you have your drinks and menus. I won't hold you up. Bon appétit. And, Dr. Kleinberg, we await your confirmation with, as they say in the novels, bated breath." Dr. Kleinberg watched Michelle return to the bar and once more gave his attention to the Moore table. The travelers back from Nevers were being greeted. The attractive one, Amanda, was kissing her lawyer husband, Mr. Clayton, and quickly introducing her companion, the rather unattractive woman correspondent, Liz Finch, to the others around the table.
That instant, Kleinberg realized that Edith Moore, in a moment's respite, inspecting the room, had noticed him and was waving for his attention. Kleinberg forced a weak smile of greeting.
In a silent body gesture, Edith Moore was transmitting a question. The gesture was clear: Any news yet?
Kleinberg tried to respond. With exaggeration, he mouthed one word: Soon.
He looked away, pretending to join Esther in consulting the menu she had opened.
He grunted. "Suddenly, it's a bit close in here." He indicated the menu. "Let's order. I want to meet Reggie Moore and have it over with."
"All right," said Esther, "but this is a crazy menu, doctor. There are two set meals at fixed prices. The cheaper one is unreasonable enough. But the other one, supposedly deluxe, is really expensive—because, for its dessert, so to speak, you are guaranteed an opportunity to be personally introduced to the latest miracle woman of Lourdes, namely Edith Moore." Esther wrinkled her nose. "Such blatant exploitation. By her husband, I'd guess." She met Kleinberg's eyes sympathetically. "I'm afraid that's not going to make things easier for you."
"I knew this would be an indigestible dinner," muttered Kleinberg. "But who says I have to eat? All right, pick out the meal we're to have and let's be done with it."
An hour later, Kleinberg and Esther were almost done with it, in the middle of their coffee, when Kleinberg became aware that someone was rising at Edith Moore's table. It was, he saw, Reggie Moore apparently setting out to make the rounds of some of the other tables and exchange a few words with customers of his acquaintance. Kleinberg set down his cup. "I'm going to speak to Mr. Moore at once, while she's not in the way. Esther, you pay up. I'll reimburse you later. Don't wait for me. See you in the hotel lobby for a nightcap." Kleinberg was on his feet, throwing down his napkin, and heading in the direction of the affable Reggie Moore. Kleinberg slowed, waiting until Moore had left one table and was starting for another, and then he intercepted the Englishman. "Mr. Moore?" Kleinberg said. "I'm Paul Kleinberg, your wife's consulting physician—"
"I know. She pointed you out. Pleased to meet you. Would you like to come over to our table, say hello?"
"No, not right now."
"I know Edith's eager to hear the good news from you,"
"I'll be speaking to her," said Kleinberg. "You're the one I want to speak to now."
"Oh, sure, whatever you—"
"Not here," said Kleinberg. "I'd prefer privacy. Do you mind if we take a little stroll outside?"
For the first time, Reggie's features showed puzzlement. "I can't imagine what we need to discuss in private, but—"
Kleinberg already had Reggie by the arm, and was propelling him to the door. "I'll explain," Kleinberg said, and he followed the Englishman out to the sidewalk.
They started walking. "I hope this is about Edith," Moore said.
"It is." Kleinberg saw a sidewalk café directly ahead. The Café Jeanne d'Arc. Most of the yellow wicker chairs at the curb were empty. "Do you mind sitting down for a few minutes?"
"Whatever," said Moore.
They were no sooner seated, than a waiter was upon them. Kleinberg ordered a pot of tea, which he didn't want, and Reggie Moore ordered a Perrier.
Reggie continued to wear a perplexed expression. "If it's about Edith, I hope it's the news we've all been waiting for."
Kleinberg girded himself. How many times, in his particular specialty, he had been the bearer of bad tidings, not exactly like this one but with the same miserable results to be announced. "Mr. Moore, I'm afraid it is not good news I have to report."
Reggie's expression of puzzlement was immediately replaced by an expression of fear. His watery eyes seemed to have frozen. "Not good news. What does that mean?"
"She has the sarcoma again. Either it's come back—or it never completely went away."
"That's insane." Reggie's cheeks began to quiver. "I don't believe it. How can you be sure?"
"Mr. Moore, my practice deals with sarcoma. It's my specialty. Her tumor is evident, at an early state, in the X rays."
Reggie had become aggressive, defensive. "She was cured, and you know it. The cure was a miraculous one. It has been attested to by sixteen doctors, leading doctors from everywhere on earth."
For Kleinberg, this was painful. He didn't want to argue with the poor bastard. But he had no choice. "Mr. Moore, they could have been wrong, overlooked something."
"You're a doctor, and you can be as wrong as you say they are."
Kleinberg tried to ignore the attack. "Or it could have been something else. Assuming she was cured, and her case history seems to support that, still each diagnosis was made previously, at another time. My diagnosis has been made today. I saw her. I saw sarcoma once more. She's ill and—"
"She's perfectly well, totally cured," Reggie interrupted, raising his voice. "You can see, she gets around perfectly. No more pain, no more trouble. She's one hundred percent okay."
"I'm sorry, but she won't be. Her condition will deteriorate. I have no choice but to tell you it will happen. I thought it would be easier all around, if I told you and you found a means of telling her, to soften the blow. As her husband you would know how to handle her."
Reggie glared at Kleinberg several seconds. "Doctor, I don't intend to tell her and upset her, especially since I don't believe you. I refuse to believe you know better than the best in the medical profession."
Kleinberg held his temper in check, tried to remain low key. "I'm not here to debate my diagnosis. I'm here to inform you that your wife is going to be very ill—and to add that there is something you can do about it. What you can do is take your wife straight to Paris—or London, if you prefer—and avail yourself of the latest surgical advances. There is a colleague of mine in Paris, Dr. Maurice Duval, also a specialist in this field, who has had some remarkable success with an entirely new kind of surgery encompassing genetic engineering. I don't know if he's prepared to use the technique on human beings, but if he is, Mrs. Moore would be in the best of hands and have a real chance to survive. I even put in a call to Dr. Duval before dinner to learn if he was able to get involved. But I was told that he was out of Paris, and that he'd return tomorrow early and call me back. With surgery, Mrs. Moore could have a chance."
"Have a chance?" Reggie was outraged. With effort he tried to control the pitch of his voice. "A chance for what? Don't you know my wife was totally cured here in Lourdes by a miracle and she's remained cured? She is applauded everywhere as the new miracle woman. Give her surgery, and she's like everyone else, she's nobody. Repudiate the miracle and she's ruined, I'm ruined, we'll lose everything, lose our business, every pence we have!"
Kleinberg eyed the Englishman coldly. "Mr. Moore," he said measuring his words, "the subject at issue here is not your having a non-miracle wife—but your having any wife at all."
Reggie leaped to his feet, furious. "Never mind that! I have a wife. I'll keep on having one. Because every expert knows she's cured. Everyone except you. The high-ups will get someone to replace you and certify Edith. They won't trust you anyway—they can't—they know of your—your background—"
"My religious persuasion," Kleinberg helped him. "They won't trust you because you're a nonbeliever."
"Mr. Moore, apparently I have failed to penetrate your thick skull. If I had, you would understand that this is not a matter of religion. It is a matter of science."
"It is a matter of religion," Reggie snapped. "My wife was saved by an absolute miracle, and one incompetent doctor isn't going to make things different. Goodnight to you, Dr. Kleinberg, and thanks for nothing."
He swung his barrel of a body around, stepped down into the street, and stormed off.
Kleinberg sat very still, thinking. He was sorry for the poor lady from London. If her husband didn't give a damn about her welfare, then it was his own duty, as a doctor, as her doctor, to do something about her fatal illness. He would do something tomorrow, take the whole affair into his own hands.
He reached for the lukewarm cup of tea. He needed a drink very much. But this wasn't it. He needed something much stronger. He picked up the check, put it down with some francs atop it, rose to his feet and started for the hotel and the hotel bar.
It had been an unexpectedly long evening for Gisele Dupree, yet despite the agonizing suspense, she had not minded the drawn-out prelude to what could be a high point of her life. She had likened the delay to one of those evenings in New York when she had gone to bed with Charles Sarrat and they had made love. She had wanted the pleasure of release immediately, yet had savored the extended buildup knowing that the climax would come and it would be all the more welcome and pleasurable for the waiting.
It was this kind of buildup that she had enjoyed through the long evening. Only she had not been positive that it would end in the desired climax.
Leaving the taxi and entering her borrowed apartment near the domain, she had relived the buildup.
Having finished guiding her Irish pilgrims around Lourdes, Gisele had routinely checked into the travel bureau office to turn in the money received and to learn if she was on call for a nighttime tour, which was rarely the case. But this time there was a nighttime tour on tap, a pilgrimage of two dozen Japanese Catholics, and the group was assigned to Gisele. This tour was to begin sharply at eight o'clock and finish at ten.
At first, Gisele had tried to talk her way out of the assignment, since it got in the way of her own plans. But her talking got her nowhere. Not another guide was available for those hours, and the Japanese pilgrims could not be disappointed. Moreover they were paying the agency at the special evening rate, a sum too profitable for Gisele's employer to consider rejecting.
The one important thing for Gisele to know before she collected her Japanese tour, was how late the press office would be open after eight o'clock. She had been promised the fateful pictures from Paris-Match at eight o'clock, and she would be unable to pick them up until after ten. She had telephoned Michelle Demaillot at the press office, and prayed it would be open late. Michelle herself had answered, and told her not to worry, the press office was staying open until eleven throughout this busy week. And yes, Michelle added, she had spoken to her friend at Paris-Match and he had promised to bring some Tikhanov pictures to Lourdes. He would drop them off at the press office when he came in from the airport. "So they should be here, Gisele, don't worry. I won't be here—I'm going to Madame Moore's Miracle Restaurant for drinks and a bite—but my assistant will have the pictures for you."
Relieved, less resentful of her overtime assignment, Gisele had rushed out to get something into her stomach before going to work. It was too late for a real dinner, but there was time for a heated brioche and coffee in a café to carry her over until she could cook something for herself at Dominique's apartment after her job was done.
Now, at nearly ten-thirty in the evening, the climactic moment was nearing. She set down the precious manila envelope that she had picked up at the press office—she had not examined its contents until she could be in the privacy of Dominique's dining room—and sought the key to the apartment in the navy leather purse dangling from her shoulder.
She found the key, and retrieving the manila envelope, she let herself into the seclusion of the apartment.
Hungry as she was, Gisele put off any thought of food until she could satisfy a more urgent craving. To know if Samuel Talley and Sergei Tikhanov were one and the same.
Dropping the manila envelope and her purse on the dining room table, Gisele hastened into the bedroom where she kept the packet of pictures she had taken at the grotto. She had carefully placed them in her friend Dominique's drawer full of lingerie. Emptying the packet, Gisele found the snapshot of Talley without his fake mustache, and she brought it back to the dining room.
She settled into a chair and, with a clutch in her stomach, she unfastened the large manila envelope from Paris-Match. She pulled out the two pictures inside. They were enlarged black-and-white glossies, both head close-ups of the world renowned Soviet foreign minister. They were extremely sharp, and almost the same. But Sergei Tikhanov almost always looked the same in all photographs. The look could best be described as stony. Here he was in each—stony, etched from granite—the lined low brow, piercing eyes, bulbous nose, thin lips, upper lip with its brown wart, clean square jaw. The only difference between the photographs was that they had been taken a year apart, one last year outside the Élysées Palace in Paris, the other the year before inside a hall of the Albertina in Brussels. Since Tikhanov's face filled each photograph, the backgrounds were actually unidentifiable, except for the typed captions that explained the settings on the rear of each shot.
Gisele felt sure, but she had to make sure.
Lovingly, she laid the two enlarged photographs of Tikhanov a few inches apart on the table top, and then she reached for her snapshot of Talley near the grotto and carefully set it down between the two larger ones. She inspected the Paris photograph of Tikhanov and her own Lourdes snapshot of Talley. She examined the Brussels portrait of Tikhanov and her own Lourdes snapshot of Talley.
Her pulse raced.
All three, one and the same. Hair, forehead, eyes, nose, lip and wart, mouth, chin, all features alike and the same.
Professor Samuel Talley of New York and Minister Sergei Tikhanov of Moscow were one man.
If so, Gisele told herself once more, the snapshot of the Soviet foreign minister near the Lourdes grotto could be a scandal of such proportions in his homeland, that Tikhanov would pay anything to erase the evidence. But being sure was not enough, Gisele knew. When you dealt in a possibility as sensational as this, you had to be positive.
After all, Gisele reminded herself, the world was populated by a fair number of look alikes. Two men, separated by a geographical distance, could appear to be the same man but might very well be two utterly different men. Occasionally, nature made its Xerox copies. Talley and Tikhanov could be to the eye as one, as if identical twins, yet be in fact two different individual human beings. Two different men who looked exactly the same? Or one man, the same man, playing a second role?
There was only one way to be positive: Find out if Professor Samuel Talley, instructor in Russian in the language department of Columbia University in New York City, really existed. Gisele knew beyond doubt that Sergei Tikhanov existed and was the foreign minister of the Soviet Union and a candidate for the premiership. But was his look alike, Samuel Talley, an actual professor at Columbia University in New York, a professor and separate entity from the Soviet foreign minister?
If there was a Talley at Columbia, a real Talley who looked like this, then Gisele knew that it had all been an incredible coincidence, and that she had lost. The gate to freedom for her would remain closed.
On the other hand, if . . . she did not want to speculate further. She wanted the truth and she would find it soon enough.
She peered at the electric clock that rested on the polished bureau holding the table linens.
The hour was ten forty-six in the evening in Lourdes. This translated to four forty-six in the afternoon in New York.
Too early. Her old United Nations friend, Roy Zimborg, would still be hard at work. He would not be back in his apartment until six. Tempted as she was to phone him at the UN, she repressed her desire. You don't take a person away from an important job to ask a favor. You would want them in a relaxed mood. Nice as Roy Zimborg was, she still had to be considerate.
Gisele decided to restrain herself, wait until it was midnight here and six in the evening in New York. That would be a sensible hour to ring Roy long-distance at home.
To hurry the time between now and midnight, she had to occupy herself, do something, distract herself. She did not want to dwell any further on the future. She would contain herself until the future became a reality. Dinner, that was something to do. She would busy herself with dinner although she was no longer hungry.
For an hour Gisele puttered about the kitchen, cooking, preparing dinner, carrying it into the dining room, trying to eat slowly, her attention always given to the three photographs spread on the table.
When she had finished eating, had washed the dishes and put them away, it was still fifteen minutes before midnight and she could not contain herself any longer. She would call Roy Zimborg in New York, and pray that he was already home from work.
Five minutes later, when she had his breathless voice on the line, she knew that he had arrived just as the phone began ringing.
"Roy," she repeated, "it's Gisele—Gisele Dupree—calling from France. Roy, I'm so glad I caught you in."
"Gisele, by God, no kidding? What time is it? Lemme see. Yeah, ten to six. Well, just walked through the door and heard the phone. I had to run for it." He exhaled. "Hey, Gisele, it's really you? That's great. Where are you?"
"Still in Lourdes, still the girl guide. What about you?"
Distantly, Zimborg exhaled noisily again, as if to regularize his breathing. "Me? At the UN, still with the U.S. delegation. No change. Who else would want a French into English translator?"
"I may be joining you one day soon at the UN, like old times."
"That would be great!"
"Well, it's not certain yet, Roy, but there's a good possibility of getting out of here. First, I'd have to go to the translator's school in Paris. Then I'll probably be able to get a job with the French delegation to the UN. But before that I've got to have enough money to go to the translator's school. There's a chance I can get it all at once, without waiting forever. There might be an angel who'll sponsor me."
"Oh, yeah?"
"An American academic, seems prosperous, who is here in Lourdes right now. He's taken a special interest in me. I want to ask you a favor, Roy. It's about this man."
"Anything I can do, just name it," said Zimborg.
"It has to do with Columbia University. If I remember correctly, you graduated from Columbia, didn't you?"
"With honors, sweetie."
"While you were there, did you ever have or know or hear about a member of the faculty named Professor Samuel Talley?"
"Spell it, the last name."
Gisele spelled it out.
"That's Talley, Samuel Talley" said Zimborg. "No, it doesn't ring a bell. Why do you want to know?"
"This man I met, Professor Samuel Talley, claims to be in the language department of Columbia University."
"Could be," said Zimborg. "There are a million professors and associates at Columbia. I just may not have heard of this particular one. Or he may have come on since my time. After all, I haven't been at Columbia for some years."
"Do you still have any connections at the school, Roy?"
"You mean contacts? Someone I know? I know a number of faculty members quite well, now that I'm a big shot at the UN. I see them for lunch, dinner, well, at least a couple of times a year."
"Would it be imposing on you, Roy, to ask if you could get in touch with one of your contacts at Columbia tomorrow? It would be sort of complicated for me to call Columbia directly. But if you could—"
"No problem whatsoever. What do you want to know? You want to know about this Professor Talley?"
"Exactly. I want to know if Talley's there, as he says he is."
"Hold on a sec, Gisele. Lemme get a piece of paper and a pencil, so's to be sure I've got it right. Just hold on." She held on briefly, and then heard his voice again. "Hi, Gisele. Okay, give it to me slowly once more."
"I want to know if currently, or recently, there is or was a Professor Samuel Talley in the language department at Columbia University. He has an apartment in Manhattan, and a permanent residence in Vermont. I just want to verify that he is who he says he is, and is on the faculty at Columbia. Can you do that?"
"No sweat, honey. I can find out at lunchtime. I'll call you with the info. When should I call you?"
"Let's see, the time difference is six hours. When it is one in the afternoon in New York, it is—what?—it is seven in the evening in Lourdes tomorrow. Can you call me at one tomorrow your time? I'm at someone's apartment. I'll give you the number. It is right in Lourdes. The phone number is 62-34.53.53. Do you have it?"
"Got it," chirped Zimborg. "I'll be back to you with all the dope during my lunch break."
"That's a real favor, Roy. Now I owe you one. Anything I can do for you, Roy, let me know. Whatever you want."
"Do you still look like you used to look, sweetie?"
"Of course, the same. Maybe better."
"Then you know what I want."
She grinned at the mouthpiece of the phone. "Just help me get there," she said, "and you've got it."
Mikel Hurtado had patiently waited until it was nearly midnight before leaving the hotel to visit the grotto one last time. Hopefully, at this late hour, the last of the pilgrims would be gone and asleep, and the police would have lifted their intensive security and abandoned the area. He would have plenty of time in which to climb the hillside beside the grotto, assemble his equipment, wire it to the dynamite, plant the dynamite behind the statue of the Virgin Mary in the niche—and then set the timer for the explosion and be off and far away before it blasted sky-high.
During his short walk to the ramp, his purpose was undimmed, tinged only with one regret.
Less than an hour ago he had finished sleeping with Natale, making passionate love to her, for the second time this day. The last coupling had been incredible, perfect, and when he left her sound asleep in bed, it pained him to see her there, in innocent repose, so giving and trusting—it pained him not only because he was going off to destroy an object of veneration that she held so holy, but because in departing the town in the night he might never see her again. It was a terrible thing to do to her, and to himself as well, but all the way to the ramp he did not falter. It had to be done.
At the top of the ramp to the domain, there was no one in sight except the goddam police. They were there again this night, not as many as before, but still there, three of them standing around talking and smoking.
But this time he was not daunted. He had nothing to hide or to be afraid of. Just one more pilgrim, one with insomnia, who wanted to go below and offer up more fervent prayers. Hurtado limped along, traversing the street, and nonchalantly approaching the lawmen. When he was almost abreast of the police, the tallest of them stepped to one side to size him up. Hurtado gave a quick smile and short wave, and continued down the ramp. The policeman neither bothered to stop him nor call out to him. Good sign.
Hurtado went on down the ramp to the Rosary Esplanade, then veered around the church toward the grotto.
He strode hastily, and suddenly the grotto was in view and so were the benches in rows before it. On one of the rear benches sat two uniformed and armed policemen, chatting away.
They did not see him, but he could see them, and they looked like they would be there until dawn.
Hurtado cursed under his breath.
Impossible. When would those goddam bloodhounds be tired of their unremitting surveillance and be through with it? When would they give up and go back to their normal duties and leave him alone? Again, he cursed them—and Augustin Lopez.
Turning away, he hiked wearily back up the ramp to the street and the hotel.
Entering the reception lobby, wondering how he could find out when the domain would be free of security and he would have an all-clear, he saw Yvonne seated behind the reception counter. She wasn't dozing. She was reading a book. He reminded himself that it had been Yvonne who had unwittingly and originally alerted him to the police search for a terrorist. She'd had the tip from a girl friend who was bedding down with Fontaine, the superintendent of the Lourdes police. Possibly, now, she would know more and not mind repeating it.
Hurtado wandered over to the reception desk.
"Hi, Yvonne," he said. He took out his cigarette package and shook one free. "Want to have one?"
"No, thanks, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness." She put a marker in her book. "When do you ever get sleep?"
"I felt like going to the grotto tonight and praying by myself. But no use. Police all over the place. I don't like company when I'm praying. So I just gave up. It's just no use. They're there every night. When are they going to give up this security crap?"
Yvonne put down her book, and came to him. She leaned over, whispering. "They're giving it up."
"They are?"
"You'll soon have the whole grotto to yourself to pray as long as you want to."
"When's that happening?"
"The police are giving it two more days and nights. Then they're calling it quits. They're lifting super security and going back to normal on Saturday. Inspector Fontaine told my friend that the phone tip was probably from some crackpot anyway. And he's tired of keeping his force on overtime, and overworked. You know, we're not supposed to say, but the police really have their hands full at those campsites out of town—you know, where all the people who couldn't get rooms in Lourdes are staying. You'd think people coming to see the Blessed Mother would behave better, wouldn't you? Anyway, my friend said Inspector Fontaine threatened to call in the soldiers if he couldn't pull his men off crackpot duty. If nothing happens tomorrow or the day after, he's pulling everyone off the special shift the day after that. So that's my word for you."
Hurtado bent over the counter and kissed Yvonne on the cheek. "Thanks for good tidings," he said. "When I get down there again, I promise to say an extra prayer for you. Good-night."
He limped to the elevator, disgruntled that he would have to wait for two more days, but happy that the deed could finally be done. There was one benefit in the delay. He could be with Natale that much longer.