The Miracle (16 page)

Amanda kept worrying about Ken, who had recovered sufficiently to speak up for the first time since leaving the train. "We're here," he whispered, "we're in Lourdes. We made it." Amanda nodded. "Yes, darling, we made it."

Father Woodcourt had returned with a packet of envelopes clutched in his hands. He called for attention, and there was an immediate silence. "I have the room assignments," he announced, "and will call out your names in alphabetical order. In these envelopes you'll find a map of Lourdes, several information sheets, the number of your room, and your key." He began reading off the names.

When he got to the "C's," he called out, "Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Clayton." With a twinge, Amanda accepted their envelope and the lie of their union, which they had agreed in Chicago would be the best way to travel.

When Father Woodcourt had finished with his handouts, he asked for attention once more. "Each of you has all the information you

require on your information sheets—your room number, the hours for breakfast and dinner, which are included in your demi-pension rate, and other hotel instructions." He cleared his throat. "Those who wish to can go directly to their rooms to rest, have a wash, unpack—if your baggage is not already in your room, it will be there shortly. We will dine downstairs, the floor below the lobby, and after that, for those who are up to it, we wOl observe the nightly candlelight procession in the domain, and tomorrow we will participate in it as a group. Meanwhile —" He paused, and resumed. "For those of you who would prefer enjoying a visit to the grotto before going to your rooms or dinner, I am prepared to lead the way. How many would like to go to the grotto before doing anything else? Hold up your hands."

Amanda observed that two-thirds of the group had lifted their hands high. And among these was Ken, standing beside her.

"Ken, no, you're not up to it, I won't let you," Amanda whispered fiercely. "You've got to rest. You can do the grotto tomorrow. It won't go away."

Ken gave her an indulgent smile. "Honey, I've got to see it now, do my prayers there right now. The very thought of it makes me feel better. I'll see you before dinner."

Dismayed, Amanda watched him hobble off with the majority who had chosen to accompany their priest to the grotto. Almost alone in the lobby, except for a cluster of pilgrims waiting for the elevator to return, and discussing their plans to attend Mass tomorrow on Assumption Day, Amanda opened the envelope in her hand. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton had bedroom 503 on the fifth floor. Gripping her tote bag, Amanda joined the cluster at the elevator. She simply couldn't understand this Ken Clayton, weary to the bone yet plunging forth to hike to a cave in a hill and fervently devote himself to prayer there, exhausting himself to seek salvation, expecting to be saved as that Mrs. Moore had been saved. The sensible Ken she had known in Chicago, the smart and sharp lawyer, would have seen through the Mrs. Moores and all the other miracle cures at once. That Ken would not have expected miracles, would have understood that sudden cures were not miracles but psychosomatic in origin. Such cures could not happen to everyone, especially to those like Ken who were truly and most seriously ill.

The elevator had come, and Amanda, with difllculty, had squeezed in it with the others. The ascent was slow, starting and stopping, and she and an aged and hunched male pilgrim were the last to get off on the fifth floor. There was only one direction to go, and Amanda went up the corridor until she found room 503. She inserted her key and opened the door. At least now she could rest and luxuriate until Ken's return.

What met her eyes as she took a few steps into the double bedroom made her blink, because it was so unexpected. The Gallia & Londres hotel had been advertised as a deluxe three-star hostelry, but what lay before her eyes was an abomination. The room was as confining for two persons as a room could possibly be. It was hardly a room. It was a drab cell. Twin beds, covered with vomitus green bedspreads, filled, or seemed to fill, the entire space. To the left, at the foot of the beds, there was a small table, a side chair, and next to it a bureau. There were simply no other furnishings in the room, and no adornments except a niche on either side of the headboards holding statuettes of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. Across the room there were tired drapes on either side of a window. To get to the window and open it for air, Amanda had to press sideways between the table and foot of the beds. Raising the window, she could see a long procession of people marching in the afternoon sun on the other side of a park. They were singing now, and what assaulted her ears once again was the refrain of the Lourdes hymn.

Amanda worked her way to a door leading into a closet of a bathroom containing a short tub, toilet, bidet, sink. The paint on the medicine cabinet was chipped, and the light over it flickered eerily on and off.

Sitting on the edge of the nearest bed, Amanda wanted to cry. This was no place for them, certainly not for Ken, who needed comfort and rest and quiet. This cell, pretending to be a room, would never do, never.

She tried to think out what could be done. There were no better accommodations in this "superior" hotel. All other accommodations in the town had been spoken for days ago. There was nowhere to move to, unless something could be found outside the town, something more— more acceptable.

That instant she remembered. The luxury hotel that she had stayed in for two days and one night the summer she had been given a trip to France after graduation. The place had been magnificent, memorable, and she had heard during her visit there that it was not too far ft-om the shrine at Lourdes.

That would be the place to stay, perfect for poor Ken, perfect for both of them. It would make their few days here -- and it would be no more than a few days, at most -- it would make that miserable time endurable.

What in the devil was the place called?

Eugenie-les-Bains, that was it.

She would telephone the hotel there at once, immediately, for a

reservation this very evening, and make the change the moment Ken came back from the grotto.

Sergei Tikhanov came to Lourdes late in the afternoon by way of Lisbon, Geneva, Paris -- all short flights.

As he sat in the taxi that had brought him from the airport into Lourdes, he was conscious of the two changes in his person. One was the small blue counterfeit passport in his suit jacket's inner pocket that identified him as Samuel Talley of New York, a citizen of the United States of America. The other was the shaggy false mustache that covered the tell-tale brown wart on his left upper lip, and hung down the sides of his cheeks and masked a portion of his mouth. The mustache, he had decided, was more than sufficient disguise. Without it, his face with the trademark wart, so widely publicized throughout the world for so many years, might have made him recognizable to someone.

The airport taxi was slowing, and the French driver, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror, addressed him. "Here we are, monsieur."

Tikhanov looked out the window to his right, saw that they were on a street called Avenue du Paradis, and there was a parking lot and a wide muddy river flowing beyond it. He turned to his left to see that they had come to a halt in front of the entrance of the six-story brick-red hotel with the name emblazoned above the top story: NOUVEL HOTEL STREET - LOUIS DE FRANCE.

Since newspaper accounts had made it clear that Lourdes would be overcrowded during this dramatic week, and that all accommodations had been booked by official pilgrimages within a few days of the announcement of the Virgin Mary's reappearance, Tikhanov had worried about finding a place to stay. Fortunately, the concierge at Geneva's Hotel Intercontinental, a longtime acquaintance named Henri whom he had always generously overtipped, had been someone who might lend a hand. Tikhanov had told Henri that a close friend, an American in New York named Talley, a religious gentleman, was planning to visit Lourdes during the Reappearance festivities. The only problem was that his friend Talley had been too late to sign on with a pilgrimage and had been unable to obtain a hotel reservation on his own. Knowing that Tikhanov was well traveled, Talley had wondered whether he had any contacts who might discover a hotel room in Lourdes for a week or two. Tikhanov had said that he had not been able to promise his friend anything, since he himself had never visited Lourdes nor did he intend to do so. But he had assured his friend that he would ask around, and upon arriving in Geneva, it had occurred to Tikhanov to see whether Henri could make any suggestions.

It turned out that Henri had been ready to cooperate with one suggestion. Henri had, a few years earlier, accompanied his grandfather to Lourdes and they had stayed at the Hotel St.-Louis de France and formed a friendship with Robert, the head concierge. In fact, even as Tikhanov waited, Henri had telephoned Robert in Lourdes, to put in a word for Tikhanov's friend—what was his name again? Talley? Ah yes, Mr. Talley from New York—but then Henri had learned that Robert was ofif on a vacation and would not be back at his desk until the first day of The Reappearance Time. "No matter," Henri had reassured Tikhanov. "Just have your friend present himself in person the day Robert is back, have him invoke my name, and Robert will remember and give Mr. Talley a room. There is always an extra room, believe me.

Believing him, Tikhanov had felt relieved. But now, stepping out of his taxi before the hotel, he was less certain. In life, as in diplomacy, Tikhanov was always cautious, always leaving back doors open, even in the most minute matters. Right now, he decided to keep his taxi on hold. As the driver stepped down from the front seat to remove the suitcase from the trunk, Tikhanov told him, "Not yet. Just wait a few minutes. I must be sure I have a room. They might send me somewhere else."

His condition, as he had come to think of his muscular dystrophy, nagged him today, and Tikhanov went up the outer dark-gray steps slowly. The ground floor lobby was modest and modern, an elevator and staircase directly ahead. Behind the counter, musing over a ledger, was a bespectacled, uniformed concierge.

Tikhanov approached him confidently, and addressed him in French. "Monsieur, I am looking for the chief concierge Robert."

The concierge peered up at him through bifocal lenses. "I am Robert, at your service."

"Ah, good, good. I am here on the advice of a friend of yours, who sends his best regards. I refer to our mutual friend, Henri, the head concierge at the Intercontinental in Geneva."

Without hesitation, Robert said, "Henri, yes. How is he? A fine fellow. Is he well?"

"Never better. Henri advised me to see you about a room for this week. He said you would know better than the hotel receptionist. He realized how crowded it would be, but thought you might be able to accommodate me as a favor to him. Anything will do."

Robert's face fell. "Henri is right. Usually there is something. But today, and for every day of this week, there is nothing, absolutely noth-

ing. I am embarrassed, desolate, not to be able to do something for my friend. But truly, there is nothing, not even a vacant closet."

Tikhanov reached for his wallet. "You are certain?"

"It is no use. I am positive. The hotel is occupied to the rafters. This has never happened before. But this is an extraordinary time. After all, the Virgin has not appeared in Lourdes since 1858. Everyone wants to see her. Next week, I can probably help arrange an accommodation."

"I have only this week."

"Then I am sorry."

"What can I do? Might there be another hotel, someone you know, who would have a room?"

"None. The hotels are filled to overflow." A thought occurred to him, and the concierge held up a finger. "One possibility. In other times when Lourdes has been crowded, there have been some room rentals outside the city. There are many small towns near us, all within commuting distance, and often families decide to let their spare rooms to earn a few francs. Yes, I am sure that is happening now to take care of the overflow. That would be the best thing for you, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Talley, Samuel Talley."

"Yes, that would be best, Mr. Talley. Learn what private housing is available outside the city."

"Where would I find out about that? I've never been to Lourdes before."

Robert offered immediate help. "I can tell you exactly where to go to find out. We have what we call the Syndicat des Hoteliers de Lourdes on the Place de L'Eglise in the Old Town. Here, let me show you." He sought and found an orange-covered map with the heading, Lourdes, lieu de pilerinage, and unfolded it. He traced the route to the Place for Tikhanov, then refolded the map and handed it to the Russian.

"This should lead you to a roof over your head. I am sorry I could not acconmiodate you here. Good luck."

Leaving the hotel, descending the stairs, Tikhanov opened the map and handed it to the waiting driver. "There is no room here," he explained. "I must go to the Syndicat des Hoteliers. You see, the concierge drew a line to it on the map."

The driver consulted the map, nodding, and gestured Tikhanov into the back seat once more.

During the fifteen minute ride, Tikhanov was completely inattentive to his surroundings. His mind was turned inward, assessing his foolishness in coming here, weighing the risk involved in visiting a "holy land" of which his government and party disapproved against the growing incapacity of his body.

By the time he had been discharged at the Place de L'Eglise, he had made up his mind that his health and its reward was worth any risk. Moreover, he felt safe behind the camouflage of his new mustache. Paying off the driver, following his directions, he gripped his bag and proceeded toward the nearby building.

Tikhanov found the office unoccupied except for two middle-aged women at their desks. The nearest one, dark bangs, wire-rimmed spectacles, greeted him pleasantly. He introduced himself as Samuel Talley, American, recently arrived in Lourdes on a pilgrimage, but not an official one, and therefore without a place to stay for the week. A friend at the Hotel St.-Louis de France had suggested that he come here to obtain a spare room in some private household outside the city.