Part 10 (1/2)

”Yes,” he said, also using French. ”The Syndicat in Lourdes notified you, then.”

”My daughter, Gisele, telephoned that you were taking the bedroom and would be here for dinner. Please, come in.”

The living room was dim, lighted by only two bulbs, but Tikhanov could make out that it was a heavily draped room with old-fas.h.i.+oned overstuffed French furniture. The television set was on, and then off, as someone rose from beside it and loomed before him. This was Monsieur Dupree, a squat, powerful man with rumpled hair, a cast in one eye, a square stubbled jaw. Having muttered a Bon soir,” he took Tikhanov's suitcase. ”I will show you the room,” he said in French. ”My daughter's room. She will sleep on the couch for the week.”

The daughter's room was another thing. It was bright, recently redone and fresh, and it was feminine. A pastel spread covered the single bed. Instead of a headboard, there was a shelf of books, all French, of course, but no, not all French, several with English t.i.tles about New York specifically and the United States in general. There was a bedstand with a lamp wearing a rufiied shade. Tikhanov wondered about the daughter of this lowly French family who owned books in English about the United States.

Dupree had set down Tikhanov's bag. ”We will be prepared to have supper in about a half hour, Mr. Talley.”

”I'll be ready for it. But in case I doze off, do you mind letting me know again?”

”I'll rap on your door.”

After his host had gone, Tikhanov had meant to unpack for the week ahead. But the ache persisted in his arms and one leg, and finally he gave in to it, wis.h.i.+ng only to get off his feet and have some relief. He lowered himself to the bed, lifted his legs, rolled over on his side and was at once fast asleep. The sharp knocking on the door awakened him, and he raised his head, momentarily confused, and then he remembered.

”Thank you, Mr. Dupree,” he called out. ”Be right with you.”

A few minutes later, he wandered into the dining room, another dimly lit room, where Dupree was already stolidly seated. Madame Dupree, wearing an ap.r.o.n, hurried from the kitchen to show Tikhanov to his place. She indicated the empty chair beside him. ”We won't wait for Gisele. She phoned to say she was still at work and will be late.”

Madame Dupree paused at the kitchen door. ”We eat modestly,” she apologized. ”Tonight I have consomme and for the main course an omelette with smoked salmon.” Tikhanov held back a smile at the for-mahty of her announcement.

He took in the hideous dining room. Soiled striped wallpaper. A yellowing sketch of Jesus cut from a newspaper and framed. A metal crucifix. On another wall a framed photograph of a marble statue of the Virgin Mary. Serving the soup, Madame Dupree saw Tikhanov studying the hangings. She said, defensively, ”We are a religious family, Mr. Talley.”

”Yes, I see.”

”But you would not have come to Lourdes unless you are a believer.”

”That's right.”

Once they were served, and Madame Dupree was seated, Tikhanov was about to dip his spoon into the soup when he heard a brief rumble. Startled, he looked up to see his host and hostess with their eyes shut, heads bowed, as monsieur muttered grace under his breath. Embarra.s.sed by this public display, and what he was expected to do, Tikhanov laid down his spoon and bowed his head, also.

After that, they ate. At first the Duprees were silent, but eventually there was some halting conversation. Tikhanov politely wanted to know about them, but the most he could find out was that monsieur was a garage mechanic and madame was a maid at the Hotel President on the edge of town. As to recreation and social activity, these were confined to watching the state television programs, attending Ma.s.s at the nearby cathedral, and appearing at various church affairs. Did they know anything about Lourdes? A little, what everyone knew, but mainly what their daughter told them.

”Gisele should be here any minute,” Madame said. ”She can tell you anything you want to know about Lourdes.”

”That will be most helpful,” said Tikhanov.

As the plates from the main course were removed, the basket of bread taken away, and the crumbs swept off the tablecloth, Tikhanov's mind went to his Mother Russia. What would members of the Politburo think if they could see their great international diplomat, and future premier, the renowned and respected intellectual Sergei Tikhanov sitting here consorting with two morons, oafs, drones.

About to cut into his tarte aux fruits, he felt the room suddenly come alive. A breathtakingly beautiful young woman, more a girl, with honey-colored hair caught in a ponytail, and incredible green-gray eyes, had burst into the room, was pecking kisses at her parents. Tikhanov watched her round the table, full of vitahty and the outdoors, trim and energetic.

She held out her hand to Tikhanov. ”And you must be our boarder, Mr. Talley.”

”I am Sam Talley,” said Tikhanov awkwardly. ”And you are Mademoiselle Gisele Dupree.”

”None other,” she said, switching to English, sitting beside Tikhanov. ”Welcome to the house of Dupree and welcome to the town next door to all those miracles.”

”Thank you,” said Tikhanov. ”I hope so. The miracles, I mean.”

Madame Dupree had gone into the kitchen to retrieve her daughter's warmed-over soup and make her an omelette.

Gisele babbled on, to her father in French, to Tikhanov in English, recounting her adventures this first day of The Reappearance Time in Lourdes.

Tikhanov listened to her closely, and observed her with fascination, wis.h.i.+ng fleetingly not only for health but for youth. No doubt about it, a real beauty, perhaps from the mother's side. But more. Unlike her parents, Grisele was apparently well-educated, knowledgeable, with a perfect grasp of the American English. But still more, as she ate and talked, there was something about her, something that made Tikhanov feel uneasy. He tried to pin it down, this uneasy feeling. Her alertness, that was it, she was too alert, possibly clever, maybe perceptive. He wondered if she might give him trouble. He doubted it. She was too young, too limited, strictly a local who knew little beyond the life in Lourdes and her Catholicism. Still, his fake mustache itched and he told himself to be wary. The young ones were so smart these days, made worldly-wise by television.

He realized that she had finished her food and was speaking to him, curious about what had brought him to Lourdes.

”Why?” he found himself saying. ”Well, why not? I haven't been feeling well for some time. An illness I do not like to discuss. Too boring for dinner conversation. I became impatient with my doctors, and a Catholic friend suggested I visit Lourdes, especially now. He knew I was a fallen-away Catholic, but one never falls far from that tree of life, does one? So I had a vacation, so I thought I would take it in Lourdes.”

”You never can tell,” said Gisele cheerfully. ”There are lucky ones here every year. They are cured. I have seen it happen to them. You may be one of this year's lucky ones, Mr. Talley. Go to the grotto every day. Pray with the pilgrims, drink the water, take the baths. And have faith.”

He met her eyes to see if she was teasing, but she was evidently serious. He decided to be serious, too. ”I would like to have real faith, pure faith,” he said earnestly. ”But it is hard for one like me, a man of certain intelligence, to accept the fact that there are gravely ill persons who have been cured by faith and not science.”

”Beheve me, it happens. As I told you, I've seen it happen with my own eyes. You know, I'm a guide in Lourdes, and I get aroimd, and I see them all, and now and then I see one lost soul who is totally healed, totally. Not by science, but by faith.”

”I'm impressed,” said Tikhanov.

”In fact, I know our latest miracle cure personally. I met her a number of years ago. She's been coming to Lourdes for five years. She is an Englishwoman, a Mrs. Edith Moore. She was given up as a terminal cancer case, but on her second visit to Lourdes she was blessed with a miraculous cure. Poof. Cancer gone. The blood cells a healthy red, the bones strong. Actually, she's in Lourdes for a last time, a last examination, before being declared a miracle cure. I ran into her before dinner. She's robust, the picture of well-being, and excited. Would you like to meet her? Would that prove something for you?”

”It certainly would,” replied Tikhanov, feeling a surge of optimism. ”I'd very much like to meet your Mrs. Moore.”

”Then you shall. I'll try to arrange lunch with her. If you'll pay for it. And for my time, taking time off from a tour. The price for the meal and a hundred francs for your guide. Is that too much?”

Tikhanov felt the smile beneath his s.h.a.ggy mustache. ”A bargain, as we Americans say.”

”Okay, we've got a date,” said Gisele. ”Since you are staying here, you can drive to Lourdes with me in the morning. You'll have time to take the baths, and after that have lunch with Edith Moore. Okay with you?”

”Okay by me,” said Tikhanov trying to sound like Talley. ”I'll be ready to go when you are.”

* * * August 14 ”What's it like?” Natale Rinaldi asked as she clung to Aunt Elsa's arm.

They were going into the hotel, she knew, but this was her first visit to Lourdes and unfamiliar territory.

”It says the Hotel Gallia & Londres in two places out in front, and it looks like a very nice hotel,” said Aunt Elsa. She described the entrance, the reception lobby, and the public rooms beyond, then asked, ”How do you feel, my dear?”

”It was hot outside,” said Natale. ”I could feel the heat all the way from the airport.” They had taken the train from Venice to catch their plane in Milan, an Aer Lingus jet chartered especially by a Roman pilgrimage for Lourdes which they were allowed to accompany on the flight, although they were not a part of the pilgrimage.

”There are some people checking in at the reception,” said Aunt Elsa, ”and I think-yes, it's Rosa Zennaro, probably inquiring if we've arrived yet. Wait here, Natale, let me make sure.”

Natale stood in darkness, and tried to remember Rosa Zennaro, her aunt's friend from Rome who came each year to Lourdes to serve as a nurse's aide and who had agreed to be Natale's helper after her arrival. Natale remembered Rosa vaguely, a tall, spare woman, maybe fifty, with straight black hair. A taciturn, competent woman, a widow with enough to live on, and one not given to small talk. Natale felt safe in her keeping. Since Natale had come from darkness into darkness, she had to tell herself that early this morning she had been in Venice, later in Milan, and now she was in a hotel in Lourdes, a site of holy salvation that she had thought about unceasingly for the past three weeks. She felt safe in Lourdes, too. It was a good place chosen by the Lord and His Mother the Virgin to work wonders on deserving people.

She hoped that she was one of the deserving. She had never, in the last three black years, hoped for anything as much.

”Natale.” It was Aunt Elsa's voice. ”That was Rosa at the desk, and I have her here beside me. You met her a few times before your trouble.”

”Oh, yes, I do remember.” She put out her hand. ”h.e.l.lo, Rosa.”

A strong smooth hand had gripped her own. ”Welcome to Lourdes, Natale. I'm so happy you came.” Natale felt the other's warm breath, and felt Rosa's dry lips touching her cheek, and she tried to return Rosa's kiss. She heard Rosa's voice again. ”You've grown into a very pretty young woman, Natale.”

”Thank you, Rosa.”