Part 32 (1/2)
”They told you all that? They were anti-Bernadette?”
”No, mostly they were pro-Bernadette. I've been selective in what I've culled from the interviews in order to-well-to build the angle of my story. I still have another page to go. Want me to finish it?”
”Don't bother,” said Trask bluntly. ”Good try, Liz, but we can”t possibly use it. Those so-called facts you've been reading may be valid, but somehow they add up to very little. Far too ifiy and speculative, and too insubstantial to stand up against the storm of controversy they're sure to generate worldwide. Danmiit, Liz, if you're exposing a saint.
especially a red-hot and current saint, you'd better have the goods on her. You'd better have at least one piece of hard news with an unimpeachable source. I know you've done your best, but your story is built on sand and we need a more solid foundation. Do you understand?”
”I guess so,” said Liz weakly. She had no heart to oppose her boss because she had known all along that her story was a flimsy one based on a contrived angle intended to shock.
”So let's forget it, and keep your eyes open,” Trask said.
”For what?”
”For the really big story-the Virgin Mary does or does not reappear in Lourdes by Sunday. If you get that story, it won't be exclusive but I'll be satisfied.”
”I'll just have to wait and see.”
”You wait and see.”
Knowing he was about to hang up, Liz had to get in one more question, and hated herself for having to ask it. ”Oh, Bill, one other thing-just curious-but how's Marguerite progressing on the Viron story?”
”Just fine, I guess. She seems to have got very close to him. She's handing in the story tomorrow.”
”Well, good luck,” said Liz.
After hanging up, she wanted to kill herself. Good-bye job, goodbye career, good-bye Paris, and h.e.l.lo to a lifetime sentence of servitude in some small town in America's Midwest.
Surely, this was the bleakest moment of her adult life.
She heard the telephone ringing, and prayed for a reprieve.
The voice was that of Amanda Spenser.
”I'm so glad I caught you in, Liz,” Amanda was saying. ”I talked to Father Rilland, as I told you I would. Remember? He was most cooperative.”
”About what?”
”Giving me the name of the person in Bartrds from whom he bought Bernadette's journal. I've got an appointment to see her, this Madame Eugenie Gautier. I'm just about to leave for Bartres. I thought you might want to come along.”
”Thanks, but no thanks,” said Liz. ”I'm afraid I've heard all I'll ever want to hear about Bernadette. The home office just isn't interested. I've had enough.”
”Well, you never can tell,” said Amanda.
”I can tell,” said Liz. ”Good luck. You'll need it.”
Dr. Paul Kleinberg had propped himself up on his bed in the Hotel Astoria, resting and reading, and expecting the phone call from Edith Moore with her decision. It exasperated him that there was a decision to make, since the poor woman really had no choice. His prognosis had been definite and unequivocal. Her illness was terminal. Unless she submitted to Dr. Duval's scalpel and genetic implant, she was as good as dead. It seemed impossible that she would risk her life depending on a second miracle, when the first had finally failed her. Yet, she was leaving her future to her husband, Reggie, who was selfish, unrealistic, and apparently insensible to his wife's fate.
Utter madness, this delay, and Kleinberg wished he was out of the whole thing and back in his comfortable apartment in Paris.
And then the telephone at his elbow, amplified by his introspection, rang out like a trumpet.
He caught up the receiver, ready to hear Edith Moore, and was surprised that the speaker was male.
”Dr. Kleinberg? This is Reggie Moore.”
Considering their last meeting and parting, Kleinberg was even more surprised at the friendliness of Reggie's tone.
”Yes, Mr. Moore, I was rather expecting your wife to call.”
”Well, she delegated the call to me. So I'm calling. Edith told me about your visit to her at the hotel. She wasn't well, so I appreciate that.”
”You know then about Dr. Duval?”
”I do. She told me all about his new surgery.”
”She couldn't make up her mind,” said Kleinberg. ”She wanted to talk it over with you first.”
”We talked it over at length,” said Reggie enigmatically.
”Have you arrived at a decision?”
”I'd like to see you first. I'd like to discuss it with you. Are you free?”
”Totally available. Your wife is why I'm here.”
”When can I see you?”
”Now,” said Kleinberg.
”You're at the Astoria,” said Reggie. ”I know the hotel. They have a nice garden courtyard downstairs where they serve coffee. Why don't I meet you there in-say-let's make it fifteen minutes. How's that?”
”That's fine. In fifteen minutes.”
Kleinberg threw down his book and got of the bed. He was as exasperated as ever, and mystified as well. Why in the h.e.l.l did Reggie Moore have to see him? What was there to discuss? Why couldn't Reggie have given him the decision on the ph(ie? Then he would have been able to reserve some time in a surgical room in a Lourdes hospital or otherwise be able to pack up and go home. Nevertheless, he went to wash up, comb his hair, put on his necktie and jacket. Once refreshed. Dr. Kieinberg went downstairs.
He found the Hotel Astoria courtyard not unpleasant, the usual splas.h.i.+ng fountain and the area enhvened by yellow shutters on the hotel windows above the green shrubbery. There were six circular plastic tables with white slat chairs distributed around the courtyard. All of them, save one, were empty. That table was occupied by one large man lighting a cigar. Puffing the cigar was Reggie Moore.
Kieinberg hurried down the outside steps and crossed to the table. Moore shook hands without rising. Kieinberg sat down opposite him.
Reggie said, ”I ordered cofifee for both of us. That all right?”
”Just what the doctor would have ordered,” said Kieinberg.
Reggie guffawed and sucked at his cigar. Gradually, his face transformed into something serious. When he spoke, he was almost abject, and sounded chastened. ”Sorry about that little set-to we had in town. Not like me to go around shouting at anyone.”
”You had reason to be upset,” said Kieinberg, who did not trust small victories like this. ”You seem considerably calmer now.”
”I am, I am,” said Reggie.
Reggie watched while the waiter set down the coffee, cream, sugar, bill, but he did not seem interested. Kieinberg discerned that Reggie had something else on his mind. And was being unhurried about speaking his mind.