The Miracle Part 3

"Samuel Talley?"

"I just made it up on the spur of the moment, a name with your real initials in case you have any monograms on your luggage or clothes."

"Clever of you."

"It comes of reading espionage and detective novels," said Dr. Karp with a tinge of embarra.s.sment. "I pa.s.sed on to Mrs. Motta the nature of your illness. She will, in turn, relay it to Dr. Motta in their next conversation. He will be prepared for you. Now, if you will give me fifteen minutes more, I will type up a summary of my diagnosis for Dr. Motta, and you can present this, along with the results of your tests, to him in Biarritz." Dr. Karp stood up. "I repeat, it is a long shot. But it will give you a second opinion, and, if you are lucky, a possible chance. Maybe you will be lucky. Who knows? You can only try."

For a man of Tikhanov's renown and high station, it had not been easy to get to Biarritz in complete secrecy.

He had flown to Paris, settled into the Soviet Emba.s.sy briefly, and played his first day there by the rules. He had put a call through to General Kossoff in Moscow, and realized that the KGB director's tone was tinged with a special respect, as befitted conversation with the next premier. Tikhanov had learned that Premier Skryabin was still in a coma, and on a life-support system, but that his end was no more than a few weeks off at the most. With the new value placed on him, Tikhanov had found it easier to double-talk about his forthcoming schedule, his flexible plans, a secret mission and meeting with a subversive group gathering from the Middle East, a more prolonged stay in Portugal. He had promised to be in constant touch with Moscow along the way and to check in when he reached Yalta.

Then Tikhanov had used his remaining time in Paris to develop the ident.i.ty that he would take to Biarritz. There had been no trouble contacting French Communist elements who could lead him to nonpolitical persons able to supply him with an American pa.s.sport bearing the name Samuel Talley, along with the American social security and credit cards that should be possessed by Talley.

The last day in Paris, with Kossoff's reluctant approval, Tikhanov had rid himself of his KGB security guards by telling them that the Middle East subversives he was to meet with in private would supply their own protection for him.

By himself, using no one else, Tikhanov had booked the Air-Inter flight from Orly Field in Paris to Biarritz, and once safely in the sunny, windy southwestern French resort, he had taken an ordinary taxi to the spectacular old Hotel du Palais, at one time the summer residence of Emperor Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie.

As Samuel Talley, American citizen, Tikhanov had registered in the hotel and been shown to a s.p.a.cious ornately furnished double bedroom much too luxurious for his taste.

An hour later, carrying the packet that Dr. Karp had sent along, and wearing as a disguise not only thick clear nonprescription gla.s.ses but a bushy false mustache obtained in Paris to cover the well-known wart above his upper lip, he rang the doorbell to suite 310-311. He was surprised when one of the double doors opened to reveal a pet.i.te, serious young nurse garbed in white. But then, Tikhanov reminded himself. Dr. Motta was here in Biarritz to give injections to a wealthy Indian and would naturally have brought along his Swiss nurse, although Tikhanov decided that she was much too young and pretty to serve her employer merely as a nurse.

Tikhanov followed her up a stretch of interior hallway that opened into the largest sitting room Tikhanov had ever seen in a Western hotel.

"Mr. Talley," the nurse said, "if you will be seated, Dr. Motta will join you in a few seconds."

Tikhanov walked slowly, unsteadily-reminding himself of his ailment -- beneath the ornate chandeher to an antique desk that stood in front of a window. From the window, he could see that this was a comer room overlooking both an outdoor swimming pool and a restaurant, perched above a sandy beach that was dotted with umbrellas, lounges, and cabanas. And beyond that was the wavy Atlantic running out to the pure blue horizon.

Turning his back on the view, Tikhanov inspected the sitting room's furnis.h.i.+ngs, a three-cus.h.i.+on gold sofa, two deep gold armchairs around a gla.s.s-topped coffee table, two silver satin-covered pull-up chairs. Obviously, Dr. Motta was rich and successful, which Tikhanov equated with being in the best hands, and therefore offering the promise of hope.

As he considered where to sit, Tikhanov was startled by a booming Germanic voice. "Mr. Talley. Glad to have you. Let's sit on the sofa."

The speaker entering from the bedroom was an ebullient, heavyset older man wrapped in a purple silk bathrobe that revealed the lower portion of his hairy naked legs. His auburn hair was combed in a pompadour, the eyes small and narrow, the nose prominent, the freshly shaved face florid. "I'm Dr. Motta. Forgive my attire. Just came straight up from the Grande Plage. Wonderful place. You been here before?"

"No, sir."

"You'll like it. Give yourself a few extra days. Yes, you'll like it." Dr. Motta sank down into the sofa with a wheeze, summoning Tikhanov to sit beside him, and Tikhanov complied.

"I knew you'd be here at lunch time," Dr. Motta continued, "and I expect you're ravenously hungry. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering a light lunch for each of us before we settle down to business. Give us an opportunity to become acquainted."

"Very kind of you," said Tikhanov stiffly. He wanted only to get to what mattered, the consultation, his life, but he also wished to show his appreciation of the physician's hospitahty, wanting to be in his good graces, wanting the other's goodwill and best mood.

Dr. Motta was packing tobacco into his straight-stemmed briar pipe. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you? I don't allow my patients to smoke during therapy, but we're not in the clinic and we can relax a bit."

"I'll have a cigarette," said Tikhanov, finding and lighting one.

The doorbell rang, and then the room-service waiter appeared, rolling in the cart carrying their lunch. As the waiter laid out the dishes on the coffee table, Dr. Motta eyed them greedily. Puffing his pipe, he identified each dish. 'To start with, Salade d I'Oiseau. Then, for the two of us, Carre d'Agneau Roti. Toast, as you can see, and French coffee. I did not order a dessert, but if you wish one, I would recommend their Crime du Chocolat."

"No, thank you, there's quite enough already."

The waiter had finished. "If anything is not to your wishes, please ring room service. When you are through, let us know and I'll remove the service pieces and cart."

After the waiter had gone. Dr. Motta knocked the ashes out of his pipe and sat up. "Let's dine now, and we can talk."

"Very well," said Tikhanov, stubbing out his cigarette and starting to pick at the salad.

"I have only a clue as to your ailment, the reason you are here," said Dr. Motta, eating. "I know the problem is muscular dystrophy. But that need not be a death sentence. Some cases have been treated successfully. It all depends. We shall see, we shall see."

Tikhanov enjoyed a wave of relief, and began to look upon the Swiss doctor as a savior.

"Are you going to examine me?" inquired Tikhanov.

"If necessary," said Dr. Motta, absorbed in his food.

Tikhanov touched the package on the sofa beside him. "Dr. Karp sent along the results of all his tests for you to see."

"Very good. I shall study them with care. Then we will know what can be done." He raised his head. "You know, I have had several successes with this disease."

Tikhanov nodded. "That is why Dr. Karp sent me to see you. He told me of your successes, and mentioned two failures."

"Failures, of course. It depends on the stage of the disease, the degree of deterioration." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "Treating dystrophy is not my specialty, but it is often an inevitable adjunct of my main work. Do you know anything about my work?"

"Very little, I'm ashamed to say," said Tikhanov apologetically. "I had no time to learn. I know only what Dr. Karp told me, no more. Basically, that you treat the aging, apply regenerative therapy to your patients."

"Ah, so you do have an idea," said Dr. Motta, pleased. "Yes, I was one of several proteges of the celebrated Dr. Paul Niehans at his chalet in Clarens on Lake Geneva. Dr. Niehans pioneered cellular therapy-a simple therapy. He prepared solutions from freshly ground-up organs of a fetal lamb, one taken from the womb of a black sheep by Caesarian section, and injected them into the b.u.t.tocks of his patient. If the patient suffered from an underactive thyroid, he was injected with thyroid cells. In menopausal disturbances, the patient was injected with ovarian cells. And so forth. The basic thrust of cellular therapy is to hold off old age, extend life by rejuvenation or revitalizing despite the illnesses of aging. Naturally, this meant treating many diseases ranging from anemia to serious ulcers. When I took over from Dr. Niehans, dystrophy was just one of the many diseases I had to contend with."

Tikhanov was intrigued. "And Dr. Niehans had successes?"

"I am certain. He treated Pope Pius XII. He treated King Ibn Said, the Duke of Windsor, German Chancellor Konrad Adenauer, the British author W. Somerset Maugham, the actress Gloria Swanson, even your former American Vice-President Henry A. Wallace. On the other hand, when he was given the opportunity to treat Igor Stravinsky, he refused, because the composer was ill with polycythemia, a chronically high red-blood-cell count, and Dr. Niehans felt that he could not cure him. I, too, have had many well-known patients, and I have treated them if I believed I could help them. Others I resisted treating because I felt that they would not respond to the injections. They were, in my view, incurable. But in most cases there are favorable opportunities."

Dr. Motta had completed his lunch, and was wiping his mouth once more.

"Now, Mr. Talley," he resumed, "let us see what can be done for you. Let me review your tests." He reached out, and Tikhanov quickly handed him Dr. Karp's package. "You finish your meal," Dr. Motta said. "I will retire to the desk in the bedroom where I can concentrate. I don't expect to be too long."

He rose, and briskly left the sitting room, tearing open the package as he went into the adjacent bedroom.

Alone, Tikhanov puttered with the rest of the food, but his stomach was in his throat and he had no appet.i.te. He attempted to occupy himself with the bitter coffee, but finally gave up. He forced himself to sit back, smoking incessantly, and tried not to think.

After almost a half hour. Dr. Motta reappeared, stuffing the test findings back into the manila envelope. This time he took his place in an armchair, facing Tikhanov. His broad face was grave.

"I am sorry, Mr. Talley, but I am afraid I cannot help you," intoned Dr. Motta. "You suffer the mixed type of dystrophy, affecting the voluntary muscles, and the deterioration is advanced. The muscle biopsy reports are conclusive. I can do no more than confirm Dr. Karp's opinion and his timetable, and support his suggestions. I am truly sorry."

"You mean -- you mean there is nothing that can be done?"

"Nothing short of a miracle," said Dr. Motta.

An hour later, Sergei Tikhanov finally left his own room.

Depressed, certain of his death sentence, he had tried to make up his mind which course to take. To announce his illness and enforced retirement dramatically, and gain ten or twelve years of miserable life, sitting by in the shadows while a more vigorous and healthy colleague took over the reins of the Soviet Union. Or to keep his illness a secret, and plunge into the top level of Soviet rule, and have the satisfaction of two or three years of power and activity before an early extinction. Since he could come to no decision, not yet, he had decided to continue with his schedule and proceed to Lisbon, and from there return to Yalta.

Pale and dizzy, Tikhanov reached the concierge's desk in the ground floor lobby of the Hotel du Palais, prepared to book a seat on the earliest plane to Lisbon. The bald concierge was busy with another tourist, arranging a dinner reservation for four at the Rdtisserie du Coq Hardi in Biarritz. Waiting his turn restlessly, Tikhanov glanced at the rack beside the second counter with its lineup of international newspapers for sale. One word in every bold headline, and recognizable in every language, a.s.saulted him. The word was miracle . . . milagro . . . MIRACOLO.

Curious, Tikhanov moved around the comer of the concierge's counter to the newsrack. The headlines all seemed to be shouting about the same thing. Obviously, a big event of some kind. Tikhanov tugged free a copy of France Soir, left some change on the counter, and scanned the headline, the bank of headlines, MIRACLE EXPECTED AT LOURDES. BERNADETTE'S LEGACY. Her lost journal reveals the secret Virgin Mary entrusted to her long ago. The Virgin will reappear at the grotto in Lourdes in three weeks, sometime during the week and day following August 14. Some fortunate pilgrim will see the Virgin. Some ailing pilgrim will enjoy a miraculous cure.

Normally, at another time when he was in full control of his senses, Sergei Tikhanov would have cast this typical Western nonsense, this fable for gullible readers, into the nearest waste basket.

But a phrase that Dr. Motta had used in concluding their conversation still rang in his ears. What could be done to save Tikhanov? Dr. Motta had replied: Nothing short of a miracle.

Thinking about the coincidence, newspaper held open before him, Tikhanov shambled across the brown carpet, with its imperial design, spread on the marble floor of the lobby. There was a narrow red couch resting near two towering marble pillars. Tikhanov lowered himself into it and carefully read the story in French from Paris, the cardinal's announcement at a press conference that the Pope had authorized word to go out to the world that the Virgin Mary, during the seventh of her eighteen appearances before Bernadette, had promised to reappear at the grotto in Lourdes and provide a miraculous cure for an ailing pilgrim.

Religion and its miracles, the opium of the people, as Lenin had stated. Actually, Karl Marx had stated it first. "Religion is the soul of soulless conditions, the heart of a heartless world, the opium of the people."' And Marx's collaborator, Friedrich Engels, had echoed, "Get rid of the Church, which permits working people to suffer silently in this world while awaiting their reward in the next." Lenin had preached this, Stalin had supported it, and the Communist Party had demanded that every member shed his belief in religion. And Tikhanov had become, was still, a loyal Party member, an unswerving atheist since adolescence. As a veteran Communist, Tikhanov knew that not for a minute could he take this ignorant rubbish about the Virgin Mary seriously.

No matter how deep his depression, no matter what weakness had afflicted his brain, no matter how desperate his need for hope, this Lourdes story was impossible. About to throw the newspaper aside, Tikhanov's eyes fell upon a second story from Lourdes. This was a feature about the almost seventy miracle cures that had already been attributed to the grotto or the water from its spring. His gaze fastened on the list of incurables and their potentially fatal illnesses, persons from France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland who had been saved by miracles. Sarcoma of the pelvis-cured. Multiple sclerosis-cured. Addison's disease-cured. Cancer of the uterine cervix-cured. And other diseases miraculously cured, several diseases that seemed to resemble muscular dystrophy.

Following this story was an interview with a Dr. Berryer, head of the Lourdes Medical Bureau. The cures, certified by priests, were first thoroughly investigated and attested to by the best medical men in the world. Tikhanov's eye held on another statement that Dr. Berryer had made: Even non-Catholics and nonreligious visitors had been blessed by cures.

Impressive.

Tikhanov sat still. Very impressive. He thought back to his childhood in the farmhouse outside Minsk. His worn mother had been an orthodox Catholic, a cheerful one, and his father had paid lip service to this faith. Tikhanov remembered the small wooden church -- the candles, the priest, the Ma.s.s, the rosaries. Communion, holy water, the confessional. Growing up, he had grown away from the sweet, comforting mysticism, and as a mature intellectual had found a more acceptable faith in the preachings and writings of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, much to his mother's distress.

But once, in innocence, he had been a believer. Maybe it was not necessary to remind himself of this now, but it was a kind of credential.

Only a miracle. Dr. Motta had said.

It was a dangerous enterprise, a key Soviet official going to a Catholic shrine to abandon momentarily Marx for Mary. But it could be done in secrecy. He could work it out.

He would work it out.

My G.o.d, his life was on the line, and there were no other options. Only this one. Besides, what was there to lose?

Venice, London, and Madrid The last time she had taken a private motorboat from a wharf outside the Marco Polo Airport to the Hotel Danieli Royal Excelsior in Venice, it had been a dazzling sunny morning three years ago. Natale Rinaldi remembered that morning vividly. The wondrous ride in the motorboat past fields and swamps, mounds of islands, the turning into a ca.n.a.l, the moist dirty-gray buildings on either side, the emergence into the s.h.i.+mmering main lagoon, the rich umber of the Hotel Danieli with its array of miniature white balconies jutting out on every floor.

It had been strange coming back to Venice this morning in total darkness, although her Aunt Elsa had rea.s.sured her that the morning was as sunny as it had been during their last visit.

Darkness had permanently enveloped Natale's world one week after she had returned to her parents' apartment in Rome following the vacation in Venice three years ago. She had rehea.r.s.ed all that afternoon and into the early evening at the Teatro Goldini for her role as the Stepdaughter in Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author, part of the fall repertory and her first real opportunity, and she had come back to the apartment and her bedroom tired but stimulated by the director's predictions of what the future held in store for her. Going to bed, she had been comforted by the cozy beige print wallpaper surrounding her-she had known it since childhood-and then she had blinked out the bed lamp and closed her eyes. When her alarm had gone off at nine o'clock in the morning, and she had opened her eyes, she was lost in darkness. At first, confused, she had been unable to understand, and then she had realized that she had lost her sight. Somehow, somewhere in the night she had become totally blind. And then she had screamed. It would be the first and last time that she would ever panic.

Her frenzied parents had rushed her to a hospital. Rome's leading eye specialist had been called in. There had been a slit-lamp examination. There had been the ophthahnoscopy. There had been weeks of examinations to determine the cause of her blindness. There had been discussion of an occlusion in the central retinal artery. There had, finally, been a verdict: optic atrophy, abrupt, with no possibility of restored vision.

Three years ago, it had happened. Natale had been frightened and deeply shaken, but not shattered. At twenty-one, before the sudden darkness had come, she had been a gay, cheerful, optimistic young woman, and like her Catholic parents she believed unquestioningly in G.o.d, His Son, and in the Holy Ghost. The Lord knew what was best and He would look after her.

From the onset of her blindness, Natale had refused to buckle under or wallow in despair and self-pity. She had resolutely determined to be as independent and cheerful as possible. Although forced to give up her budding stage career, she had tried to maintain the life that she had known. Rejecting a Seeing Eye dog, refusing a white cane, she had encouraged her Aunt Elsa to guide her and teach her to get around on her own, in the apartment, in the street, in the antique shop her parents had on the Via Veneto. Aunt Elsa, her mother's younger sister, had been a perfect companion for her, a realistic and practical spinster in her late forties. Natale loved her parents, but their emotions had been hard to cope with, and she adored Aunt Elsa, who was solid and stable. Natale had continued to visit with her friends, and to go to the movies for the dialogue. Superficial changes had included wearing dark gla.s.ses at all times, learning Braille, and subscribing to a Talking Books service. As for church, she had gone to Ma.s.s more often and, when by herself, prayed more frequently. Her major sacrifice had been to deny herself dating or being with young men alone. There had always been so many, because of her beauty, she supposed, but with her handicap she had not wanted to become involved, become someone's burden.

This summer, for the first time since her blindness, she had wanted a vacation, to go back to Venice for three weeks, to the last city outside Rome that she had seen and loved before her loss of sight. Understanding and indulgent as her parents were, neither had been able to accom- pany her to Venice, not during Rome's tourist season, their busiest time of the year. But they had agreed that Aunt Elsa, who was the manager of their shop, could take Natale.

Now, in the familiar third floor bedroom of the two-room suite at the Hotel Danieli, Aunt Elsa was unpacking their bags, and Natale stood before the twin beds, singing as she changed her clothes for their first foray into the streets.

Natale had already zipped up her blue jeans, pulled on the tight T-s.h.i.+rt (knowing, by feeling the raised initial sewn inside, that it was the becoming yellow one that contrasted so well with her loose s.h.i.+ny brunette hair), and with sure fingers she had patted down her hair and tied it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. She fumbled on the bed for the dark gla.s.ses and adjusted them on the ridge of her small but perfect nose. She pirouetted in the direction of the unpacking and asked, "Aunt Elsa, am I together? Do I look all right?"

"Neat and beautiful as ever."

"You wouldn't be prejudiced, would you?"

"I've always told you, you could win any beauty contest. Why not? You take after me."

Natale laughed, remembering that her dumpy Aunt Elsa, with her straggly black hair and faint outline of a mustache, always believed that everyone else was beautiful.

Natale heard her aunt approaching, enjoyed her companion's warm hug, her aunt's forehead pressed against her cheek. Aunt Elsa was five feet two inches, and Natale was five feet six, thin and graceftil as a reed.

She took Aunt Elsa's arm. "Let's go outside. You can finish unpacking later. I want to see Venice again." She felt Aunt Elsa unconsciously wince at the use of the word "see," and Natale said with determination, "Yes, Auntie, I will see it if you point things out. I'll remember exactly."

"Very well," said Aunt Elsa. "I'm about ready, too."

"We'll go to the Piazza," said Natale, taking her purse from her aunt. "I want some fruit juice at Quadri's, a little walk on the Mercerie, and then lunch at Harry's Bar."

Leaving the two-room suite, Natale would not let her aunt guide her. Starting from a familiar fixed point, the familiar suite, she felt sure of herself. She had been to Venice and the Danieli many times with her parents, when she had been growing up. The last visit, three years ago, was still fresh in her mind. Touching the railings, she descended a few steps ahead of Aunt Elsa, recalling that the second flight of stairs down into the lobby was marble. In the lobby, she slowed to let Aunt Elsa catch up with her, then smilingly acknowledged the greetings of several of the older concierges who had known her through the years and now had been informed of her condition.

Outside, on the Riva degh Schiavoni, Natale asked, "What kind of day is it? I know it's warm and a little sticky."

"The sun's out, but hazy. It'll be hot by noon."

"Is it crowded?"

"Swarms of tourists. Lots of Germans, British, a group of j.a.panese. You'll know it when we get to the bridge."

The bridge formed an arch over a ca.n.a.l, the Ponte della Paglia, upon which visitors always jammed to photograph the Bridge of Sighs, the high pa.s.sageway on their right that led from the Doges' Palace to the ducal dungeons, from which Casanova had once escaped. As an adolescent, Natale had read the forbidden parts of Casanova's Memoires and wondered what had made him such a legendary lover, or if it had all been self-promotion. She had fantasized having Casanova make love to her, and supposed that it was the variety he had offered and his endurance that had excited so many women from every social cla.s.s.

They were walking, and there was a constant babble of voices in numerous languages, and she felt the pressure of Aunt Elsa's hand on her arm. "There are three young men, locals I think," said Aunt Elsa, "who have stopped and are staring at you, stupefied."

"Because they pity me?"

"I said stupefied, stupid," said Aunt Elsa. "They don't know there's anything to pity. They see only a gorgeous young girl with an inadequate bra.s.siere beneath a flesh-tight T-s.h.i.+rt, and they're awed."

"Oh, sure," said Natale, but she was pleased.

"Here's the bridge, step up."

The Ponte della Pagha was crowded, as it had always been, and this time Natale took pleasure in the b.u.mping, pus.h.i.+ng, elbowing as they reached the top. It was easier coming down and crossing the pavement toward the two granite columns of the Piazzetta. Natale could picture the colonnaded side of the Doges' Palace to her right, and to her left, across the bobbing moored black gondolas, the magnificent San Giorgio Maggiore rising up out of the glistening lagoon.

"There are all kinds of bookstalls and vendors along the ducal palace," said Aunt Elsa.

"Yes," said Natale remembering. It was poking through these stalls that she had first found Byron, Stendhal, Ruskin in Italian paperbacks and devoured them.

"Cafffe Chioggia isn't too filled right now," said Aunt Elsa. Natale pictured the long outdoor cafe across from the Doges' Palace where she had once flirted with a timid American boy, who had been afraid to approach her.

"Are we in the Piazza San Marco yet?" inquired Natale.

"Just about. Nothing's changed. There's the Campanile, tall as ever. The four bronze horses are still over the front of the Basilica. The Piazza is-well, you know-hectic as usual, the pigeons waddling about for their maize, and fluttering off when the children chase them. It's the same, Natale. It never changes in Venice."

"Thank G.o.d," said Natale.