The Miracle (2 page)

What Liz Finch could see of herself did little to kindle dreams. What she could see of herself dampened any hope of fulfilling her ambitions, of even remaining in Paris very much longer.

Because when Liz Finch had sneaked a look at the memorandum on Bill Trask's desk at Amalgamated Press International this morning, and then received her day's assignment from Trask and learned the assignment that her rival, Marguerite Lamarche, had been given, Liz realized that she had lost, or was losing. She was entered, she felt, in a beauty contest, not a talent contest, and when it came to beauty, she had no chance.

The private memorandum on his desk had come from New York. It had stated that New York demanded a retrenchment in the Paris Bureau of API to take effect in one month. The French force in the office, mostly clerical, would be cut in half. As for the editorial staff, instead of two feature correspondents there was room for only one. Since the two feature correspondents were Marguerite Lamarche and herself, one of them would remain, with greater responsibility and a more solid job, and the other would be cast out, in Liz's case to oblivion. While Trask had mentioned the necessity of a cutback, he had been vague as to details. But Liz knew the truth and it was threatening.

When Liz had come off that Wisconsin newspaper for a better position in API's Manhattan office, and then been assigned to the prestigious Paris Bureau three years ago, her life had dramatically changed and had become thrilling and full of hope. She had, lately, even met a young business executive, Parisian and attractive, who found her interesting and even complimented her on her French. It was a relationship that might develop slowly, given a year or two. But a month? If she was fired, in a month, she would be forced to leave France and there would be no chance with Charles. And there would be no opportunity to develop her byline. She would be lucky to wind up doing routine work in Cedar Rapids or Cheyenne, and lucky to marry an insurance salesman, and have two cretins for children.

The whole thing, then, came down to beating Marguerite out for the single feature-writer job that would exist at API in a month. And that's where it came down to a beauty contest, and Liz didn't like her

prospects. Liz knew that she was a more gifted reporter and writer than Marguerite, but less attractive. Liz was the office workhorse, covering drab bread-and-butter assignments, everything from the French economy to the auto shows. Inevitably, Marguerite had been awarded the more glamorous assignments, the fashion shows, interviews with famous politicians, authors, movie stars.

This morning's latest assignments had proved it.

There had been a plum of a story waiting to be assigned, and Liz had prayed to get it and prove herself as the basic whiz reporter the bureau must keep, but instead Trask had offered the plum to Marguerite Lamarche. It was way over Marguerite's frivolous head.

Bill Trask had got himself a lead—oh, he was good at those hot tips -- that the charismatic minister of the interior, Andre Viron, heading for the seat of prime minister, was teetering on the brink of disaster, a potential national scandal, having had some questionable dealings with a shady underground character named Weidman. Weidman, owner of a sleazy movie production company that fronted for his small-time cocaine ring, had managed to make a tie-in to float some fraudulent bonds for big money, and had obtained Minister of the Interior Viron's endorsement. The money poured in, but the value of the bonds was undependable. The question was whether Viron had trusted Weidman and had acted as an innocent or whether he was in secret association with Weidman to line his akeady-gold-lined pockets. To Bill Trask, this smelled like another Stavisky Affair, which had so enlivened and disrupted France in the 1930s.

Really, it had been a perfect assignment for Liz Finch to sink her teeth into. But an hour ago, it had gone to Marguerite Lamarche. And Liz, instead, had been given this unpromising religion assignment, a press conference by Cardinal Brunet of Paris to be held in the Hotel Plaza Athenee. Some dopey nitpicking religious announcement to be covered. As if anyone who counted in the New York office would pay the slightest attention to it.

Marguerite had got the plum because she might seduce Viron into confiding the truth. Liz had been thrown a bone because nature had prepared her to seduce no one.

It was all reflected in her rearview mirror.

She saw the mop of red hair, become orange in the last rinse-and-color job. She saw the predator's beak of a nose that couldn't even be called Roman. The lips were two thin tight lines, the jaw undershot. Despite the fair, unblemished complexion, she was dismayed. She knew that what could not be seen in the mirror was even worse. Her breasts were unfashionably large and they sagged. There was too much hip and

she was slightly bowlegged. In sum, her five-foot-three frame added up to disaster. The best part of her—and this was the real cruelty of nature —could not be seen: her mind. She was brainy, inventive, tenacious.

But this mind was also unsparing. Relentlessly, it conjured up Marguerite Lamarche floating through the city room. Marguerite, twenty-eight and four years her junior, had been made to be a model, and had indeed once been a model briefly. She was tall, slender, graceful, with glossy dark hair, the small perfect features of a pretty geisha, full pouting ruby hps, enviable small firm French breasts, long legs. And a banal brain. But who cared? It was just goddam unfair.

Then the thought came to Liz, as she turned her car into the Avenue Montaigne, that Bill Trask had awarded Marguerite the plum assignment not because he wanted her to seduce Interior Minister Viron but because he wanted to seduce her himself. Maybe already had.

Liz Finch groaned inwardly. If her assessment was correct, and it probably was, her chances of winning the single API post in the next month were nil. Marguerite would have a big scandal, a beat, to showcase herself to the top brass. Liz would have dregs, such as she was going to now.

She pulled up before the Plaza Athenee, and braked to a stop. The uniformed doorman opened her door, greeting her with a courteous but not, unhappily, a flirtatious smile. Liz snatched up her work purse, the bulging scuffed brown one, and hurried into the hotel. There were several fat and swarthy Mideastem types lolling about in the spacious lobby, and not one gave her so much as a glance.

Heading for the elevator in the second smaller lobby, the gallery in which guests had afternoon tea, Liz tried to remember where in the hell she was going. She had intended to go to the Montaigne Room downstairs, but before reaching the elevator, she remembered her destination and halted. When Trask had given her the assignment, he had also handed her the telegram announcing that Maurice Cardinal Brunet, archbishop of Paris, would have an important announcement to make at a press conference in the Salon Regence of the Plaza Athenee hotel at ten o'clock this morning. So it was the Salon Regence, the most important of the hotel's public rooms. Liz spun about and started up the gallery toward the doorway of the salon. She tried to think what the Catholic Church could have to announce that was so important. It would likely be some minor canonical reform. Boring. Dead weight on the API wire.

Passing through the open glass doors, Liz was mildly surprised at the large turnout this ecclesiastical press conference had attracted. The long, narrow, stately room, with its three grand chandeliers and carved

brown paneled walls, was packed with reporters. Edging her way to the rear, to the table beneath the huge oil of Louis XV where coffee was being dispensed, Liz realized that there was a general stir in the room, that the conference was about to begin, and that those reporters still standing were taking seats.

Going for the nearest empty padded chair, Liz recognized Brian Evans, the cherubic Paris correspondent for the London Observer, whom she knew from countless cocktail parties. "Brian," she called out, "whatever is going on here? Look at the crowd."

Evans came to her side, and said in an undertone, "I have it that the church is going to spring a super big story from Lourdes. No idea what, but since Lourdes doesn't do this often, it could amount to something. That's all I know."

"We'll see," said Liz doubtfully, and she sat herself down on the empty chair, snapped her purse open, and removed her pad and pencil.

She was just about organized, when she heard the tall glass entrance doors being shut and became aware that at the far end of the room someone on the small temporary platform positioned before the marble fireplace, someone in a clerical collar and surplice, was concluding a brief introduction. She heard, "Maurice Cardinal Brunet," and saw a bespectacled stout older man, also attired in clerical dress, come to the podium. He was carrying two sheets of paper and he placed them carefully on the lectern. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.

"I have a brief statement to read," he said in French, in a loud, hoarse voice. "After the statement, I will entertain ten minutes of questions from the floor."

At once, he began to read his statement:

"Everyone in this room surely knows the story of Saint Bernadette of Lourdes, the story of the blessed Bernadette Soubirous and her visions of the Virgin Mary at the grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes during 1858. In response to prayers at the grotto and the use of water from the spring found by Bernadette, cures of the disabled and ailing began almost immediately. In time, there have been nearly seventy sudden cures that the church has declared to be of miraculous origin. As a result, Lourdes is recognized as the leading miracle shrine in the world.

"In addition to the matters of faith which the Virgin Mary discussed with Bernadette, there were three secrets that were conveyed to her, and, indeed, Bernadette kept these three secrets to herself up to her very death. However, as it has recently been learned, Bernadette confided her secrets to a journal that she kept after she departed Lourdes to become a nun at the Convent of Saint Gildard in Nevers, and which she left in the safekeeping of a family relative in Bartres.

"Bernadette's journal has now been found. Its holograph contents have been scientifically authenticated.

"We now know that, in this journal, in her own hand, Bernadette recorded the three secrets told her by the Virgin Mary. Two of the secrets, minor ones, personal ones, have already come true. The third secret, the one imparted to Bernadette during the seventh apparition of the Virgin Mary on February 23, 1858, has not yet come true."

The cardinal paused and then resumed. "Bernadette recorded a date and time when she was told it would come true, and that time is three weeks from this day in this very year. At the instigation of His Holiness, Pope John Paul III, and with the approval of the Holy Father, that third secret conveyed to Bernadette by the Virgin Mary is being revealed to the world today.

"The Mother of Heaven's secret was this—

"That She, the Virgin Mary, would reappear at the grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes in the twentieth century. 'She told me,' wrote Bernadette, 'that She would reappear as I had seen Her, would make Herself known to another and effect a miracle cure. She told me not to reveal this secret to anyone while I was on earth, but before I ascended to heaven, I could leave word of Her visitation in writing if I wished. Therefore, I make this record in my private journal so that one day it will be read by others.' Then Bernadette noted the year and date of the Virgin Mary's reappearance. The year is this year, and the date is three weeks from now, and during the period of eight days that follow, between August 14 and 22, henceforth to be known as The Reappearance Time.

"This is the Holy Father's news for the world.

"The Blessed Virgin Mary is returning to Lourdes."

Liz Finch sat, her pencil in a hand which had frozen over her notepad. She sat unmoving, her mind utterly boggled.

Behind her desk, on the third floor of the API building on the Rue des Itahens, Liz Finch finished writing the weird news story, ran it off on the printer beside her word processor, then gathered up the pages and took them over to Bill Trask's glassed-in office.

Trask, in rolled-up shirt sleeves, his bulk solid in a wooden swivel chair, was marking possible leads in a copy of the latest edition of Le Figaro. As ever, Liz could not take her eyes off Trask's hair. He affected to comb his hair the way his journalistic idol, H. L. Mencken, had combed his in Baltimore in the 1920s. It was unbecoming. She wondered what his probable paramour Marguerite thought of it.

Stiffly, Liz handed the story to Trask. "All done. Have a look."

Trask read the lead and lifted his eyebrows. "No kidding," he muttered. He read on and raised his eyebrows again. "This'll bring half the world pouring into Lourdes."

Trask was deep in the story once more. He read the second page and the third. He handed it back to Liz. "Good, very good. I like it. No changes. Put it through."

Liz hesitated. "You think it deserves this much space?"

"Sure. Why not? It's big news."

Liz was feeling defiant. "It's crap, Bill, and you know it. Surely you don't believe a bit of this nonsense, do you?"

With effort, Trask sat up in his chair. "Honey," he said, "I'm not here to believe or not to believe. Most of the 740,000,000 Catholics in the world believe it. Most of the five million persons of every faith who go to Lourdes every year believe it. The five thousand who claim they've enjoyed cures at the grotto believe it. The almost-seventy lucky ones whose miracle cures have been confirmed believe it. That's good enough to make the encore appearance of the Virgin Mary news, and that's all I'm interested in."

"Well, I still say bullshit," said Liz, "and I'm glad to be through with it."

She had turned to leave the office when Trask stopped her. "Hold on, honey." He waited for her to face him. "You're not through with it, Liz. You're just starting with it. I'm sending you to Lourdes for a play-by-play account. That's your next major assignment."

It was a body blow and Liz winced. "How do you want me to warm up for this. Bill? By doing a profile story on Cinderella or Goldilocks and the Three Bears? Please don't waste me on this. Bill. Some stringer can do it, for all that will happen. There's just no story. Why don't you give me something I can get my teeth into—like—well, like the Viron scandal."