The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  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 rehearsed 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 God, 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 glasses at all times, learning Braille, and subscribing to a Talking Books service. As for church, she had gone to Mass 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-shirt (knowing, by feeling the raised initial sewn inside, that it was the becoming yellow one that contrasted so well with her loose shiny 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 glasses 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 Japanese. You'll know it when we get to the bridge."

  The bridge formed an arch over a canal, the Ponte della Paglia, upon which visitors always jammed to photograph the Bridge of Sighs, the high passageway 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 class.

  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 brassiere beneath a flesh-tight T-shirt, 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 bumping, pushing, 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 God," said Natale.

  "You want to sit down?"

  "I'm thirsty," said Natale.

  "Is it still Quadri's? The music has just begun there."

  "Yes, let's sit in Quadri's." Unaccountably, Quadri's with its small circular gray tables and yellow wicker chairs and the bandstand to the rear had always been her favorite outdoor cafe. Caffe Lavena, beside it, seemed to have less character, and Florian's on the opposite side, although the oldest of the Piazza cafes, built in 1720, often occupied by Lord Byron in his day, always seemed to take too much sun. But Quadri's, on her last visit, had been most restful.

  They were going across the Piazza San Marco, and Natale could hear the shrieks of youngsters and the flapping rise of pigeons, and she hoped that she wouldn't step on one, although nobody ever did.

  Apparently, they had reached Quadri's cafe, because Aunt Elsa was saying, "There's a free table in the shade." Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to take her hand, and lead her up an aisle.

  Stopping, Natale groped for a chair, sat down, and listened to the music as Aunt Elsa ordered grapefruit juice for Natale and a Coca-Cola with a slice of lemon for herself.

  They had been sipping their drinks in silence, Natale content to be in Venice, refusing to permit herself a moment's unhappiness at being unable to see it again, thinking it was just good to be alive (really only half-alive, but she put down the thought), when the metallic clanging from a nearby bell made her sit up. That would be the mechanical Moors above their heads, at the summit of the Clock Tower, hitting the big bell.

  "What time is it?" asked Natale.

  "Exactly one o'clock. Too late to shop on the Mercerie. Most of the stores will be closed until three. Although a few may be open."

  "No," said Natale. "I want to go to Harry's Bar. I'm hungry, and it's cooler there."

  While she waited for her aunt to pay the check, she heard heavy

  footsteps approach her and she sensed a presence just above her. Instinctively, she looked up, as she heard a rich male baritone voice say, "Forgive me, but I thought I recognized you. You're Miss Rinaldi from Rome, aren't you?"

  Bewildered, Natale nodded.

  "I'm Signore Vianello," the voice was saying. "Again, forgive me, but I couldn't resist being sure and saying hello."

  "Vianello," Natale repeated blankly.

  "I'm a play producer from Rome, on vacation. I first saw you—I was sure you were the same actress—at a rehearsal of a Pirandello play at the Teatro Goldini several years ago. A friend had brought me along. I don't remember whom. But I could not forget you." He hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt you two—"

  Quickly, Natale introduced her Aunt Elsa, then added, "Thank you."

  "I expected to see you at the opening night, but you weren't in the cast," the producer went on. "I learned only that you had retired." He chuckled. "Retired? For one so young? Anyway, I was reminded, spotting you here in the Piazza." Natale meant to stop him, but this Vianello was going on. "I have a new play of my own I am planning to produce. I'll be casting in a month. There is a perfect role for you if you're interested."

  Natale couldn't let this continue anymore. "Signore Vianello," she blurted. "Can't you tell? I'm blind."

  "You're—?" She heard the quick suck of his breath, and knew that he was taken aback and utterly embarrassed.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Oh, I had no idea," he said. He stammered the rest. "You look— you look—well, better than ever. Uh, many of these things are temporary. I'm sure you will regain your—your full vision. If you do, I would certainly want you to call on me. Uh, let me leave my card. Here."

  Natale held up her hand for the card, but apparently the producer had given his card to Aunt Elsa. "Thank you, Signore Vianello," said Aunt Elsa. "Perhaps things will change. If they do, I'll remind Miss Rinaldi."

  "Do that, do that," said Signore Vianello. "I hope to meet you both again. Have a good vacation."

  Silence followed. Apparently, Signore Vianello had fled.

  Natale felt her aunt's hand on her forearm. "Let's go to Harry's Bar."

  Still unnerved, Natale said, "I'm not sure I'm hungry."

  "They'd have something to drink there," said Aunt Elsa, forcing Natale to her feet. "Let's go."

  Natale allowed Aunt Elsa to guide her into the Piazza. She could hear the goddam pigeons.

  She felt Aunt Elsa release her arm. "Wait. There's a man with Il Gazzettino. Let me buy a paper."

  When her aunt was at her side again with the Venetian newspaper, and starting to lead her away, Natale said, "Where are we exactly?"

  "In front of the Basihca, on the way to the Piazzetta, and there we'll turn right for Harry's Bar."

  "The Basilica," Natale repeated dully. "Is it open?"

  "Of course."

  "I want to go inside."

  "You're sure?"

  "For—for a minute," said Natale. "I want to pray."

  Aunt Elsa, who had no affection for churches, said in a resigned voice, "All right, if it'll help you forget that idiot."

  "He did nothing wrong, Aunt Elsa. Poor man, he didn't know. Actually, I should feel good that he was still attracted by me. But, well, I just had a momentary ache at—at what I'm missing. Can we go inside the church?"

  Natale stmnbled along with her Aunt Elsa in darkness, feeling the wooden planks beneath her feet, listening to the shuffling, and the hushed voices.

  After genuflecting, she entered a pew and slowly knelt. Then, to herself, she prayed to the God that she could not believe ever abandoned anyone. The brief rapport with her Maker settled her nerves, made her feel peaceful once more. She pushed herself upright. "Aunt Elsa?" she whispered.

  "Right here."

  "Let's eat."

  She accompanied Aunt Elsa out into the black daylight.

  She held Aunt Elsa's hand as they strolled across the Piazzetta and swung off. Natale tried desperately to revive the scene along the canal. She spoke only once, as they passed the Giardinetti, wondering aloud, "Is the old lady with all the cats still there?"

  "She's there feeding them all."

  "There are nice people in this world."

  As they walked on to the air terminal, around it, and over the small bridge, jostling past people hurrying from the San Marco vaporetto station, Natale kept thinking that if God could find someone to take care of stray cats, why couldn't He show mercy to her by giving

  some doctor a newly discovered means of curing her? It was a rare wave of self-pity and discouragement, and by the time they had arrived at the swinging doors that led into Harry's Bar, she was ashamed and regretful of her lapse, and determined to make the best of simply being ahe.

  Inside, she was relieved to find that it was definitely cooler, and that there were no crowding bodies or jarring voices.

  "Very few here for lunch today," whispered Aunt Elsa. "We have it almost to ourselves."

  Natale heard the bartender from the left call out, "Good to see you again, Miss Rinaldi."

  "Good to be here, Aldo," rephed Natale.

  Aunt Elsa was speaking to someone, probably a waiter, saying, "We'll take that table in the comer, against the back wall."

  Holding her aunt's hand, Natale went between the chairs and tables, bumping into a few. She felt a pang, remembering the little round lacquered tables and the undersized chairs, and the fascinating people she had met here, and the meals she had enjoyed.

/>   As they were settling into the comer, the waiter said, 'This is Luigi, remember me?"

  She smiled a real smile, remembering the handsome, dimpled waiter who had always been wonderfully funny and friendly.

  "Luigi, I'm so glad. It's been too long."

  "We heard of your illness. Miss Rinaldi," he said in a gentle undertone. "You will be better one day, believe me. We all pray for you."

  "You're a dear, Luigi, and I'm grateful for your prayers."

  Aunt Elsa's voice came on firmly. "I think two Bellinis are in order, Luigi."

  "Immediately," promised the waiter, fading away.

  Natale sat waiting for her drink of peach juice and champagne, which she needed, heard her aunt scratch a match to light a cigarette, inhaled the smoke that wafted toward her, then listened as Aunt Elsa described the few persons in the restaurant.

  Natale heard Luigi return and set down the drinks. "Two Bellinis," he said. "Enjoy."

  Taking up her glass, Natale drank and found the Bellini cool and refreshing. She heard her aunt unfold the newspaper. "Good old Gaz-zettino," her aunt said. "Let me read you the latest."

  Normally, daily, someone, her father or Aunt Elsa read to her from a newspaper, to keep her alive, involved, part of the distracting world. Today she wasn't in the mood at all. "Not now. I'm not interested now."

  "Natale, you've got to keep up," Aunt Elsa said in a mildly scold-

  ing voice. "You've ..." Suddenly, her aunt's voice trailed off. She was obviously reading something in the newspaper. "Sa-ay, imagine this."

  "What?" said Natale with disinterest.

  'The Virgin Mary. This story from Lourdes in France. The Virgin Mary is supposed to be coming back to Lourdes."

  At first, Natale did not grasp it. "Whatever are you talking about?"

  "Let me read it to you as it is printed." Clearing her throat, Aunt Elsa read aloud from the paper. " 'According to a secret journal kept by Bernadette Soubirous, now Saint Bernadette, late in 1878, recording the eighteen apparitions of the Virgin Mary that she had seen and conversed with at the grotto called Massabielle in Lourdes, France, the Virgin Mary had confided to the young peasant girl that she would return to the grotto in the eight days following August 14 of this year. The Virgin Mary had promised Bernadette that she would not only return to be seen by someone at the grotto but that she would also cure someone who was aflSicted. This account in Bernadette's recently discovered private journal has been fully authenticated by a newly appointed Commission of Lourdes. The announcement, which was made at a press conference yesterday by Cardinal Brunet of Paris as authorized by Pope John Paul III, electrified a huge gathering of the world press, and as soon as the announcement was made public, it caused a rush of pilgrims everywhere seeking transportation and acconmioda-tions for Lourdes for the thrilling Reappearance Time.' "