Natale had listened with a rising excitement that at first nearly suffocated her, made her heart palpitate harder, until gradually a flush came to her cheeks. "The Holy Mother coming to Lourdes again to be seen, to cure," she whispered.
"Well—"
"I believe it," Natale whispered passionately. "If the Virgin Mary promised Bernadette, it will happen."
"This may be one of those sensational newspaper exaggerations," said Aunt Elsa, trying to calm her niece.
"Read me the rest of it, all of it," Natale urged.
"It's a long article, Natale."
"Read me every word of it. Start from the beginning again. I want to hear every word."
"Well, if you insist."
"Please, Aunt Elsa."
"Very well."
In a low monotone, not wishing to disturb anyone else in Harry's Bar, Aunt Elsa read the entire newspaper account from start to finish.
Natale absorbed it as if in a trance. When her aunt had completed
her reading, Natale spoke up. "Fm going to Lourdes," she said without equivocation. "I've got to be there."
"Really, Natale—"
"I mean it. Aunt Elsa. I want to be close to the Virgin Mary, pray to Her right at the grotto. It's the chance of a lifetime. She might decide to cure me. You've just read about those thousands of cures."
"Natale, be sensible. I know your faith, and I don't contest it. But considering the number of people who have been visiting Lourdes year after year, only a minute percentage, the tiniest percentage, are ever cured, if it really is a cure. You know about my father—your grandfather. When I was your age, I accompanied him to Lourdes for a few days. His arthritic condition was crippling, and he, too, hoped for a cure. I remember him praying and praying at that grotto, but nothing happened. When we came home to Naples, he got worse. There's little chance that a so-called miracle can help you. You'll just have to be patient and wait for medical advances that will come along and one day restore your sight."
"No, you don't understand. Aunt Elsa. I've got to go to Lourdes. I believe in it."
"So does everyone else in half the world -- but most of the believers won't bother to go."
"I'm going," said Natale. "We'll have our three weeks here in Venice and then we'll fly to Lourdes for the beginning of the holy eight days."
"We'll not be flying to Lourdes," said Aunt Elsa. "I can't. You must be practical. Your parents let me take this trip with you. But I had to swear I'd be back in the shop the day after the vacation ended. Your parents need me, Natale. I can't let them down."
"Then I'll go to Lourdes alone. You put me on the plane and we can arrange for one of those volunteer helpers or whatever -- the ones mentioned in the paper—"
"Brancardiers," interjected Aunt Elsa. "Men who go to Lourdes every summer to assist the pilgrims. But women go also, like my friend Rosa Zennaro. You've met her several times. She's been going to Lourdes for the last half dozen years, to help, out of the goodness of her heart."
"All right, Rosa then. Surely she'd help me. Fix it so I can be enrolled in a tour group that has accommodations, and can help me get around. That won't get in your way. Please, Aunt Elsa, give me my chance."
Natale waited for a reply, heard her aunt emit a long drawn-out sigh, and finally surrender. "Okay, little one, no use arguing with faith.
You win. Let's have our lunch and go back to the hotel. I'll phone Rosa's family in Rome and find out how we can contact her in Lourdes. Hail Mary, you're on your way. Now let's get practical. What'll it be? A toasted prosciutto sandwich or tagliatelle verdi?"
From her second-floor office window Edith Moore could see that the day was grayer than it had been earlier, and a mist and drizzle were beginning to cover London. Consulting the clock on her secretarial desk, she could see that it was time to leave, not for lunch but for something more unusual, an appointment made with her by Archbishop Henning. The great man himself—she had met him only once before—had telephoned her yesterday and asked if it would be convenient for her to call upon him today. He would be waiting for her in the chancery of the Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral in Ashley Place. The meeting would be brief, but it was of some importance.
Brimming with curiosity this entire morning, Edith Moore had found it difficult to concentrate on her heavy work load. Fortunately, her employer, a movie agent, had been out of the office throughout the morning, and there had been no dictation to take.
But her clock told her that it was time to leave. If she departed immediately, was lucky enough to catch a taxi right away, she could make the appointment in time and the mystery would be solved. Coming off her chair, she took her khaki-colored raincoat from the hanger, and pulled it on. Momentarily, she surveyed herself in the narrow wall mirror. The fitted raincoat made her look a bit slimmer than she really was. Edith had no illusions about herself. Her short hair, her flat face as bland as brussels sprouts, her square, thickset, middle-aged figure, had never been anything to crow about. She considered it the luck of her life that she had been able to capture someone as dashing and brilliant as Reggie Moore for a husband. Nor, in their eight years together, had he ever shown himself to be tired of her. Nor, to her knowledge, had he ever strayed.
She hastened out of the office suite, ran down the two flights of stairs, delighted with her agihty, and rushed into Wardour Street, jammed as always with vehicular traffic. Among the crush of cars she could make out an empty taxi. She quickly stepped into the wet street to claim it and once she was safely in the back seat, and had given her destination to the driver, she was able to unbutton her raincoat and sit back and relax.
She wondered what Archbishop Henning wanted with her, and in memory she tried to fix the occasion when she had met the regal primate of the Church that one time. It had been because of Lourdes, of
course, her success at Lourdes. As the taxi rumbled and edged ahead, Edith's mind went backward in memory.
It had happened just after she had been married three years, which would have been five years ago. Edith, who had been working for the movie agency, was suddenly promoted to the position of her employer's personal secretary, and given a raise. Reggie had been making progress with his wonderful scheme to introduce American baseball into Britain (eventually spoiled, a failure, because of the boycott by those wretched cricket diehards). But things had been going wonderfully well for both of them, when the illness began. It had begun with a simultaneous loss of appetite, and Edith's difficulties and pain in her left hip and leg. Worried, she had gone to her family doctor, who had sent her to a specialist, who, in turn, had put her in the hospital. She had undergone extensive radiography, microscopic biopsies of muscle cells and bone marrow of the left hip, and numerous other tests and examinations which she preferred not to recall. She had resumed her job, fearfully awaiting a final verdict until the verdict had come. She was afflicted by a sarcoma, a malignant tumor of the conjunctive tissue at the base of the iliac bone, and there was no effective means of treatment known. Despite orthopedic surgery, and megavitamins and drugs, the diseased area degenerated, the tumor enlarging, and the femur was soon attached to the pelvis by "a few sheaves of bone marrow." Edith was never misled as to her fate. She would become crippled, immobilized, and the malignancy would bring early death.
Forced to quit her job, knowing that she was doomed, she had sought any means of cure. Four years ago, when her parish priest. Father Woodcourt, had heard of her failing condition and been kind enough to call upon her -- kind enough, because she had not seen him often since her marriage, had ceased attending Mass or going to confession and, like Reggie, had paid only mild attention to their Catholic faith—she was ready for anything. Father Woodcourt had reminded her that he had begun to lead an annual pilgrimage from London to Lourdes, and if she wished to accompany his Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit this summer, there would certainly be room for her. He could not guarantee any favorable results. Still, he had been impressed during the two pilgrimages he had previously led by the inex
plicable cures that he had observed at the shrine.
Edith had been uncertain, but had realized that there was no place else to turn. After talking it over with Reggie, and finding that she could borrow the money from her widowed father, she had enlisted in Woodcourt's Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit. During the first three-day visit to Lourdes and the grotto, barely able to get around with the use of a
crutch, she had enjoyed no cure but did experience some sense of well-being and hope. The winter and spring following had been one of continuous pain and lessened mobihty. Although it had been a financial strain, without a job and Reggie's promotional scheme having failed, she had insisted upon a second visit to Lourdes with Father Wood-court's next pilgrimage.
On the last day in Lourdes, after prayer at the grotto, drinking water from the spring, taking a bath, she was suddenly able to discard her crutch and walk on her own. There had been remission, then regression, the disappearance of pain, and ultimately self-reconstruction of the ihac bone and the acetabular cavity. Spontaneously, her good health had returned. Between London, and the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, after three more visits there, sixteen doctors had scientifically attested to the wonder of her cure.
Over a year ago, she had resumed full-time employment with the movie agency. Meanwhile, Reggie had been more prolific in his promotional speculations, always on the verge of success and of striking it rich, with his introduction of the all-black soccer team, the all-star private detective agency that used experts in every field of criminology, his clever introduction of a rock group composed of midgets -- but always success had eluded his genius. Meanwhile, too, after having the opportunity to witness his daughter's cure, Edith's father had died and in his will had left her 50,000 pounds. It had been a mighty sum, and while Edith and Reggie had deposited it in their joint savings account, she had made it clear to him that this money must never be used for speculation but should be kept as a nest egg to support them if she ever lost her job, or until the medical profession positively reiterated that she would be well for the remainder of her days.
Entirely lost in memories of the recent past, Edith realized that the taxi had arrived in Ashley Place, was slowing and halting before the main entrance to the Byzantine-style Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral.
"Here we are, ma'am," the taxi driver said.
She paid him the sum on the meter, added a generous tip because she was in high spirits, opened the taxi door, and walked in an even step to the cathedral.
Inside, directed to Archbishop Henning's quarters, she was surprised to find three men in the tastefully decorated study waiting for her. All three came to their feet as she entered. The dour large-boned archbishop she recognized, but the other two she knew better. One was Father Woodcourt, young and pink as ever, her devoted parish priest.
and the other the full-bearded, amusing Dr. Macintosh, who had been the physician in attendance on her last pilgrimage to Lourdes.
They all greeted Edith warmly, as the archbishop pointed her to the most comfortable chair opposite his desk. While they were being seated. Father Woodcourt inquired about her health and her husband's health, and Dr. Macintosh made some funny reference to the grim weather. Archbishop Henning, alone, seated at his desk, seemed to have no taste for small talk.
"Mrs. Moore," the archbishop said, riffling a handful of papers, "I promised you this visit would be a short one—I want to be sure you have time for lunch -- and so it will be. A short and happy one. Before I begin, may I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you. Your Excellency," said Edith nervously, even though relieved to know that this was going to be a happy visit. He had said "happy," hadn't he? She was sure he had.
"I've summoned you here today," said the archbishop, "and have invited two persons who have been closer to you in the matter of your health than I have, to discuss with you the merits of your cure."
Edith sat puzzled. The merits of her cure? What could that possibly mean?
"As you may know, Mrs. Moore," Archbishop Henning went on, "it was Pope Benedict XIV who set down the criteria for each Canonical Commission to apply when trying to determine if a cure at Lourdes is miraculous or not. To decide that a cure is supernatural, the Canonical Commission must be satisfied beyond any doubt . . . that the malady was a grave one, and impossible or at least difficult to cure . . . that the cured malady was not in a state of decline to such an extent that it could have declined soon afterward . . . that no medication had been used, or if there had been, that its inefficacy was certain . . . that the cure was sudden—instantaneous . . . that the cure was perfect . . . that there had not been beforehand a crisis produced by some cause and at its natural hour; in this case, one cannot say that the cure was miraculous but natural, wholly or in part . . . finally, that after the cure there had been no recurrence of the illness."
The archbishop raised his eyes to Edith. "This is clear to you?"
"Perfectly, Your Excellency," said Edith, her heart thumping.
The archbishop was turning over the papers in his hand, reading to himself. He fixed his attention on Edith once more. "At the end of your third year and last examination by the physicians at the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, the participating doctors were asked five key questions. I will read you four of them. 'Did Mrs. Moore's illness described by the medical record exist at the moment of the patient's pilgrimage to
Lourdes? Was the malady suddenly stopped in its course at a time when there was no tendency toward improvement—and did all symptoms disappear at this time? Is there a cure—can you prove it with certainty —and did the cure take place without medical treatment?' Then the most important question, in two parts. "Is there any possible medical explanation of this cure? In the present state of science, can any natural or scientific explanation be given?' "
Feeling more reassured, Edith dared speak up. "Of course, the answer to all those questions is Yes, except the final one in two parts, which is No."
"And, indeed, so the doctors of the Medical Bureau have found," said Archbishop Henning. "I can tell you they were looking for the following characteristics in your cure -- that no outside treatments or drugs made it possible, that your cure was instantaneous and did not require convalescence, and that your natural functions were immediately restored. The Medical Bureau members were satisfied that these characteristics were evident in your cure. They noted, 'We find no natural or scientific explanation of this cure.' "
Archbishop Henning gathered up his papers, and sat back, his eyes on Edith once more.
"The Medical Bureau sent on its recommendation to the bishop of your diocese here in London. He appointed a Canonical Commission of five to study the findings and evaluate them. Then the Canonical Commission sent its own recommendation on to me.
"Mrs. Moore, I am prepared to state that your cure is definite and durable and ends an extremely serious pathological state. I am prepared to state that your cure has received no vahd medical explanation. I am prepared to state that only your pilgrimage to Lourdes can be related to the disappearance of a terminal illness and that your cure was entirely unforeseeable. I am prepared to state that your cure can be regarded as extraordinary owing to the fact that you not only have normal use of the limb and hip joint, but also have experienced bone regeneration in the affected areas. I am prepared to make the final statement affirming the veracity of your cure—except for one minor technicality—a minor question remains unanswered among the five that the Medical Bureau undertook to answer. The question: 'Is it necessary to delay a decision?' My answer: 'Yes, but only briefly.' It seems that the Medical Bureau would like to have a final routine examination made by one of the two leading medical experts in the field encompassing your onetime illness. They have requested that Dr. Paul Kleinberg, of Paris, come to Lourdes and give you one last examination. This must be done at the Lourdes Medical Bureau. I repeat, it is a mere routine examination.
Once Dr. Kleinberg has confirmed what the Medical Bureau has found, I will be able to announce offic
ially in a few weeks that there are sufficient elements in your cure to recognize special intervention of the power of God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth." He paused. "Mrs. Moore, are you ready to go to Lourdes one more time, to undergo this final examination?"
Edith was breathless. "Of course, Fll go. I'd like to be there during the week in which the Virgin Mary will reappear. I—I might see her and be able to thank her."
For the first time, the archbishop displayed the semblance of a smile. "You might, you might at that. In any case, except for the short delay, you may consider yourself one of the miraculously cured of Lourdes, an authentic one of the handful of Lourdes miracle cures. With my entire soul I wish to convey to you my happiness and congratulations."
Her heart had gone wild. Edith Moore, a miracle woman. She would be world famous, inmiortal. But now she only wanted to get to a telephone and tell Reggie, tell Reggie he was married to a miracle woman.
Reggie Moore was never one to get discouraged. No matter how many of his daring schemes evaporated into thin air, no matter how many setbacks he suffered, he somehow always believed that there was a silver hning up there and a pot of gold (marked Reginald Moore) at the end of the rainbow.
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