The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  First to the Basihca of San Marco to offer up thanks for their resurrection.

  Next to Quadri's cafe for Camparis.

  Then to Harry's Bar for piccata di vitello.

  Then a gondola ride up the Grand Canal.

  Then back to the Danieli to make love.

  "And after that?" asked Natale.

  'To Rome, to keep company with a young woman I know, and to write a play for a young actress I love."

  "Who's this young actress?"

  "Who do you think?"

  "If you're speaking of Miss Rinaldi, she accepts the role even before you write it You will write it, Mikel?"

  "I'll write it."

  "I'll star in it." She smiled at him. "And after that, Mikel?"

  "I want to give you babies, a whole bunch of bambinos, our babies."

  "Not unless you marry me, Mikel. Will you marry me?"

  "Do you think I want children out of wedlock? You'll be the most married woman in history forever."

  "And ever," she said.

  Hand in hand, they walked on happily into the Piazza San Marco.

  In Vatican City . . .

  His Holiness, the Supreme Pontiff, Pope John Paul III, successor to the throne of St. Peter, still clad in the white-linen cassock, white skullcap, heavy gold pectoral cross dangling from the gold chain around his neck, slowly entered his bedroom, the favorite of the eighteen rooms of his private apartment, among the 10,000 rooms, chambers, halls of the Apostolic Palace.

  Moving slowly across the Afghan rug toward the wooden shutters covering the two comer windows of this top floor, he meant to peer through the shutters down upon the vast St. Peter's Square below. His mind was on the news transmitted to him at dinner, and what had been transmitted to the world and its 740,000,000 Catholics, its one million nuns, its half million priests, its 4,000 bishops and cardinals. Surely tonight was the high moment of his entire pontificate.

  Suddenly, in his profound joy, he was eager to commune with God.

  He circled away from the window shutters, and shuffled toward his brass bed. Neatly folded on the bed covering was his white nightshirt. Above the bedposts was the touching painting of Christ in agony on the Cross.

  On the bedstand were his electric clock with its Roman numerals and the worn Bible he had received at his first Holy Communion. By habit he checked the clock's alarm, was satisfied it was set for six-thirty in the morning, and then he sauntered, almost buoyantly, to the prie-dieu, his kneeling bench. Hanging over it, on the pastel linen wallpaper, were two objects, a simple crucifix and a delicate painting of the Virgin Mary in a thin gold frame.

  The Pope stood silently gazing at the Virgin Mary, and gradually he lowered himself to his knees on the embroidered and padded prie-dieu.

  Tired though he was, he felt renewed strength flowing through his aged body at the glad tidings that he had heard throughout the evening.

  He placed the tips of his wrinkled fingers together in prayer and shut his eyes.

  To begin with, a favorite passage from his beloved St. Mark. The Pope's hps moved as he recited the passage barely above a whisper.

  "In My name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover."

  His Holiness held his breath and resumed.

  "O Lord in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. As Thy vicar on earth and successor to St. Peter, I thank Thee for Thy goodness, for the return of the Immaculate Conception, and the reaffirmation that Thy miracles shall never cease. As long as Thee will permit it, there will be humanity on earth and belief, and there will remain goodness and hope —and there will continue to be miracles unto eternity, and we dedicate our grateful love to Thee Father, and to Thy Son, and to the Holy Ghost.

  "Amen."

  In Paris . . .

  Late at night, not ten minutes before midnight, a weary and disheveled Liz Finch stepped out of the elevator at the API editorial rooms and dragged herself across the floor.

  Liz could see that the night shift was already on, and the lone survivor of the day shift, Bill Trask, was still hunched over his desk inside his glassed-in cubicle.

  She opened Trask's door, stepped mside, closed it, and leaned back against it. The sound brought Trask's head up, and he saw Liz Finch.

  He swung his swivel chair in her direction. "Hello, Liz. When did you get in?"

  "Just now. Air Inter from Lourdes."

  "Why didn't you go straight home and get yourself some shut-eye?"

  "Dunno, reporter's blood," said Liz. "Can't stay away. Actually, only wanted to look in for a minute to—to say in person thanks for the job, boss. Wanted to tell you again. Thanks."

  Trask snorted. "You earned it, kid. I'm receiving reports. Your story is hitting big all over the world, getting top play everywhere."

  "Super."

  "I mean, what is it, after all? A terrific ghost story with a first-rate

  heroine and a happy ending. What more could anyone ask for?" Trask rattled some papers on his desk. "In fact this very minute, the minute you walked in, I was rereading the printout for maybe the tenth time. Helluva piece." He shook his head. "Imagine the Church sticking its neck out like that and coming up roses? Gutsy—or maybe unrealistic. Whatever. The Virgin Mary is going to reappear, and lo! she reappears, and Edith Moore of London sees her. Really, it's remarkable, an event without parallel in my time. But—" Trask hung out the word, and was momentarily lost in thought.

  "But what, boss?" Liz prompted him.

  "I was just thinking about something when you walked in."

  "Thinking what, boss?"

  "Wondering something. Liz, do you think—I keep wondering—did someone really see the Virgin Mary today?"

  Liz gave a short shrug. "Did Bernadette?" she asked.