It was deep winter. Snow had been falling for hours and the mountains, which would have been green and lush in summer, were now completely white and diaphanous. Their peaks reached out towards the white sky. The local bus dropped me in front of the Hotel ***, facing the frozen river. It was one of the few that stayed open all year round. In my modest French, I greeted the receptionist and checked in. My room was on the third floor, and the lift was out of order. The walls in my room were covered with orange striped paper. Not exactly a fancy room, yet it had all the small comforts of a three-star hotel, including a TV, a radio and a fridge. I left my luggage next to my bed and went out almost immediately to get a first impression of the village.
***
There were no tourists in the high street, and the souvenir shops around the Sanctuary of the famous Madonna were shut, although I could catch a glimpse of a few little statues with wideopen, staring eyes, and other tacky objects. It was a ghostly village yet hushed and cosy in its silence. I went through the gate, to the Sanctuary; the cave where "la Signora" had first appeared to Bernadette was lit dimly, a statue of the Madonna was there to commemorate the apparition. High up, on the rock that harboured the cave, rose the impressive cathedral, whose front was covered in golden and pastel-coloured mosaics. I entered and tried to summon some sense of solemnity and awe, but it wasn't happening; I was cold and indifferent. I then meandered through the Cross stations along the river, but my frame of mind was far from devotional. I was no pilgrim. I had been an atheist, for as long as I could remember. The tall oaks and chestnut trees caught my eye, despite their relative austerity. Bored, I decided to go back to the hotel and only stopped at a boulangerie, where I tasted a delicious almond tart. The best moment of the day. I wondered what I was to write about such a small sleepy place. However, I was glad that it was lonely and forlorn at this time: it suited my mood well.
***
The morning after, I had a continental breakfast and left. I decided to explore the upper side of the village, where the locals lived.
I was pleased to discover the market square bustling with activity and housewives buying groceries. I visited the Municipe and bought a pocket guide of the area. It was a dainty village indeed, yet I still did not have a clue what I should be writing about. Would my commissioner be interested in ordinary winter life, or in the outlook of the Sanctuary in winter? I phoned my friend hoping for some kind of clarification. It was up to me -- he said -- I just had to find some aspect that took my fancy. What an elusive reply! This time having a choice made me uneasy.
***
When I went back to my room, I jotted down a few impressions, but I was perplexed. I did not even remember the name of the magazine. I was almost regretting my commission, when I decided to experience the cable railway to the mountains that loomed over the village and see whether a change of perspective would help me craft my piece. As the cabin reached the summit, the village looked tiny and fairy-like. The Chateaux fort de Lourdes, which had first been besieged by Charles Magne and became a prison during the French Revolution, looked solemn from the West side. No longer a prison -- I was told by a villager while we were getting off the cabin -- but a museum of folk arts. I made a note of all this, in case I decided to pay a short visit to the place. As I stepped out, the sight of the white mountain range made me pause. Here, something deep and otherworldly hovered in the air, but nothing reminded me of Catholicism. It was elemental. It could have been another planet altogether, where only the presence of invisible beings made itself palpable in the blowing wind. The strange layers of translucid air, like watercolour strata of brightness, were hanging like curtains and melting in the pale blue sky. Now I could see the trees, the pristine denizens of a dense forest covered in snow. A winding path led to a mountain chalet, where mountaineers could rest around the fire for an hour or so. Inside, a blond woman was serving soup to four generations of men: the patriarch, a greyhaired man with a stern mouth, a middle-aged bald man with big black eyes and enormous hands, a long-haired youth in his twenties -- the only smiling face of the company -- and a child that must have been five or six. The woman offered soup to all wanderers, mountaineers and tourists who happened to drop by. That was her job, she said. I noticed her bright eyes. The smell of onions was promising. I sat at a small wooden table near the window and ate the soup with a passion.