Part 6 (2/2)

He wove his way toward the bedroom.

”Mikel,” Juha called out, ”where are you going?”

”To the telephone, and don't interrupt me. I'm calling San Sebastian, my mother, and telling her to get hold of her priest and have him put me on one of the Spanish pilgrimages to Lourdes as soon as he can.”

Julia was filled with disbelief. ”You-you're going to Lourdes?”

Hurtado held himself steady in the doorway. ”I'm going to Lourdes,” he said thickly. ”That's where I'm going. You know what I'm going to do there? I'm going to blow up the G.o.ddam grotto, blast the whole shrine to smithereens-so the Virgin'll have no place to show up and Bueno'll have nothing to wait for-and there'll be no more reason to stop us from going ahead with our plans.”

Juha had jumped to her feet, eyes filled with fright. ”Mikel, you don't mean it!”

”Watch me. I'll blow that grotto into a million pieces.”

”Mikel, you can't! It would be a terrible sacrilege.”

”Comrade sister, there's only one sacrilege. Letting that f.u.c.king Bueno stall us, sidetrack us, and keep us in bondage. When I'm through there'll be no more grotto, no more miracles, and no more Basque slavery. No more, ever.”

Lourdes Liz Finch was walking slowly up the twisting Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, which she a.s.sumed was one of the main thoroughfares of Lourdes, and she was stunned by what met her eye. Walking, she tried to think of the tawdriest honky-tonk streets she had ever visited. Several came to mind right away: Forty-second Street in New York, Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, the streets leading to the birthplace of Jesus, in Bethlehem. They had been tawdry enough, but somehow for cra.s.s commercialism, cheap commercialism, sheer vulgarity, this street in Lourdes surpa.s.sed them all.

She recalled, from her preparatory homework done in Paris, what Joris Karl Huysmans, the French Catholic novelist, had written upon seeing Lourdes. She drew her notes out of her purse, and found the Huysmans quote: ”The ugliness of everything one sees here ends by being unnatural, for it falls below the known low-water marks. ... At Lourdes there is such a plethora, such a flux, of base and bad taste that one cannot get away from the idea of an intervention of the Most Base.”

Amen, brother, she thought, as she continued to walk along in a daze.

Liz Finch had purposely arrived in Lourdes a day early, on this hot Sat.u.r.day afternoon, August 13, before additional crowds of pil- grims began to descend on the town the following day, the beginnmg of the much-publicized Holy Reappearance Time. For her a.s.signments in unfamiliar cities, Liz Finch always tried to arrive twenty-four hours before an occasion, to get the feel of the community, to get some leads, to map out a plan for what she was to do.

It had been an eleven-kilometer ride from the airport to Lourdes, and not scenic at all except for the vineyards and cornfields, the usual outcropping of flamboyant French billboards, and some roadside cafes with unexpected religious names.

Her immediate impression of Lourdes itself was the meanness of it, the countless shops, cafes, hotels crammed together on a narrow street that twisted downhill toward a river. She had to remind herself that it was really a small town of 20,000 inhabitants, yet it accommodated 5,000,000 tourists annually in its 402 hotels and numerous outlying campsites.

Suddenly, she found herself being discharged before her own hotel, something identified on a marble overhang as the hOtel gallia & LONDRES, its front jutting out to the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare. Liz had followed her taxi driver, who was carrying her two bags, between columns through a dark entry flanked by souvenir shops, and found herself inside a broad, bright, rather sizable reception lobby. After paying the driver, she had gone to the plump young blond lady waiting behind the wide reception counter, paneled in wood with inlaid marble squares, and registered.

Liz had not bothered to accompany her bags up to her room, or to inspect the room itself-whatever it was would have to do, because in the coming eight days Lourdes would be entertaining one of the largest mobs of pilgrims and tourists in its history.

As soon as possible, Liz had wanted to take a stroll along the gaudy street she had seen from the taxi. She was told that to obtain an overview of the town, upon leaving the hotel lobby she should turn left, walk the length of the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and then proceed up the Rue de la Grotte. That was it, the main street.

And now, for ten minutes, she had been doggedly walking uphill, and it was a horror. Maybe, for people of piety, people seeking remembrances of Lourdes to take home, it was promising and attractive. But for anyone with a cold, unblinking, and sophisticated eye, like Liz Finch, it was a horror.

Side by side, unrelentingly, without break, both sides of the narrow street were lined with hotel entrances, cafes, small restaurants, and souvenir shops. The hotels, some advertising garages, ranged from the Grand Hotel de la Grotte to the Hotel du Louvre. The outdoor cafe with their inevitable whitewashed statues of the Virgin Mary set in niches above the entries and their bright wicker chairs on the sidewalk, bore such names as Caft Jeanne d'Arc, Cafe au Roi Albert, Cafe le Carrefour and featured, in four or five languages, quick meals of hot dogs, pizza, steaks, French fried potatoes, croque-monsieurs, sweet cakes, ices. c.o.kes, beer. The restaurants, usually located beneath hotels, displayed their prix-fixe menus prominently outside.

But what made Liz Finch's head swim were the endless open-fronted souvenir shops with gla.s.s cases ab.u.t.ting the sidewalks, with even more cases in their dim interiors. Liz stopped at several-Con-frerie de la Grotte, A la Croix du Pardon, Saint-Francis, Magasin de la Chapelle -- and browsed through their wares. Almost everything was exploitive of the historic happenings at Lourdes -- mostly there were plastic bottles in all sizes, many shaped like a statue of the Virgin Mary, to contain the curative water; thin square cardboard s.h.i.+elds to slip over long candles; copper frying pans decorated with portraits of Bernadette; tiny imitation grottoes lit by batteries; countless rosaries and crucifixes; ceramic dishes emblazoned with the word ”Lourdes”; plaques bearing religious homihes; posters and leather purses and wallets, all reproducing the figure of either Bernadette or the Virgin Mary; and worst of all, white pieces of candy (called ”Pastilles Malespine”) with tiny engravings of the Virgin in the center and guaranteed to be made with water from the grotto.

Really, it was shocking, the vulgarity of it, Liz Finch told herself, and no wondrous event could redeem this low-grade cheapness.

With determination, Liz hiked on. The only relief from the souvenir shops and outdoor eateries was an occasional perfume store, a Catholic bookstore, the wax museum with its taped recording blaring out that replicas of scenes from the life of not only Bernadette but Jesus could be viewed inside.

Liz walked a short distance more, tiring of the repet.i.tious scene, her brain growing weary, finally telling herself that all of this must be the mere by-product of the miracle area, and that she had better get to the essential area that had made Lourdes become world famous.

She went inside one shop, comered a sleek but surly young man, who seemed Italian, and inquired how she could get to the Lourdes press office.

He pretended not to understand, and then did and said in French, ”Bureau de Presse des Sanctuaires?” He pointed off in the direction from which she had come and said in English, ”Go back down this hill to the Boulevard de la Grotte and tum to the right. You will find it in a modern building with much gla.s.s, which sits back from the boulevard.”

Dulled, Liz retraced her steps to the end of the street. To her left, she could see the upper portion of a mammoth church that appeared to rise over an area covered with huge trees.

Ignoring the church, she made her way through crowds becoming more dense by the minute. What surprised her were how few invahds seemed to be in evidence. There were a few, of course, older persons propped up in miniature buggies with rollback tops and a long handle in front like rickshaws. These were either pulled by nurse's aides, or pushed while the more alert invalids steered. Mostly the visitors seemed healthy and curious, not only French but of every nationahty and color, largely pilgrims, some tourists, and quite a few of them athletic and young, wearing T-s.h.i.+rts and white shorts. The invalid invasion, Liz decided, would increase tomorrow for the start of the big week.

With the help of a blue-s.h.i.+rted Lourdes gendarme, who had been directing traffic, Liz discovered where she must go.

It had taken almost fifteen minutes, but she had finally reached her destination. There was the modern gla.s.s-fronted building set below the street level, and separated from the area beyond by the boulevard and an iron fence. On the ground floor, a man at a desk pointed Liz up to the press office on the first floor. When Liz reached it, and entered, she was surprised by the limited dimension of the reception room, no more than ten-feet square, and by its spa.r.s.e furnis.h.i.+ngs. There was a modest desk behind which an older woman was sitting. The woman quickly ushered Liz into one of the two offices that opened off the reception room. Here she found at a small desk a younger woman speaking to two persons, presumably journalists, seated in plain chairs, one being addressed in French, the other in German.

Patiently, Liz waited her turn, and when a chair was vacated, she took the seat. The tall dark blonde with angular features, behind the desk, was in her thirties and plainly French and eager to be of help.

”I'm Elizabeth Finch from the Paris Bureau of the American national syndicate. Amalgamated Press International, API,” said Liz formally. ”I've been a.s.signed to cover the Lourdes story for the next week, and I've just checked in.”

The blonde put out her hand. ”I am Mich.e.l.le Demalliot, the first press officer,” she said. ”Welcome. Let me see if you have been accredited.”

”You may have me down as Liz, Liz Finch, my byline.”

Mich.e.l.le was thumbing through a sheaf of papers. Her forefinger poked at a page. ”Voild, here you are. Yes, Liz Finch of API. You are here, ftilly accredited. You are staying at the Hotel Gallia & Londres?”

”Correct.”

Mich.e.l.le stood up and walked to a bookcase that covered one wall of her crowded office. ”Let me get you your credentials, a packet of background material, a map to help you get around. Or have you been here before?”

”Never. This is the first time. I'm eager to get going before it becomes any more crowded. I want to see the Bernadette landmarks, and the grotto, and spring, and all that. Pm no good with maps. Do you have a guide available for the press?”

From the bookcase, where she was filling a manila envelope with pamphlets, Mich.e.l.le said, ”As a matter of fact we do. We will have five or six tours for the press, with excellent guides, starting out from here every morning at ten o'clock. I can schedule you for one tomorrow morning.”

”No, I'd prefer to avoid any group tours, seeing everything that everyone else sees. And I'd prefer not to wait until morning. I'd like to start on a sightseeing tour as soon as possible, right how, if it can be done while it's still light. I really would like my own individual guide. Of course, I'll pay.”

Closing the envelope, Mich.e.l.le shook her head. ”I don't think that's possible on such short notice. Most guides are booked at least a day in advance. Also, they prefer to take several sightseers at once. I suppose because they can make more money.”

”Well, I'd gladly pay for the equivalent of several people, even though there'll only be me to show around.”

Mich.e.l.le shrugged. ”I'm still afraid it would be impossible on such short notice. I can phone the agencies for you, but I don't predict you'll have any luck.” She had started back for her desk when abruptly she stopped, and faced Liz. ”I just thought of someone, a close friend of mine. She's about the best tour guide in Lourdes, in my opinion. She told me that she was going to wind up her last large tour this afternoon-” The press officer squinted at her wrist.w.a.tch. ”-about now. She wanted to go home early, to rest for the busy week ahead. She lives out to town, nearby, in Tarbes, where she stays with her parents. Maybe, for the money, she would take you around by yourself for an hour. You would have to pay a little more. Even then I cannot be sure.”

”How much is a little more?” asked Liz.

”I would guess at least one hundred francs an hour.”

A paltry sum, Liz thought, for someone on an expense account. She could be generous just to be sure. ”Tell her I'll pay her one hundred fifty francs an hour.”

Mich.e.l.le was impressed and immediately reached for the telephone and dialed. After a brief wait, someone on the other end answered.

”Gabrielle?” said the press officer. ”This is Mich.e.l.le Demalliot at the Bureau de Presse des Sanctuaires. Fm looking for Gisele-Gisele Du-pree. She told me she'd be returning from her last tour for today about . . . What? She's just walked in? Perfect. Can you put her on?” Mich.e.l.le cupped the phone. ”So far, so good. Now we shall see.”

Liz leaned forward. ”Be sure to tell her I'll pay one hundred fifty francs an hour, and that I probably won't need her for more than an hour today.”

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