Free Jubilate by Michael Arditti Page A

floor. I drag my case to my room, which seems more suited to an anchorite than a pilgrim. The ceiling is low, so low over the window that I am unable to stand upright. A heavy oak wardrobe with a recalcitrant door faces the bed. The fixed coat hangers show that the proprietress has less faith in the probity of her guests than that of the passers-by. An oxblood carpet falls two foot short of the door where it is replaced by a floral runner. A small daguerreotype of nineteenth-century peasants hangs on an otherwise empty wall and a television sits on a metal arm above a frayed wicker armchair. I hurriedly unpack, draping T-shirts over the chair, spreading books on the floor, and placing my travelling photo-frame by the bed in a vain attempt to infuse the room with personality. Then I peel off my clothes: sweater, shirt and vest in one swoop, which even after thirty years fills me with a sense of defiance, take a tepid shower, dress and go downstairs.
    The proprietress fails to look up as I rattle my key on the board. I dash outside and apologise for being late.
    ‘How’s your room?’ Jewel asks.
    ‘Functional,’ I reply with a shrug.
    ‘You’re lucky,’ she says. ‘The plug won’t fit my basin.’
    ‘Very basic Jesus,’ Jamie says.
    ‘The sash on my window is broken,’ Sophie says.
    ‘Very basic Jesus,’ Jamie and Jewel chime.
    ‘There’s no porn channel on the TV,’ Jamie says.
    ‘Oh please!’ Sophie says.
    ‘Hello!’ Jamie replies. ‘Has someone had a sense of humour bypass?’
    ‘Shall we go over to the Domain?’ I interject.
    ‘Do you know the way?’ Jamie asks.
    ‘Director’s intuition,’ I say, pointing to a sign.
    We edge through the milling crowds, down a narrow side street lined with cheap religious souvenir shops.
    ‘Welcome to the town that taste forgot,’ I say.
    ‘The perfect place for Christmas shopping,’ Jamie says.
    ‘Sure, if all your friends are nuns,’ Jewel says.
    ‘I’ve never felt so Protestant in my life,’ Sophie says.
    We join the hordes streaming in to the Domain. The preponderance of elderly pilgrims feels strangely blasphemous, as if the miracle that they seek is eternal youth. Passing a memorial to a cured cardinal , we come across a line of officials, each one pushing an empty wheelchair that resembles a miniature brougham carriage.
    ‘Do you think they belong to people who’ve got up and walked?’ Jamie asks. I appropriate one of the proprietress’s scowls. ‘Sorry, chief.’
    Once in the square we pause to take our bearings. Despite seeing them only six weeks ago on my research trip, I remain impressed by the twin basilicas: the lower one, bulbous, breasty, its gilded cupola gleaming in the afternoon sun, flanked by two flights of steps that lead to the upper one, its grey-and-white stone spires like a Disneyland model. Twisting around, I gaze past a crowned statue of the Virgin, down a long, grassy esplanade to the Breton Calvary, a rare image of the Son in a landscape that is largely maternal. An unintelligible prayer crackles over the loudspeakers, and a heavy, musky fragrance fills the air.
    Sophie ushers us over a stone bridge, which spans a river so clear that the empty crisp packet being swept along looks even more of a desecration.
    ‘Bet that’s the Brits,’ Jewel says, and no one chooses to argue.
    ‘ Voilà , the Acceuil,’ Sophie says, pointing to a vast stone-clad structure like an open concertina, with two shimmering copper roofs. We walk towards it, past a small rockery with an elaborate fountain.
    ‘So what’s an Acceuil when it’s at home?’ Jewel asks.
    ‘It comes from the French for welcome,’ Sophie says. ‘A kind of hostel.’
    ‘It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A,
    ‘It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A,’ Jamie sings.
    ‘You’ll be lucky,’ Sophie says. ‘It’s run by nuns.’
    We walk into the lobby, dominated by a huge photograph of John Paul II, looking much like a hospital pilgrim himself as he sits slumped at