Known around the world for its magnificent view over the lake, the Belvedere had been in the same family since its establishment in the 19th century. Three generations of Hürschs had greeted my relatives in their solid building with the scowling expressions of the professional Swiss hotelier. Their ultra-Calvinist austerity effectively kept away all the nouveaux riches and the wogs, who would find in the hotel none of the noisy distractions which they craved. No spa, no swimming pool, no hotel boutique, no conference room. No background music of the synthesized whale song variety, no video game room with screaming kids running around. Nothing but silence and an unobstructed view, in return for an astronomical bill. That was true luxury, the sort that created a sense of exclusivity. The last time I had set foot there, back when my mother still had a bit of money, I’d heard somebody ask at reception whether there was internet. Monsieur Hürsch had replied contemptuously that he did not offer that sort of service, as if they’d been asking for prostitutes.

But when my taxi dropped me at the entrance, I didn’t recognize a thing. The hotel had disappeared, or rather it had been swallowed up by a glass mega-structure in the shape of a parallelepiped. Not a single familiar face remained amongst either the clientele or the staff, as if the Hürschs had never existed. No more little chocolate on my goose down duvet. In fact, no more feathered duvet at all in my aseptic, taupe-coloured room. Everything had become beige and taupe — curtains, bedspread, carpet . . . The non-colours par excellence, that you marry with white and black to create the “cocooning chic” look of every luxury hotel in the world.

The view over the lake was still there, of course, except that if you lowered your eyes, a hideous extension had replaced the pretty gardens where the little fireworks collector had taken her first steps. It was when I saw niqabs circling in the Swiss-blue sky under the petal-shaped wings of paragliders that the penny finally dropped: the Belvedere had been swallowed up by a sovereign wealth fund from the Gulf.

As my gaze followed those little black bells, I let out a sigh of philosophical weariness. Among all the veiled little girls sitting on the terrace of the Belvedere, their noses tilted skywards, was there perhaps one who might be allowed a strawberry melba ice cream drowning in sugar syrup and Chantilly cream? And if such a girl existed, was she too busy dreaming, as I had at her age, of living a life less ordinary?