Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  Jim dropped me and the cart at Camille’s place, a kilometre out of town. ‘Three bedrooms: the master has a half-size Jesus watching the marital bed. Grand old-style kitchen. Den in the attic. She was looking to downsize a couple years ago. Stairs would be a problem for disabled access. Find out what her plans are and we’ll be even.’

  A slim—petite—woman of perhaps forty-five, who I guessed was Camille’s carer, answered the door. ‘Is Camille or Gilbert home?’ I asked in French.

  ‘You are Martin!’ she said in English. She kissed me on both cheeks, then announced, ‘I am Camille. Come in. Gilbert has gone to the airport to collect your daughter. She was going to get a taxi—a taxi from Lyon to Cluny. Crazy.’

  My apology for Sarah had to wait, because Camille had walked to the kitchen, spun on the ball of her foot and returned to the front door, where I was still standing. She was about the same height as Zoe, maybe five foot six, in tight white jeans, light-blue T-shirt, blue and white high heels. Walking without apparent difficulty.

  ‘I said, come in. What is this?’ She pointed to the carton which held the gurney that tomorrow I would be asking her to lie on so that we could pull her along.

  ‘It’s a cart…’

  ‘Of course. I am forgetting. You are the English cart man. When Zoe told me she was in love with a man with a cart, I knew it was you because everyone in Cluny knew about your crazy cart and nobody else would be walking on the Chemin with one. But first, you are wanting a drink—beer?’

  ‘A beer would be brilliant, but I’d love a shower first.’ And time to think about how to tackle the multiple-sclerosis issue.

  ‘Of course, your chambre is upstairs. It belonged to my little boy, who is unfortunately no longer with us. His name is on the door.’

  ‘What is…was…his name?’

  ‘Bastien.’

  She made no move to accompany me, so I hauled my pack up the stairs to find the room as described, with a three-quarter-sized bed, and mercifully devoid of further reminders of its late occupant.

  I was pleased to have arrived ahead of Zoe; I could use the thinking time. I had no idea if she wanted to revisit our relationship. Regardless, my mantra would be ‘take it slowly’.

  I stripped my shirt and trousers off and walked into the en-suite bathroom just as Zoe stepped out of the shower.

  ‘Shit!’ She looked around, presumably for a towel, dashed past me into the bedroom where there wasn’t one on the bed either, then burst out laughing. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I emailed you.’

  Her hair was shorter, but otherwise she was exactly the same person I’d said a long goodbye to at San Francisco airport. Although she’d been wearing clothes then.

  ‘Do I get a kiss?’ she said.

  So much for taking it slowly. She was sending a pretty clear message, and I made a snap decision to go with it. And then the door opened and Camille walked in.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Zoe is already here. But you have found her.’

  Camille and Zoe were old friends; I was just being stuffily English. We were like a couple of teenagers being sprung by a parent.

  Parents, plural.

  ‘Camille? You forgot these.’ An older man, shortish and overweight, his arms full of bath towels, stepped into the room, then recoiled as he saw Zoe and me. It took me a few seconds to catch up as well. This was Gilbert, the husband. I’d seen him somewhere before. And he’d gone to the airport to collect Sarah.

  I looked to the doorway in time to see my daughter arrive, take it all in, turn to escape, and crash into a tall blond man in a leather jacket.

  What the hell was Bernhard doing here?

  3

  ZOE

  I was still laughing when I finished dressing. The surprise had given me a rush of positive energy. Martin’s expression at being caught was so cutely British—so him—that I forgot to be embarrassed. We were all adults—no big deal.

  I joined the group in the living room, and right away it felt like it was a big deal. Something was up with Bernhard’s girlfriend. Tall, slim, intense wide brown eyes, tight black curls pulled into a ponytail, slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt. Too serious.

  Then Martin introduced her. Not Bernhard’s girlfriend. But Martin had never mentioned that Julia or Sarah were women of colour. I had no idea how much he had told her about us. Maybe she thought we were in contact and this was our regular thing.

  She followed Camille to the kitchen. Escaping. I still didn’t know what was going on with Camille and the multiple sclerosis. Martin had his own question and dragged me outside to ask it.

  ‘What the hell is Bernhard doing here?’

  I explained.

  ‘Dropping his cart in? That’s all? Are you sure?’

  The young man we were talking about walked by us with Gilbert, speaking French. In three years he’d gained weight—in a good way. Gilbert had done the same, not so much in a good way, but he had greeted me with a bear hug and was easy to like. Martin followed him and Bernhard, and I went to the kitchen.

  Sarah was chopping vegetables and Camille was pulling food out of the fridge. Her dark hair, spiked urchin-style, made her look younger than when I’d last seen her. She sensed my presence without looking.

  ‘You want to help me to prepare the chicken?’

  ‘Camille? I’m vegetarian, remember?’

  She turned around, holding a huge bird, head still attached. ‘White meat. Actually, not a chicken. A capon. A castrated rooster. Illegal in America, because of the chemicals.’

  ‘Vegetarian means no meat at all.’ I had been vegan for the last year but I wasn’t even going to try to explain that.

  ‘I don’t eat much meat either,’ said Sarah. ‘But hey, it’s a special occasion.’

  I went outside. In the driveway were two partly assembled carts, with Bernhard and Martin working on them like contestants in a reality TV show. A motorbike with a sidecar was parked beside them. Bernhard must have ridden it from Stuttgart.

  Bernhard finished and strode over to Martin’s cart.

  ‘This is the old version, yes?’

  ‘It’s the version with the original suspension. The army…’

  ‘The British Army.’ Bernhard pointed to the single wheel of his own cart. ‘This is stronger. It can carry two hundred and fifty kilos.’

  ‘Which is no use to anyone if you can’t pull that weight up the slope. Engineering is about trade-offs—’

  Boys and their toys. I’d would have liked to share that thought with Sarah, who had joined us. But I needed to tread carefully. This girl had attempted suicide in the past. Did she still need her father to watch over her? I went back to the kitchen.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ I asked Camille, who was peeling potatoes. ‘Sorry about the chicken, but…’

  She pointed to an electric hand mixer. ‘See if you can attach the…’

  ‘Beaters.’

  ‘Yes, beaters. I think there is a problem.’

  ‘Did you know Martin and Sarah were coming?’ I asked, as the beaters slipped easily into place.

  ‘Of course. He sent Gilbert an email. They will walk for the beginning. Three weeks, I think. He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t checked my email.’ I had bought a SIM card but hadn’t installed it yet. Part of me had wanted to leave my phone behind, like on my first camino, but practicality won.

  Camille spoke to the cooker. ‘You and me. Another road trip.’

  ‘You—you’re doing okay?’

  She turned back. ‘You think I am a little crazy, yes?’

  ‘I think anyone who walks a camino—a chemin—has to be a little crazy.’ I could have added ‘or ignorant’. That had been me the first time.

  ‘It is not something I would have thought of before. The Pope, yes; the walking, no. But after you—’

  ‘You get that it’s going to be really, really tough? And long?’

  ‘Like life? Though in my case, not as long as I was expectin
g.’ She paused then added, ‘Unless God has mercy on me.’

  So it was real. The physicians must have found the disease before there were any serious symptoms. That had to be a good thing.

  Dinner was a raucous feast starting with Beaujolais cocktails and cheese puffs right out of the oven. Great if you ate cheese. I decided I did. It was always cheese that got between me and veganism.

  ‘Océane now studies in Paris,’ said Camille. ‘She is with her father.’

  ‘And Bastien is now with his mother,’ Gilbert added. ‘It was sad, but the best outcome for everyone.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Martin quietly, shaking his head. He was being a little weird. And somehow I’d lost track of the fact that Bastien was Gilbert’s son but not Camille’s.

  Gilbert filled in the gaps. ‘When Camille and I separated, he wished to live with his mother. Marianne was not well enough’—he tapped his head, which I guessed meant mental health—‘but now she is improved.’ He looked toward Camille. ‘Relatively.’

  ‘Bastien was a gift from God,’ said Camille. Now I remembered: difficulties having a second child with Océane’s father. There had been letters and even a phone call after the miscarriages and IVF. Bastien’s arrival had been a ‘happy surprise’, and it hadn’t occurred to me that he had come as part of the deal with her new partner.

  ‘Three months we have been back together,’ Gilbert continued, putting his hand on Camille’s shoulder. ‘After Camille told me about this diagnosis, I accompanied her to the doctor’s. This disease was the reason for all the problems.’

  How lucky was Camille to have her partner come back rather than run for the hills? But someone had to ask.

  ‘It’s multiple sclerosis, right?’ I said. ‘Sorry, but I expected you to be…’ Camille waited for me to finish. ‘Having trouble walking.’

  ‘That’s the stereotype,’ said Sarah the medical student. Actually, two years out of high school, she must still be in pre-med. And in case anyone didn’t understand stereotype, she added, ‘Meaning, reducing everyone’s experience of the disease to the same symptoms and outcomes.’

  I looked at Martin. I still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I needed to work on that.

  Camille waved her arm. ‘It started a long time ago. One eye became blind. But not for long, so I was not worried.’

  I could see Gilbert hesitating. ‘Camille has a certain…expression…of this illness. Not so much physical.’

  ‘Occasionally it affects the cognitive functions—thinking—rather than the motor functions,’ said our pre-med student, promoting herself to neurologist as well as elementary-school teacher. Then added, ‘At first.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Gilbert. ‘Camille forgets things.’

  ‘Unimportant things,’ said Camille.

  ‘And she is sometimes tactless; you should not be offended. And also—’

  ‘Also, it is impolite to talk about medical problems at dinner,’ said Camille.

  ‘But we won’t need either of the carts?’ said Martin. ‘The good one or the not-so-good one?’

  Camille got in before Bernhard could argue. ‘You brought the carts for me?’ She laughed. ‘For now, they will not be needed. Of course, in the end, everything will fail. Phut.’

  There was an awkward silence, which Martin broke by offering to help Bernhard pack up his cart in the morning.

  ‘It can stay here. I will walk anyway.’

  ‘Why?’ said Martin.

  ‘Why not? I have nothing better to do.’

  Apparently neither did Sarah. Surely she should have been studying. There was no way my girls would have wanted to go walking with me and a bunch of my middle-aged friends.

  ‘We are putting the band back together,’ said Bernhard, grinning.

  Gilbert offered more wine and Martin drained his glass to make room. This time, I knew what he was thinking. I was feeling the opposite; I’d warmed to Bernhard a long time ago, and if he bugged Martin, that’d make up for Sarah bugging me.

  Camille served the giant chicken.

  ‘The skin looks amazing,’ said Sarah. ‘Thanks for the cooking lesson.’

  Gilbert served a massive potato gratin, full of cheese and cream. Then he whispered to Camille, who dashed to the kitchen and returned to announce that the beans would be coming soon. She must have forgotten to put them on. Did that mean anything? If I was cooking a fancy meal for six, I’d have screwed up something.

  I took a slice of bread. White, white bread. I’d need to get my unprocessed grains some other way.

  The plat principal was followed by a cheese board that Gilbert explained in detail and a clafoutis aux mirabelles made with sheep cheese. I’d never thought of Camille as a cook. But she’d made something with rabbit last time, so I couldn’t tell. At college, it had been take-out and instant noodles.

  Finally, we got to discuss why we’d all come here. Gilbert had done some research, luckily. Follow the scallop-shell signs; stop when tired was all I’d known at the start of the Camino de Santiago.

  He got a printout from the sideboard. ‘The Chemin d’Assise. The Way of St Francis of Assisi. Sixty-three days from Cluny to Assisi, then fourteen days from Assisi to Rome on the Via di Francesco. Total: seventy-seven days and one thousand, six hundred kilometres. Difficulty: easy to challenging.’

  A thousand miles.

  Martin took the printout. ‘Ambitious itinerary.’

  Gilbert looked surprised. ‘This is what is recommended.’

  ‘They assume you’ll start out as fit as you’ll be at the end.’

  ‘It will take as long as necessary. Of course, we do not expect anyone to accompany us all the way.’

  I was about to promise that I would, but stopped myself. It could wait. ‘How heavy is your pack, Camille?’ I guessed I’d be emptying out cosmetics, knee-high boots and an evening dress.

  ‘Six point two kilos,’ replied Gilbert.

  ‘Ten pounds,’ said Sarah, in case I couldn’t do the math. This was going to get annoying.

  I ran back to my room—our room—and got the silk sleeping bags and lightweight towels I’d bought for them. ‘You’ll need these, too.’

  Gilbert shook his head. ‘Thank you, Zoe, but these we have.’

  ‘Organising is what Gilbert is good at,’ said Camille.

  ‘Better than me,’ said Martin. ‘I’d meant to get a towel and sleeping bag for Sarah in Cluny, but…’

  ‘All yours,’ I said handing the items to Sarah, who accepted them awkwardly.

  ‘These are not claimed?’ asked Bernhard, pointing to the remaining towel and silk bag. ‘They are superior to mine.’

  I owed him.

  ‘I have made reservations for the first two nights’ accommodation,’ said Gilbert. ‘But not for Bernhard, who is a surprise. A welcome surprise.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Bernhard. ‘I will organise my own.’ Bernhard was good at doing that. Cheaply.

  ‘We’ll need a room for me and one for Sarah,’ said Martin, not looking at me.

  ‘Already reserved,’ said Gilbert.

  I had figured that Martin and I would share—and finish what we’d started. But his daughter was looking at me. It had been three years. And I’d dumped him.

  ‘I’ll need a room, too,’ I said.

  Martin looked at me. Doing his inscrutable thing again. ‘I guess I’m sleeping in the attic tonight,’ he said. And while I was wondering how Martin knew there was an attic, he added, to Camille, ‘I’ve got a sleeping bag. The old-fashioned heavy kind.’

  4

  MARTIN

  Having established, to the satisfaction of the only qualified engineer present, which cart was superior, we left both behind. Like the pilgrims of yore, we set out from our shared abode to the nearest trailhead—Cluny centre ville. But, unlike the ancients, four of us had already travelled from distant places—Sheffield, Edinburgh, Stuttgart, San Francisco—by means those early walkers couldn’t have imagined. And a few days ago, we’d never have e
nvisaged being here.

  Now that I knew more about Camille’s illness, I was alert to behaviour that might translate into ‘not able to walk without support’. Gilbert had checked his and her gear against a list, and Zoe had spotted that the refrigerator and fruit bowl needed emptying. And there was Camille ‘forgetting’ that she’d installed Zoe in my bedroom, which presumably she’d expected us to share. Zoe couldn’t have told Camille to put us together, as she hadn’t known I was coming—thanks to Camille forgetting to tell her. But had Zoe been clear enough about her feelings for me that Camille felt safe to make the decision?

  As for catching us—almost—in flagrante, Sarah had given me a look which I interpreted as ‘Let us never speak of this again.’ I was happy to go along with that.

  Today, she was wearing shorts that looked too tight to have come from an outdoor shop. I hoped Bernhard didn’t take an interest, though I was pretty certain it wouldn’t be reciprocated: he was hardly Sarah’s type. But she had lost a dramatic amount of weight since I’d last seen her. There might be something to Julia’s worries about anorexia.

  We stopped in Cluny to get our pilgrim passports—credentials—from Friends of the Camino representative Jules Chevalier, who was holding court in the same café that had served as his office back when Zoe and I set out for Spain. He seemed little changed: about the same age as Gilbert, but less bourgeois, more shambolic.

  I took some pleasure in introducing Sarah to the passport ritual. There was a spiritual component to a camino, even for a rusted-on atheist like me, and M. Chevalier made sure no one left Cluny without being aware of it.

  He had a long private conversation with Zoe while the rest of us drank coffee at another table. Zoe passed me the baton, and M. Chevalier didn’t waste time getting to the point.

  ‘You are making a grave mistake. This trail to Rome lacks the tradition of the chemins to Santiago de Compostela.’