Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘If I was designing a hostel,’ said Zoe, ‘I’d have a laundry. Even just one machine and somewhere to dry the clothes.’

  Zoe was right: pilgrims were always looking for a chance to launder their fleeces, trousers and jackets, and do a proper job with their daily change. Another item for the perfect-hostel specification. Someday I’d give it to students as a design exercise, and afterwards unveil my list to compare with their assumptions.

  ‘Do you want to see the church?’ I asked Zoe. ‘It’s supposed to be impressive. Maybe we should invite Camille—see if she wants to light another candle.’

  I watched her reaction. Yep. She had noticed Camille flirting the previous night. I suppose if it was obvious enough for me to be aware of it, there was no chance Zoe would miss it.

  ‘You want to invite her?’ said Zoe.

  ‘Only if you want to. A little Camille goes a long way.’

  Right answer. Zoe laughed, and I added, ‘What’s the story with the candles? I thought you lit one for someone who’d died. Not one every day.’

  ‘Penance. And I’m—well, my candles are more spiritual. A chance to think about my place in the universe.’

  We walked to the Chiesa San Pietro and the nearby chapel. Tourist activities seemed at odds with hiking, but churches are an integral part of the Chemin and exploring them felt different to walking into an art gallery or museum. This one was interesting architecturally, and Zoe found a display of icons. There was a small statue of the Pope to remind us where we were heading.

  ‘What was your best moment on the Camino?’ Zoe asked me.

  ‘Other than the sex?

  ‘Ha. You can have sex anytime.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘You’re a bad, bad man, Marteen.’

  Leave that one alone. But I’d worked out what had prompted Zoe’s question. ‘Probably showing those tourists around the church. When you told them about the paintings, and I did a little architecture lecture.’

  ‘It was fun. I guess you get to do that all the time now. You haven’t heard about your job?’

  ‘No to both questions. I don’t get to talk about the history of architecture. I teach basically the same stuff I did when I was an engineer. Design theory. That’s how I got the job—can’t blame them for wanting me to keep doing it.’

  ‘Not happy?’

  ‘I came back from the Camino and that was one of the changes I made. Seemed like a good idea at the time. My fault if I was wrong. You can’t keep changing direction, not at this age.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Would you want to be with someone who didn’t know where he was going?’

  ‘Better than being with someone who thinks he’s on the wrong path.’

  We were walking around. We spent a lot of time walking.

  ‘If it’s any help,’ said Zoe, ‘I think I’m in the same place. Like I told you, the cartooning has cooled off.’

  ‘Maybe we should become museum guides.’

  Zoe laughed. ‘I think we’d be better at running a hostel.’ She paused. ‘And in case you were having ideas about doing that, no.’

  ‘Why not? You wouldn’t like to run the perfect hostel?’

  ‘You’re asking me? Mister What’s Not to Like About Sheffield?’

  We found Gilbert, now joined by Camille, at the tail end of a private course on Italian wine conducted by our server.

  ‘Join us,’ he said, and Zoe and I were treated to a glass of Barbaresco before Gilbert announced that we would be eating there.

  ‘The children are eating the fruit they picked,’ said Camille. ‘So we can talk about them.’

  Zoe laughed. ‘Something I don’t know?’

  ‘Obviously, they are sleeping together. But you know that, right?’ She looked at me and I nodded.

  ‘So now,’ said Camille, ‘everyone is having sex, except Gilbert and me.’

  I looked at Gilbert and his expression was pretty much what mine would have been in the same circumstances. He got up, likely to hide his embarrassment, then pointed toward the bathroom. He wasn’t the sort of guy to make a scene. And Camille was apparently the opposite: why bring something like this up in public? Unless she wanted to discuss it.

  ‘It happens with MS?’ said Zoe to Camille, taking the cue.

  Camille shook her head. ‘It’s not the MS. That part of me still works. I think. Gilbert is doing an excellent job getting me to Rome but…’ A Gallic shrug had never carried more meaning.

  33

  ZOE

  Sarah knocked at our door at 7.30 a.m. She was in her hiking gear, but her feet were bare.

  ‘Blister,’ she said to her father. ‘Do you have anything for it?’

  She showed us the large white bubble with reddened edges on her heel. She should have dealt with it earlier.

  Martin offered the treatment I’d used first time around. ‘I’ve got a needle—you put thread through it and leave the thread in place to let it drain.’

  Sarah didn’t look happy.

  ‘No way,’ I said. I’d bought up big on Compeed, following recommendations from the camino websites. I popped the blister with a needle dipped in antiseptic, then laid the superfine Band-Aid over the top. It merged with her skin.

  ‘Don’t take it off—let it fall off in its own time.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sarah. ‘Way better. Thanks. Maybe you should have a look at Gilbert. He said something a few days ago.’

  Sarah and I confronted Gilbert downstairs, and got him to take off his boots and socks. His feet were a mess of blisters.

  ‘Haven’t you been in agony?’ I asked.

  Gilbert shrugged. I would make sure Camille heard how bad it was.

  Sarah gave her nod of approval, but she couldn’t resist adding, admittedly with a laugh, ‘I was expecting you to recommend herbs. Or meditation.’

  Maybe she expected a rant on Big Pharma. Instead, as I packed up the first-aid kit, I said, ‘Meditation wouldn’t cure the blisters, but it might help with the pain. I’m sure you’d know the value of yoga and meditation as a part of holistic therapy in a range of illnesses. And for just chilling out. You should try it sometime.’

  The day was only fifteen miles, but it felt longer. After descending from our hotel along stone streets and beneath an arch, a combination of missing taus and misleading satnav left us wandering up and down the tracks between vines on the steep hillside. It was seriously hot: wherever there was shade, we walked single file to catch it.

  I was carrying plenty of water but there was nowhere to refill, so I was being careful with it. Turned out to be the right call.

  We didn’t get any warning there was a problem until Camille dropped to the ground. Gilbert squatted beside her, and Sarah ditched her pack and went to her side. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My head is light, and muscles not so strong.’

  I threw my pack down. Martin was looking at his phone, I guess checking the map for the nearest road, in case we needed an ambulance.

  ‘Dizzy?’ asked Sarah, touching Camille’s face, which was dry and ruddy. ‘Headache?’ Her hand went to Camille’s wrist. ‘Guys, she needs water.’

  ‘I’m not thirsty,’ said Camille.

  ‘Well, drink a bit,’ said Sarah taking my water bottle, ‘But this is to go over you.’

  Camille gasped as Sarah tipped water over her head and down the front and back of her top.

  We stood waiting as Camille sipped from her own water bottle. After a minute, she gave a long exhale and smiled. ‘Already I am feeling better.’

  ‘Stay here in the shade,’ said Sarah. ‘I think you had early signs of heat stroke.’ She looked at the rest of us. ‘If there isn’t much shade between here and the end, it’s going to be a problem. Have we got plenty of water?’

  She turned back to Camille. ‘Do you think you can walk on? We could get a taxi.’

  Camille was already up, Gilbert at her side.

  We all hovered around Camille and at the next stop, Sa
nto Stefano Belbo, bought cold drinks and ice creams. Camille appeared relaxed and her complexion had returned to normal.

  On the way out of town she disappeared into the large plain church to light a candle and, as usual, I followed her. During this ritual, I could feel that there was still something between us, as much as Camille might try to brush it off at other times.

  I didn’t know who her candle was for, but as I sat watching its flame flicker, I thought of how she had been determined to walk to Rome because she still had that capacity. Her collapse was a reminder that nothing was guaranteed; injuries and illness could stop any of us.

  And why should I question her faith when I had turned to the universe and, in the shape of the Camino, it had healed my grief over Keith, increased my self-confidence—and given me the love of my life?

  I was so hung up on her desire to see the Pope…what about the walk itself? Maybe the Chemin could be her miracle and that was why we were all here, to navigate, offer companionship and carry extra water. And why Martin’s daughter, however much she bugged me, had to be here. When I lit my candle, it was for Sarah.

  I realised that I could also do something to help Camille. After we booked into our guesthouse in Canelli, I announced that I’d be giving a class.

  Martin laughed. ‘Do we have enough pencils?’

  ‘Not art, meditation. I’ve taught it before. I don’t know if it helps MS, Camille, but it helps other things, including stress, which makes a lot of illnesses worse. I can promise it won’t make it worse.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m definitely in, if that’s okay.’

  I set up on the balcony before dinner. The concierge had even found mats for us. Only Gilbert didn’t show. He’d discovered that the town had eight miles of UNESCO heritage-status underground wine cellars.

  The style of yoga meditation I taught was eclectic, and took from hatha yoga, mindfulness and chakra dance. All the feelings we don’t understand and haven’t fully dealt with—guilt, fear, shame, pain—get trapped in our bodies and interfere with our positive energy. Maybe I’d be able to teach it in Sheffield. This group might be practice for a bunch of unemployed factory workers. I started simply, with single-point meditation. It was about calm and focus, a blocking-out of the world which seemed to be forever at us.

  I was used to doing this—so, despite my reservations about having Sarah in the class, I was able to go deep into myself, find the voice and words that calmed and quietened even the most agitated in my classes back home. I felt an easing of the tension around me, a release of negative energy. When we finished, Camille’s smile had a vulnerability and tenderness that I wasn’t sure I had ever seen. And Sarah didn’t bite back when I suggested an app for mindfulness.

  34

  MARTIN

  ‘I think Sarah appreciated it,’ I told Zoe when we were back in our room.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You give her an opportunity to be nice and she’s happy to take it.’

  I could see Zoe wasn’t convinced, and fair enough. Sarah hadn’t shown a lot of that side of herself on the walk, or, to be honest, for a while. But Zoe should surely be pleased with what Sarah had done for Camille, twice now, that we knew of: she had pretty much got Camille down the Postman’s Way single-handed. Credit the Chemin and its people-changing magic. And maybe a bit of Bernhard.

  Sarah made a point of walking with me the next morning: ‘Need to talk to you about Camille.’

  ‘Is there still a problem?’

  ‘She’s got MS. So there’s always a problem. But it messes with your capacity to manage heat. And the heat can make the MS symptoms worse.’

  ‘You’re saying that the walk may be doing her harm.’

  ‘May be. I’d guess that overall, it’s a positive thing, but if she gets heat stroke it won’t be.’ She was quiet for a few steps. ‘Dad, I’m not a doctor, and even if I was—MS is a really complicated illness with different presentations. I had to look the heat thing up last night—I’d missed that. And you should know that Gilbert’s doing a lot; Camille asks me stuff and…let’s just say there’s a lot we’re not seeing.’

  Camille’s crisis had been a wake-up call for us all. We’d become accustomed to her memory lapses and occasional odd behaviour, but this was something that threatened to stymie her goal, or worse. It appeared she’d set off none too soon, but necessarily into hot weather. I was hoping that the end of summer and the forthcoming climb into the Apennines would bring cooler temperatures. On the other hand, we were walking south.

  ‘I think Gilbert will find a way of getting her there,’ I said. ‘And it’s what she wants to do.’

  ‘I know, but…’

  ‘And you shouldn’t feel responsible. You’ve warned us, and I’ll tell Camille directly—’

  ‘I’ve done that. She seems to know what she’s doing, but… there’s a thing called la belle indifférence that people with MS sometimes have. They don’t care as much as you’d expect about their diminished capacity.’

  ‘That’s the belle part, is it?’

  ‘Yep. But not so belle if they make a careless decision. That’s what I mean when I say she seems to know what she’s doing. When do you step in and say, “No, what you’re asking for isn’t in your best interests”?’

  ‘Like with your kids?’

  ‘Shut up, Dad.’

  Zoe rejoined me, and I filled her in on what Sarah had said. Plus my thought that Gilbert might be persuaded, on medical advice, to force an abandonment of the project.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Zoe. ‘Camille’s on the planet, mostly, and this is what she wants to do. We all make choices because we’re in a certain place, and if we were in a different place, maybe those choices would be different.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You get that by “place” I mean headspace, not…’

  ‘No, I thought you were talking about the US versus France.’

  ‘Ha ha. But that too. I half-wonder why Gilbert’s doing it. I guess you’ve picked up that Camille is in two minds about the relationship.’

  ‘I’d have said one mind. No sex. And she felt she needed to share that. You’re sure it’s not a physical issue?’

  ‘I think it’s because she’s not in love with him.’

  ‘He is devoted. I mean, I don’t want to be harsh, but he’s a good option. Given…’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying. I’m trying to push her in that direction. I get that love at our age is more about the practical stuff than it is for Sarah and Bernhard.’

  It was another hot day, and Gilbert carried an extra litre bottle of water, frozen overnight. We were all nervous about Camille’s situation, but she seemed to be coping okay.

  The last stage into Acqui Terme wasn’t attractive—single file along a busy road. A couple of kilometres from the end, Bernhard pulled out his own bottle of frozen water and tipped it over Sarah, who went through the sequence of screaming, punching Bernhard and laughing. It had been a while since I’d seen her happy like this, and I realised it wasn’t just an isolated incident. But did it have to be Bernhard?

  35

  ZOE

  Acqui Terme turned out to be a case of don’t judge a town by its road in—which was through the suburbs. As well as the usual stunning churches, there were ancient baths and hot sulphur springs right in the central square. As we exited through vibrant streets the next day, I pictured Caesar lounging on the wall—competing with pigeons for space—being fed grapes. We were in the shade, so I was a little more relaxed about Camille.

  The first ascent was on asphalt and something was bugging Gilbert. He was walking alone and struggling—we were used to that—but today he seemed frustrated, angry about it.

  We hit a car park and he stopped by a trash can. He leaned on it for a few moments, looked at the hill in front of us, a narrow path winding steeply upward between dense trees, and dropped his pack. All of us—Camille included—stood, watching.

  Out came an oversized cosmetics bag and a hair dryer. He
dumped both in the trash, picked up his pack and started walking.

  Nobody said anything. I wasn’t sure if Gilbert had been a saint or a fool. Or what it made the rest of us: I’d checked Camille’s pack at the beginning but hadn’t said anything to Gilbert about his, which we all knew was overweight.

  I’d expected an outburst from Camille but she just shrugged, then walked back to the trash can. She left the dryer but rescued two items from the cosmetics bag.

  As if to bring home to us what Gilbert was still carrying, an hour later in a dark, moist section of the forest, swarms of insects surrounded us. Gilbert whipped out a can of repellent and sprayed us all. He seemed in a better mood. And he stopped to rest and take in the view when the foliage thinned.

  The climb, as usual, made for inspiring scenery—almost enough for me to want a selection of watercolours in my backpack.

  The woods were busy with largely elderly men filling baskets, and Gilbert engaged a couple of them in sign-language conversation.

  ‘Porcini,’ said Camille. ‘Italian for cèpes…mushrooms.’

  As we walked through Grognardo, a small town with barely more than a gelati store, Camille stopped at the first chapel. It was locked.

  ‘Where we are staying tonight is small—maybe no church,’ she said.

  I looked ahead: a steeple. ‘Seems there’s another one here.’

  There was another chapel—and two churches, one of which was open. Camille deposited her euro and picked up a candle but then seemed frozen before the Virgin Mary, where other candles were flickering or expired. Several minutes passed. Was she okay? I finally went up to her. We were alone, but I felt obliged to whisper anyway.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I have a problem,’ said Camille.

  Heat stroke? Dehydration? White bits in her brain running wild?

  ‘Do you know how many days we have? Before Rome?’

  ‘Why? Fifty? Maybe sixty?’