Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  Having set out from our little hut in the wilderness, I felt that bit more removed from the towns and villages, and was appreciating the break from the heat. Sarah was doing better, I was enjoying being with Zoe more than ever and we seemed to be progressing toward a future arrangement. Which left Gilbert and Camille.

  The blame for Camille’s sudden determination to become a cleaner, bed-maker and slave to the whims of impecunious travellers lay not with God, but with us and our talk of perfect hostels, into which she’d inserted herself first as cook, and now apparently as proprietor and chaplain. Plus my spiel on goals and the Zoe’s meditation sessions that had put her in touch with God again.

  ‘How serious do you think she is?’ I asked Zoe, suspecting I knew the answer. Camille had started the Chemin apparently on a whim. Zoe had thought she’d last three days, but here we were, seven weeks later, feet pointed to Rome.

  ‘I’m half-jealous. I sort of indulge myself daydreaming about it on the trail, and when we stay somewhere that feels like it needs a little love, I think: I could really fix this place up. I did that a lot on the first camino, when there were more real hostels.’

  ‘I think everybody does. When I’m doing a repair, and I can see that it’s been neglected…same thing.’

  ‘But, seriously,’ said Zoe, ‘when Camille came out with it, it was probably the first time I’d thought about the practicalities—and not just the problems with her health.’

  ‘Come on. You led the cheer squad last night.’

  ‘I felt I had to be positive. But Bernhard’s right. It doesn’t make sense financially.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Sure. You’ve heard him. Not enough pilgrims; you need a big place, which is going to cost a heap to buy and maintain…’

  I made the obvious refutation. ‘People do it. And if you want more creative solutions, you could sublet accommodation by the night to get started, which is what I think the guy in Campo Ligure was doing. Or you might lease something long-term, like that old chateau…’

  ‘I get it,’ said Zoe. ‘But subletting accommodation by the night…I don’t think that’s where Camille’s at.’

  ‘More about pilgrims around a long table, talking about life.’

  ‘Like she’s never done with us.’

  ‘Bit unfair. She knows we’re a bunch of heathens—in your case, something worse.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Zoe.

  ‘You’re anti-religion. The rest of us are happy to ignore it or take the bits that resonate.’

  ‘Seriously, I got over that last time. You’ve seen me in the churches, lighting candles. I’m okay with the history and the spirituality. As long as I don’t have to deal with the establishment…’

  ‘The point I’m making is that she’s been reasonably private about her faith, and I don’t think anyone’s complaining.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Zoe. ‘Anyway, there’s a bigger problem.’

  ‘Gilbert.’

  As Zoe had raised her glass to Camille’s success, I’d looked at our usual proposer of toasts, who patently hadn’t been consulted. The ever-doting husband, for whom nothing was too much in the service of his life partner, was wearing an expression that said: ‘This might be a bridge too far.’

  ‘I’m sort of surprised,’ said Zoe. ‘I mean, once you get past the idea of how…unexpected…it is, like you said, people do it. She can cook; she’s run a household; she speaks languages. Gilbert’s owned a business; he’s used to customer service and money and regulations. It wouldn’t have to be in Italy—it could be in France…It’s not as crazy as it sounds.’

  ‘Until you take Gilbert out of the equation. Then you’ve got a single woman with unpredictable physical-health problems and cognition issues. Sarah tells me she might not be able to live alone, even now, because she could leave the gas on or take an accidental overdose.’ I thought back to the trip Gilbert and I had taken to retrieve the pills he’d forgotten. ‘I think he’s already hiding a lot of that stuff from us.’

  While we were pondering how they’d spend the rest of their lives, Gilbert and Camille caught up.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Gilbert.

  ‘No,’ I said, backtracking to before we were talking about the problem. ‘Just taking a little break to appreciate where we are. Sometimes we’re so busy with our navigation or how far to the next stop or thinking about what we’re going to do for dinner that we forget to—as we say in England—smell the roses.’

  ‘Not just sometimes,’ said Camille. ‘Most of the time. You are a wise man.’

  ‘Well, it might seem obvious, but the first time I walked, I was focused on getting to the end, or at least to each day’s destination, and worrying about what I’d do when the Camino was over. I can thank Zoe for opening my eyes.’

  Zoe squeezed my hand and I made a point of smelling the metaphorical roses. Then I let her walk off with Camille while I prepared to persuade a man to change his life because his wife had got a message from God.

  45

  ZOE

  CARTOON: A middle-aged man: large, hairy chest with gold chains peeking out of a too-small shirt, hair slicked over a bald patch, oversized watch, feet in Gucci loafers—a caricature of an Italian American. He is standing in the courtyard of a three-storey house with high brick fences and security cameras, incongruous in a rural setting, holding a bottle of wine in each hand.

  The pellegrini are his guests, awkward, not comfortable in the accommodation or with the hospitality. An overweight man attacks his blisters; a woman, separate to the others, with pen and paper, looks lost; a younger man looks at Signor with frank dislike. A woman, only visible from the back, is taking in a picture of the Madonna on the wall—the Madonna’s face is suffused with light. A younger woman holds her hand. A bearded man is close to the woman but contemplating the young woman with what looks like concern.

  STORY: Roberto was born in the US but has returned to his roots in Italy, where his retirement will be funded by tourists renting his properties. His house is large, gaudy and decorated with posters of stills from The Godfather.

  The pellegrini have been travelling for a month. They came for different reasons and the Chemin brings them together each day, yet they are further apart than ever. They search for love and meaning but find their lives obstruct the path: responsibility, guilt and the past hang over them.

  The Chemin has yet to provide them with an answer, and the accommodation and owner remind them of the commercial world they have left behind. How do they reconcile that world with the peace they feel in the abbey hostels and at homes offering a pilgrim’s welcome?

  If a village could have suburbs, Roberto’s B&B was in one, or had created one for itself, at the edge of the wild. High fence, cameras, graphic of a guard dog. I entered the security code we’d been given, dumped my pack and followed the instructions in the communal kitchen to the retail strip half a mile away. No dog.

  I’d offered to fix dinner, and the town had sounded big enough to have a supermarket. It wasn’t. Just one tiny store with basic stuff—not much fresh. I’d picked the wrong evening to show off my cooking skills.

  ‘Antipasto,’ I said, when I returned and had started opening jars of pickled vegetables. ‘Salami for the carnivores. After that, pasta with pesto. It’s all they had. Bananas for dessert—same deal. And no wine.’

  I wasn’t being totally truthful. There had been wine in the shop, but I didn’t know what Gilbert would think of it and he wasn’t going to have a night off unless he was forced to. At home I drank alcohol only once or twice a week, but since we began walking we’d had wine every evening.

  ‘Meditation class after dinner to help us sleep,’ I added.

  I hadn’t even served the appetisers when Roberto arrived. With three bottles of wine.

  ‘Always wine,’ said Gilbert. ‘We will need it to survive the next days of mountains.’

  ‘And to sleep,’ said Camille.

  I wasn’t
going to win this one.

  ‘Three guest rooms,’ said Camille. ‘Italians have many children. So they must have big houses. Not too much to clean, but I would prefer that this was a dining room with a separate kitchen. Close to the village…’

  ‘You might want to redecorate,’ said Martin. Marlon Brando loomed over him with the caption Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  ‘Of course. I am sure I could persuade Roberto.’

  What was Camille saying? I guess moving in with Roberto would be one way of getting into the hostel business. But she was smiling. Just kidding. Her spirits had lifted since her announcement. And she definitely hadn’t forgotten about the idea.

  ‘You’d consider Italy for your hostel?’ I said.

  ‘Of course. Or Spain.’

  ‘Only if there is nothing suitable in France,’ said Gilbert. He was smiling. A little.

  I did my best to send Martin a silent message. ‘You’re a genius.’

  46

  MARTIN

  Persuading Gilbert to get on board with Camille’s hostel plans hadn’t been difficult—nor had I expected it to be, though I was happy to take any credit on offer. Camille’s announcement had caught him by surprise, and it wasn’t in his nature to commit to anything until he’d thought about it. But his devotion to his wife was always going to win.

  We’d talked about the positives: his business experience; his financial position, which was apparently strong enough to support the project; Camille doing something rather than passively waiting for the disease to progress. I sensed they were details—the clincher was that Camille would need him. Though I sensed that he hoped to get by on the prospect rather than the reality of a gîte.

  Roberto’s B&B had a washing machine, so we washed everything we could. As Camille and I sat in the courtyard after dinner, resuming our attempts to find accommodation three days in the future, we were surrounded by drying clothes. They revealed a variety of approaches to hiking underwear. Camille had wrapped herself in a bath towel. It was hard to say which was more distracting.

  I watched an email disappear into the ether, carrying with it a prayer that the hotel, which was not on any booking service, might still exist.

  Gilbert brought out wine.

  ‘Last night we had sex,’ she said, as he returned inside.

  ‘You and Gilbert?’ I wanted to be sure my towel-clad companion hadn’t confabulated a story that would cause me a deal of grief.

  ‘Of course! You are always making jokes.’

  ‘In that little hut?’

  ‘Ah…the night before. In Campo Ligure. When we had our own apartment.’

  ‘If it had been the little hut, you wouldn’t have needed to tell me.’

  ‘No more jokes. I wanted to know what you think of this idea.’

  ‘I don’t think Gilbert would forgive me if I discouraged you. But—it’s none of my business. And you two are married. Unlike the rest of us.’

  ‘I am not concerned about sin. Not that one. But I don’t want to give him too much hope. I am not sure if we will be staying together.’

  I avoided the cheap shot about the Catholic attitude to divorce. Camille was very decently trying to do the right thing by Gilbert. But…

  ‘I thought if you were going to establish a hostel, Gilbert would be a good man to have on the team.’

  ‘Possibly, but he only wishes to do this so he can stay with me.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you want a partner to do? Stay with you and help you achieve your dreams?’

  We were interrupted by a message on my iPad: the email had bounced. I took time out to search again for a phone number and found it on a B&B directory of unknown vintage.

  I punched in the number on my phone and passed it to Camille. She smiled: the line was still connected. There was a conversation in which no names or times appeared to have been exchanged.

  ‘No luck?’

  Camille tapped her head. ‘I don’t think she is very capable. But she says just come and there will be a room.’

  ‘One room?’

  ‘Plenty of rooms. It will not be a problem. So perhaps I might begin having sex with Gilbert again. What do you think?’

  I told her what I thought, again, and wondered which version of events to trust: surely she could remember whether or not she’d had sex for the first time in weeks a couple of nights earlier or whether she was just contemplating it. And I asked the more important question that had confounded both Zoe and me—and probably Sarah and Bernhard.

  ‘Can I ask what the problem is? With Gilbert?’

  ‘Of course.’ But she hesitated a long time before answering. ‘Gilbert is too…French.’

  I don’t think any of us would have disagreed—I was just surprised that it would be a deal breaker for Camille. However, her answer carried a message: ‘And there’s nothing you can do about that.’

  ‘I had sex with him because he has stopped complaining about Italian wine.’ Back to past tense. ‘And, well, it is not unpleasant.’ She laughed. ‘Life is short.’

  ‘So you haven’t given up on him. If we could get him excited about Australian wine, maybe…’

  ‘Ah, you are joking with me again.’

  Only just. He was such a nice guy, devoted but by no means a doormat—revise that, considering the hairdryer: a bit of a doormat—but still his own man, amiable, charming, uncomplaining…except about Italian wine. And he had dumped the hairdryer.

  Camille hadn’t finished. ‘If Gilbert wasn’t here, do you think Zoe would get me to Rome?’

  ‘Of course. Zoe and me and Bernhard and Sarah. You’re not thinking of sending Gilbert home?’

  ‘No, but I am always wondering: did Zoe come for you or for me?’

  It was a variant on the question Zoe had asked me when I decided to continue the walk. Her or Sarah? I had no doubt about my answer, but it gave me pause after I’d said it.

  ‘She didn’t think I was coming. She’s here for you.’

  47

  ZOE

  Breakfast at Casa Roberto was plain cookies in plastic wrappers from a bulk carton and packets of crackers with jelly. Bernhard’s muesli had run out.

  ‘Won’t be replacing that anytime soon,’ said Martin. ‘Into the wild, now.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s been first-world so far.’

  When Roberto showed up—in his PJs—I dared to hope that he might be bringing fresh croissants. But it was only the bill.

  I was thinking about what I had put in my drawing—it seemed obvious enough that the pilgrims were us, but why had I portrayed myself as separate and so lost?

  The previous night, under the watchful eyes not of Jesus but of Dennis Hopper, Martin had given me an update on Camille’s issues with Gilbert. I hadn’t done a great job of hiding my feelings.

  ‘You’re not happy that she told me rather than you?’ he said.

  ‘To be honest, no. I mean…’

  ‘I know: you’re the soulmate.’ I could see that he was going to say something more but had stopped himself.

  ‘Go on. Finish.’

  ‘I don’t want to discourage you from walking with me. But I was just thinking that, for soulmates, you two don’t spend a lot of time together.’

  He was right. I’d been conscious of it too.

  Martin pushed on. ‘Look, practically, maybe she hasn’t given up on Gilbert and wants to send a message to him—and figures I’m closer to him. Man-to-man or something. On the positive side, they’re still together today and Gilbert owes me a drink. If Camille’s taken my advice, they’ll be getting some shagging in.’

  ‘Shagging? You really call it that? English women would actually say, “I feel like shagging”?’

  ‘Maybe “I couldn’t ’arf go a shag.” Or a bonk. Or a bit of t’other.’

  I couldn’t help laughing. ‘So, ’ow about a bit of…the other?’

  Out of town there was a long, steep climb, and for a while we all walked in single file along a n
arrow ridge, following the Alta Via’s ‘AV’ markings in red and white. Getting alta meant climbs—seven hundred metres, according to Bernhard’s smart watch—with some really steep bits, and only the occasional dove to remind us that we were still on the Chemin as well. The day was mild and Camille’s balance seemed okay. Once again, Dr Sarah was with her.

  ‘Twenty-five-percent gradient,’ said Bernhard, after a short but tough section where I’d had to use my hands to pull myself up. Martin was using his sticks for the same purpose.

  In the afternoon, the track turned through meadows and woods, and we got our first glimpse of Genoa, a city tucked in between mountains with roads carving them up for access. And beyond it, the sea.

  We caught up with Camille, who must have let Sarah go ahead. Martin, without saying anything, walked on to give me time with her.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ she said. ‘We have walked to the Mediterranean. The Italian Riviera.’

  We paused and took in the view.

  ‘You know, you’ve been incredible,’ I said to her.

  ‘Because of the MS?’

  ‘That too. But if you’d asked me if I thought you could do this back when we were twenty, I’d have said, “no way”. I’d have said the same about myself—but even then, I might have visualised doing it. Sports weren’t a part of your life.’

  ‘This is not sport. And that road trip was a long time ago. You don’t know me now, Zoe.’

  I thought of how I couldn’t draw her. How Sarah had come between us. How there was something about her quest that she wouldn’t share with me.

  ‘Then help me out.’

  We walked on in silence. I felt the tension, but couldn’t put my finger on what it was, why she was frightened of me…or why I was scared of what she might say.

  ‘I never had much time for—I had not thought much of—the Church,’ Camille finally said. ‘But when I was told I had the disease?’ She shrugged. ‘Going to mass brought me comfort. I am more at peace with God than I have ever been with a man.’