Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘So does this peace…help you with your MS?’

  ‘At first I thought it was a punishment. That I deserve it.’ Camille put her hand up to silence my protest. ‘But I am helped. I am a very small part of the world, not so important. But I feel—comfort that God has a space for me.’

  ‘So…how does the hostel fit in?’

  ‘I did not think I would receive any answers on the walk itself. But I have been praying and this idea was given to me.’

  ‘And Gilbert is supporting you?’ I said it as a question, though I knew the answer. I wanted her to acknowledge what he was doing for her.

  She stopped dead. ‘Would you stay with Martin if he cheated on you?’

  I stopped too; I could see what was coming. Camille was finally confiding in me, but it wasn’t about her big lie. I didn’t want to have my picture of Gilbert shattered. I liked him a lot. And, dammit, Camille didn’t have a perfect record with fidelity herself. At least I didn’t think so. Shit, I’d just assumed.

  ‘Gilbert cheated on you?’

  ‘He is not so much a saint. Perhaps the femme de ménage thinks so, but I do not.’

  ‘You had a…ménage à trois?’ I had a flashback to her wishing he’d flirt with the wine server.

  ‘Ménage is housework. He…committed adultery with the cleaning woman. The world thinks the French are cool with this, and perhaps we do not care so much what our politicians do. But the cleaning woman?’

  ‘Camille, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I discovered them. She was in a red negligee; it was not pretty on her. What sort of woman wears this to work, I ask you? To clean. She has her hands flattened on the refrigerator, like this, and Gilbert is behind her with his pants—’

  ‘Okay, okay! Too much information.’

  ‘And no discretion. In our home. Our refrigerator. With the meat and the cheese—’

  I gave Camille a hug as much to stop her telling me anymore as to show solidarity. She started walking and I guess she thought we were done. But if she didn’t stay with Gilbert, how was she going to run a hostel?

  ‘Could you forgive him?’ I asked. ‘I mean, like you said, he doesn’t flirt with other women now. I don’t know if I could if it happened to me, but it’s a very Christian…’

  ‘He can flirt now,’ Camille said and waved her hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have tried to forgive. I will if the Pope tells me to.’

  Shit. ‘What if the Pope isn’t able to see you, Camille?’

  She gave me a serene smile. ‘He will. I have faith.’

  48

  MARTIN

  At the end of a rainy day in the mountains, it shouldn’t have taken much for any accommodation to feel welcoming. But there was only one word for our hotel: grim. We were patently the only guests in a three-storey pile with faded paint and patching in different tones applied like band-aids. I could have spent a year with my toolkit and not made a difference.

  I settled on reinstating a curtain rod, so we wouldn’t be woken by the morning sun. With the cooling weather, we were no longer under pressure to start so early.

  It wasn’t the first time in the Apennines that we’d encountered a once grand hotel that had fallen into disrepair. A few days earlier, I’d chatted with the fourth-generation owner of a thirty-room establishment while Zoe sketched him.

  As Bernhard pointed out, the business model was simple: no staff beyond family, a fixed menu that didn’t require much in the way of fresh ingredients, only essential maintenance and if the plumbing or power failed in a room, close it off. Permanently.

  In the light of Camille’s ambitions, I found myself looking at this hotel with a different eye. The building had so much potential. It could likely be bought for a song. But who would fill the rooms? We’d still met only three Assisi walkers—two of them back in France, plus Grietje.

  The worn-out looking woman who was both cleaner and receptionist—and whom I suspected would morph into cook and server in due course—spoke no English or French. But she assured Camille that our request for dinner and breakfast, one vegetarian, had been noted.

  My success in persuading Gilbert to stay with Camille seemed to have given Zoe hope that I might solve the other half of the equation.

  ‘Men always think infidelity is no big deal. All you’ve got to do is convince Camille of that.’

  ‘And get rich running seminars on how I did it.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to see you’re thinking about the future.’

  Onward bookings were proving tricky in this part of the world: if the track had followed the coast through the Cinque Terre, we’d have had an embarrassment of riches, but this austere route didn’t give us many options. The others had become used to Camille and me being sequestered for long periods. At some stage I’d see if she wanted to talk about Gilbert’s infidelity.

  ‘Some stage’ turned out to be tonight.

  ‘Zoe has told you what Gilbert did?’

  ‘Broadly. She indicated that…’

  ‘He had sex with the femme de ménage. Against the fridge. With the meat and the fromage. In a ridiculously tiny red…’

  ‘Zoe told me. You must have been very upset.’

  ‘Of course. Who would not be? What kind of woman…’

  She’d given me an opening, though not one I was proud to take. ‘I suppose if she’d come to work dressed like that, she was set on seducing Gilbert.’

  ‘Sarah would not be happy with this argument. But I understand. Men are easily manipulated. But they should be discreet. And if they are caught, they must be sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure Gilbert is extremely sorry.’ If only about being caught.

  ‘That is the problem. He refuses to apologise.’

  ‘Gilbert, mon ami. You’ve got to apologise.’ I was meddling—I hoped in a good cause. I felt I’d become close enough to Gilbert to speak to him as a friend, and that Camille was expecting me to deliver the message.

  I’d joined him in the bar, and our Jill of all trades had furnished us with an unlabelled bottle of red wine. With the problem—and the obvious solution—laid out in front of him, he was, unbelievably, prevaricating.

  ‘This is in the past. Recently…there are things I am not able to share but you can guess. Our relationship has improved and I am now certain that everything will be okay.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m telling you, it’s still an issue for her. She’s told Zoe. She’s told me. How hard is it to just say “I’m sorry—I made a mistake”?’

  I’d only seen Gilbert angry once before, when he dumped the hairdryer, and this time it was only a flash, quickly replaced by something sadder. He took a long, contemplative, sip of his wine.

  ‘The story of the housekeeper is not true. I was forced to fire her, which was financially difficult and embarrassing for her. And morally wrong. She is a good person; if you met her, you would know how ridiculous the story is.’

  ‘Camille made it up?’

  ‘I came home for lunch, and our housekeeper told me she had found Camille’s…clothing in the refrigerator.’

  I had to ask. ‘Red?’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘When Camille arrived home, I asked her to explain. She accused Nadine, our housekeeper, of stealing her clothes. Habitually. So Camille had hidden them in the refrigerator. Which, as you can see, makes no sense. Perhaps a coat, perhaps a dress, money, but I don’t think anyone would steal underwear. And obviously, our housekeeper would look in the refrigerator in the course of her work.’

  ‘So this was part of the illness? What she did and also the story she made up?’

  ‘They were early signs. Though we didn’t understand that. We argued and…I left. I walked out. Then the story became what it is now. Later, we learned about the disease, and I returned, as you know. I am sorry for leaving, but I cannot apologise for the thing I did not do.’

  We were quiet for a while, just drinking, before I spoke. ‘You think she really believes it happened in the way she told Zoe?’


  ‘I’m sure of it. Camille is not a liar.’

  ‘You wouldn’t consider just apologising, for the sake of peace? You know what they say: it’s her truth.’

  It was Gilbert’s turn to leave a long silence. ‘You believe I would do anything for Camille?’

  ‘Well, so far you’ve been bloody heroic. She’s upstairs getting changed and I guess you carry those evening clothes.’

  Another nod. ‘And I am prepared, if necessary, to establish a gîte. But if I confessed to being unfaithful to Camille, it would’—he switched to French—‘as you say, it would become the truth, and then I could not live with myself.’

  At 7 p.m. we were—all of us—seated at the table that had been set for six. Two other tables in the cavernous room were ready for four. A fire would have added a welcome touch of warmth, both physical and atmospheric, but the fireplace was clean and empty. On a Saturday night.

  There was no sign of our host. A shabbily dressed guy of about sixty wandered in and, finding nobody behind the bar, headed into the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s see if anybody else turns up,’ I said.

  ‘Why else would you put out the tableware?’ said Bernhard.

  ‘Hope.’

  ‘Spoke too soon,’ said Sarah. A petite, well-dressed woman of about fifty rushed in the door, tossing aside an umbrella and hanging her coat on the hook.

  But instead of waiting to be attended to, she headed for our table. ‘Mi dispiachi, excusez-moi, sorry. English?’

  ‘Si,’ said Camille, confusingly.

  ‘My sister is looking after you?’ She didn’t wait for a reply; I imagined she didn’t want one. ‘We will start with prosciutto and then I will make you some pasta. Pasta with pesto or ragù or mushrooms, and then veal…’

  ‘I’m vegetarian,’ said Zoe. As I’d expected, the earlier message hadn’t got through.

  ‘That is not a problem. I will make some melanzana—aubergine—and mozzarella.’

  And, presumably solo in the kitchen, she proceeded to do that.

  Dinner was brought to us, awkwardly, by our dishevelled man. Gilbert persuaded him to find a labelled bottle of red wine, which he pronounced to be better than our pre-dinner drink.

  It was only at the end, with cake and coffee on the table, that our host reappeared to check that all was well, and to bring a bottle of grappa, not from the bar, but the kitchen.

  The other tables had remained empty.

  ‘Quiet at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘End of the season.’ She sighed and gave in. ‘Always quiet, now. Was the wine all right?’

  ‘Yes, it was fine,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘It was the last bottle of Barbera. It is too expensive to keep good wines in case somebody like you comes. The Barolo is too old to drink now.’

  ‘Could we try it?’ said Gilbert. ‘We’re happy to pay, even if it’s…tired.’

  She returned with a bottle, uncorked it and poured a sample, brown even from where I was sitting. Gilbert’s expression confirmed that there was no hidden treasure here.

  There was something poignant about the wine that had sat so long that it was past drinking, and the hotel and its staff that would sooner or later follow it.

  49

  ZOE

  CARTOON: Panel 1: An old woman sits alone in a large, mainly empty room. Sheets cover the furniture. On her lap is a photo album; there are tears in her eyes. She is so absorbed in her memories that she does not hear the banging on her door. Panel 2: Outside the four-storey house it is raining heavily. There are pellegrini—drenched and shivering. A young man has an arm around a young woman, sheltering her; they are warming each other. Another woman is banging on the door, while an older man is trying to use his coat as an umbrella for her but the wind is blowing it out of his hand. The other couple stand close together, deciding if they should look for somewhere else to go.

  STORY: Alessandra walked to Rome with her husband to thank God for saving their child, who survived leukaemia. They told God they would open a hotel for pellegrini and live their life as good Christians. But now Alessandra is alone, her child is far away, and she lives with just her memories—and the wishes that never came true.

  Something had changed. It had been there—a sense of departure and travelling into a harsher unknown—maybe since Passo dei Giovi, north of Genoa. Martin had warned us about the terrain. But now, I felt the sadness of the sisters and their dishevelled brother at their desolate hotel weighing on me. They had me thinking of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

  On my first camino, I had walked into spring. This time, we were walking into fall. Today there was a bleakness in the air, unlike fall in San Francisco, where glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge and even San Quentin through the fog hinted at mystery rather than grim months ahead. I guessed we had seen the last of the long sunny days.

  It shouldn’t have been a hard walk—only ten miles—and we were fitter now.

  ‘Gilbert says he didn’t do it,’ said Martin. ‘No infidelity. No games with the fridge. Camille made it up. As she does.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Wouldn’t you? I mean, Camille has form. Not her fault…’

  ‘I know, but you hear these stories of people who’ve got a mental illness or are disempowered and nobody believes them, and then…’

  ‘I’m happy to reserve my decision. I mean, in the end, if she believes it, what does it matter if it’s true or not? But let’s suppose he did do it, as Camille believes…I don’t know that infidelity should always be the end of a relationship.’

  I sat—or walked—with that for a bit. ‘Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing to declare. Yet. Hopefully ever. But don’t you think it would be good to have a relationship where we’d agreed in advance…like if one of us screwed up? Bloody hell, before I dig a bigger hole, all I’m saying is, I think I should have been more understanding of Julia—about the affair. Not that I want her back. Just that I was a bastard to her; there was no way back after that. Maybe love—their love, our love—could be a bit bigger.’

  We walked a bit while I processed what he’d said. In principle, he was probably right. I wasn’t sure I needed it in my head right now, with water trickling down the back of my neck.

  ‘Let’s say maybe and talk about something more uplifting,’ I said, tying my hood. ‘This weather is enough of a downer.’

  Martin laughed. ‘Wait till winter in Sheffield.’ Had he amped up the accent?

  Right now, the ‘pea souper’ fog I’d read about, obliterating the place for days, was not something I wanted to think about, let alone wait for. I felt a chill—right to my core.

  ‘Does anyone remember when we saw the last dove?’ asked Sarah, as we reached her.

  ‘There was one where we started climbing.’

  I peered back to where we had come from—a mile earlier—but the path was lost in mist.

  ‘Maybe…when it forked?’

  ‘What fork?’

  We all stood along the path or on its upside, among cow shit (how did the cows get up here or were they giant goats?), mud and tree roots.

  Bernhard and Sarah pulled out their phones as Gilbert and Camille joined us.

  ‘That way.’ Bernhard pointed up.

  None of us moved. ‘I really want to see a dove,’ I said.

  ‘This is the direction that gets us there.’

  Bernhard had a point, but there was no actual path. Just a climb covered in undergrowth. And cow shit, for sure.

  ‘I’ll go back,’ said Martin. ‘See if we missed a turn.’

  Bernhard went straight up. It was only a minute before they had both disappeared from view.

  ‘There is a dove,’ Bernhard shouted.

  ‘A dove and a path,’ came Martin’s call. We turned and went back. But before we found Martin we found the bull. Right on the trail. He had no intention of moving.

  We went up.

  The rain had been coming and go
ing all day, but just as we started the final descent, it set in, bucketing down on us. Out of the shelter of the forest, we had the wind to contend with. I felt a little smug knowing I had the best gear available and was warmly cloistered away from the elements, now I had the hood working.

  Until my shoes gave up. The seeping wetness was followed by a squelch every time I stepped. Then my plastic over-pants soaked through. Not only were my legs wet and cold, I was carrying extra weight with each step. Martin was in shorts, as he had been every day, and I guessed wet legs would be more comfortable and no colder.

  The water started dripping down my neck again and I began to shiver. I wondered if Camille would have the same problems with cold as heat. We were all struggling on the rocks and fresh mud: it was hard to know if she was doing any better or worse than the rest of us.

  When we finally arrived in Scoffera, the rain was still coming down hard and we had no idea where to go. It was a larger town than Martin had anticipated—but it was Sunday evening and everything was closed. Camille was becoming agitated as Martin pushed her to remember the instructions for finding our accommodation and I was getting pissed at Martin for not writing it down.

  There was only one person on the street—or rather in a doorway—to ask for directions, and I went with Camille. She and the woman had a long discussion in Italian before Camille turned and followed her inside.

  ‘Camille, what…?’

  Camille was taking off her coat and dripping all over Signora’s floor—Signora looked unhappy but resigned.

  ‘This is Signora Alessandra,’ said Camille.

  It took me a moment to work out what she meant: Signora had been on the lookout for us. I beckoned the others—and the floor was soon a large puddle. We were led up three flights—these places, even the sizeable hotels, were always walk-ups—and as I dripped along the long dark hallway I was already sketching in my mind. We had the top floor of one wing to ourselves, and, as we’d come to expect, were the only guests.

  ‘Turn off the lights you are not using,’ Alessandra told us.

  We didn’t need to be told to turn off the heaters—there weren’t any.