Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘Putain,’ Camille muttered.

  ‘Remember what we used to sing about Mary-Lou?’

  Camille looked at me blankly, then smiled. Sarah was right about short-term versus long-term memory; even if Camille forgot prayers—truth was she probably never really knew them—plenty of her memory was still intact.

  We sang the offensive song of our college days—Camille would probably have to light a candle sometime to make up for it—adding in a few variations about Italian women and their dogs, all the way to the abbey in Aulla. It was raining but Martin and Gilbert came out from the church to meet us.

  I liked the genial, fussy Gilbert. I’d thought he would be good for Camille, and his presence in her life took the burden from me. But Camille didn’t want to live her last days with him. That was her choice, and I would fight to honour that. No matter what it meant.

  I thought about love, and how love in later life was different to the reckless love of youth—because things got in the way. For Martin it might always be Sarah. For me, for reasons I couldn’t explain, it was Camille.

  ‘You know I’m there for you,’ I told her. ‘As long as you need me.’

  Camille smiled, but I wasn’t sure she truly understood what I meant.

  62

  MARTIN

  Zoe and Camille had come into Aulla half an hour behind the rest of us, looking shattered. It was a natural psychological response to the end of a major section. We were literally out of the woods: out of Liguria, out of the Apennines, which I knew Zoe had found a bit depressing, but which I’d found an invigorating break from the paths—or at least the towns—more travelled. And out of the rain, which had come down while we were waiting for our two stragglers. We were all feeling the sense of completion in different ways.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked Zoe when Camille had joined Gilbert.

  ‘Not really. I’m a bit over it. Everything.’ She stopped, and I sensed there was more she wanted to say and that whatever it was, it wasn’t good news.

  We were at the intersection of the Francigena and Assisi trails, and there was a church set up to welcome pilgrims. We had our credentials stamped by an official who told us that two thousand pilgrims a year passed through Aulla. I told him we hadn’t seen any of them.

  ‘They are mostly walking on the Francigena. Only two or three pilgrims a week on the Chemin d’Assise.’ Made sense. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you have a choice.’

  The Via Francigena more or less paralleled the Assisi route to just past San Quirico d’Orcia—another twelve days or so. After that, we’d need to make a definite decision about whether to continue on the Francigena or go via Assisi, as originally planned. ‘The Francigena is flatter, easier, a bit shorter,’ the official said. I knew which way Gilbert would vote, but what about Camille? It was her walk. It always had been, but recently I’d been more acutely aware of it.

  Gilbert had more immediate priorities. ‘What are our plans for dinner?’

  ‘Not pasta with porcini,’ said Zoe. Fair enough: vegetarian options had been thin on the ground and that dish had been her go-to almost everywhere.

  ‘Or wild-boar casserole,’ said Sarah. We’d had that a few times too. Good, excellent even, but it was possible there were more than two regional dishes.

  ‘The town’s large enough to have foreign restaurants,’ said Zoe. ‘Maybe we could get Mexican.’ She looked at Gilbert. ‘Or maybe we’re due for a French meal.’

  Gilbert delivered a look of hauteur, but also a dissonant message that suggested the advice I’d given him about openness to other cultures had been taken on board. ‘You want another tartiflette? We are in Italy and we eat Italian.’

  Which is what we did—a fine but not too expensive restaurant, which we felt we’d earned after the rustic fare of the past fortnight. Gilbert waxed lyrical, almost comically so, over the antipasto, the pasta, the veal, even the gelato.

  Grappa to finish: ‘Saluti,’ said Gilbert as he raised his glass. ‘And Camille and I have decided that we will take the Francigena. Her goal is to walk to Rome by a pilgrim route. And the Francigena has more tradition. In use in the eighth century, probably earlier. Older even than the Camino de Santiago.’

  I knew of their decision already: Camille had told me before dinner, so we could book ahead. But Zoe had also told me that Gilbert’s efforts were likely too late. I was still hoping they’d find a way through.

  Camille’s position was all too familiar to me. Even with Sarah’s wellbeing at stake, I had been unable to forgive Julia for her affair. I hadn’t been reasonable back then, and I couldn’t expect the reminder of Camille’s fling with Jim to erase the damage that Gilbert’s supposed affair—and, in my estimation, abandonment—had done.

  Maybe Sarah and Bernhard had felt the vibe. ‘If it’s okay with everyone,’ Sarah said, ‘we’ve decided we’ll stay on the Assisi route and catch you in Siena for the last leg. Can that work? We won’t be far away if you do need us.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Camille. ‘You will have your phones; if there is a problem, we can text.’

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Zoe as we left the restaurant. She’d been unusually quiet. ‘We’ll stay with Camille, of course?’

  ‘You can walk with Sarah if you want, but I’ll be staying with Camille. Martin, I’ll be staying with Camille as long as she needs me. I’m…really sorry.’

  63

  ZOE

  The Via Francigena might have been easier, but it wasn’t easy. Both routes left Aulla on busy roads with no sidewalks. After that, we were on a dirt track that climbed to give us views of the sea. I could smell the salt in the air, and though it brought memories of home, I was no longer homesick. I didn’t know where the walk was taking my life, but I felt stronger about dealing with the future than I had been. Though I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation I was going to have with Martin—the one I’d avoided yesterday while I tried to process what I’d promised Camille.

  It was strange without Bernhard and Sarah—and ironic that now Martin wasn’t distracted, I was. Actually, I guess we’d both been distracted by Camille for a while.

  There would be no muesli, and no comments on climate change and how the world was getting it wrong, from Bernhard—and no medical lectures from Sarah. I hoped we weren’t going to need them. At breakfast, as we said goodbye, she’d told me my leg numbness was probably meralgia paraesthetica and not to worry. I had been sitting my pack too low and tying it too tight, and compressing my lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. Obviously.

  After they’d gone, I’d shortened the shoulder straps and loosened the belt, and right now the numbness wasn’t happening. I wished Camille’s problems were as easy to solve. But the decision to stay with her and support her had brought me a sense of closure. It must have been in my mind, worrying me, bringing me down, telling me that the plans with Martin weren’t going to happen. Somehow, they’d never seemed real.

  I felt that all my chakras had aligned themselves with the decision. The weight I’d been feeling hadn’t completely gone and I hadn’t been set free, but I’d dealt with what had been troubling me. I would make the best of every day I had with Martin, while trying not to give him false hope. Camille and I had that in common now.

  She hadn’t said anything more about her crisis of…what? Love, faith, self-belief? She’d got up today to walk with Gilbert and was still lighting candles. Could I hope that yesterday had been just a moment of anger? It hadn’t seemed like that.

  Martin hadn’t mentioned it either. We paired up in the morning, and the first thing he raised was how many rooms to book. I guess that was one way of talking about it.

  ‘Two, if you need the space,’ I said.

  ‘Is that projection?’

  ‘You’ve done too much therapy.’ I started laughing and he wasn’t sure how to take it. ‘I’m happy sharing a room. But I’ll pay half.’

  Martin looked a bit sad. ‘Current arrangement seems to be working all right. And Sarah’s not arou
nd to see the back scratches.’

  Unless a miracle happened with Camille, this was going to be our last three weeks together. Part of me wanted to scream at Camille or maybe at her god—couldn’t he just let her fall in love with Gilbert again? My mother’s god would say it was what I deserved: losing Martin would be penance for my sins. If that was the way it went, I would miss him. More than I could bear thinking about right now.

  It seemed he’d got the message. ‘No plans. Back to the way we started.’

  Before the phone booth on a mountaintop between Italy and France. I blinked back tears and walked faster.

  We had spent the last two months in a pressure cooker and still enjoyed each other’s company. But I couldn’t ask him to wait while—what? That was the problem. I didn’t know. Camille could live for a long time. And if she deteriorated quickly, without Gilbert around?

  I had to assume Camille was still set on running a hostel, even without Gilbert. Martin had been great with her—but also made it clear she drove him nuts. Good in small doses. That would only get worse. I wasn’t sure how I would manage; I couldn’t possibly expect him to. Maybe it would be different if we had already been together in a permanent sense.

  Martin must have been reading my thoughts. ‘We’ll talk about all this. When you’re feeling a bit more settled.’

  Sarzana was technically back in Liguria, but it was way different from the struggling mountain villages. For a start, it was a lot bigger, and with all the history of substantial towns that had stood through time. The walls of the citadel and fortress spoke of battles and sieges, and I guessed the old town itself would have plenty of stories too.

  The four of us walked along the cobblestoned street choked with market stalls to the Concattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta. Camille and I handed over our euro coins and planted our electric candles. Mine was for Martin: he’d probably feel sinned against, though I believed I was doing what was right. Then the man I’d planted a candle for held my hand as we silently took in the Chapel of the Most Precious Blood, and the wood-panelled ceiling carved by Pietro Giambelli in the seventeenth century.

  On our way to our neat little modern apartment, Martin and I shared our impressions. I’d spent time looking at the oldest known painted Italian crucifix, from 1138, and Martin had, as always, taken in the architecture.

  As he described the small Gothic rose window, I saw it through his eyes; it was like adding an extra colour, one I had never seen before. Martin didn’t have to say it: this is just like in France, on our best Camino day. He knew something wasn’t right and was making it as hard as possible for me to say what I had to. Part of me wanted him to succeed.

  ‘I’ve told the others we’re eating alone. Found a little place you might like.’ He laughed. ‘Rated best Mexican in Liguria.’

  Yep, he was going to make it as tough as he could.

  The restaurant was not only Mexican—a cosy room painted burnt orange and with colourful calaveras, in the tradition of Day of the Dead—but big on vegetarian and vegan.

  I was loving my tostada vegana and Martin had ordered a second round of margaritas when he finally asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  I took a breath. ‘Camille wanted me to come to France and do this walk all along. I was always meant to be here.’

  ‘As a reprise of that cross-country trip. You’ve told me that. But tell me again.’

  ‘Like I said, she came to me when she was hysterical and felt her life was ending, and I helped her out. It was life-changing for us both. For me—well, it showed me what I could do, who I could be. Gave me strength to leave an abusive family where religion was not about love or forgiveness but about fear and hypocrisy. The Camino reminded me of that, how I lost that person for a while…for years. Camille needed me to save her then—and she needs me to save her now.’

  ‘You’re certain that’s what she wants?’

  ‘Part of her doesn’t want to think about needing a caregiver. But unless a man—and I don’t mean Gilbert, I mean a man she meets and falls in love with, and he with her, ignoring the illness—shows up to save her, I’m now Plan A.’

  ‘So what does that mean for you? Us?’

  I took a gulp of margarita. ‘She can’t come to the States—no health insurance, for one thing. So it means I stay with her. I know this makes no sense to you. I can’t truly explain why I need to do this. I love you; I want to be with you…’

  Martin’s expression was all ‘Oh yeah?’ and I couldn’t blame him. There was no disguising that I was choosing Camille over him. He shifted his chair back slightly.

  ‘I’ve tried to explain it before: Camille and I have this relationship.’

  ‘Thelma and Louise.’

  I managed to laugh. It felt right, horribly right.

  ‘I know you’re not big on this kind of thinking, but I feel there’s been something wrong with the universe and me being back with Camille fixes it.’

  ‘And I know you’re not big on my attempts at psychoanalysis…’

  ‘That’s not true. The opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Well, I think any therapist would say that—in their language—there’s something unresolved.’

  ‘So would I. And staying with Camille resolves it.’

  ‘Or puts a Band-Aid on it.’

  ‘That’s not how it feels.’

  ‘Fair enough. But I’m just wondering what the unresolved something is.’

  Martin let it sit, and we had a long silence that didn’t feel uncomfortable. On the trail we’d gotten used to being together without the need to talk.

  But I didn’t want to leave the question hanging forever. ‘When you help someone, you end up owing them something,’ I said eventually. ‘Rather than the other way around.’

  ‘I know what you mean. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s that. What’s the most important lesson of the Camino?’

  ‘One day at time. But…’

  ‘But nothing. Except we should have taken the long way to Rome.’

  64

  MARTIN

  Gilbert was waiting for me as I settled the bill in Sarzana. The women had gone ahead. I was expecting I’d be walking with him more often as Zoe made up for lost time with Camille, but so far we’d stayed mostly in our usual pairs.

  I hadn’t given up on Zoe: I just wasn’t sure what she was going to do and how I would find a role in that. There were so many variables, most of them tied to Camille’s thinking, which could hardly be relied on. Gilbert might yet come through—all else being equal, I suspected Camille would plump for a man over a woman. She might rewrite history, as she did, in a way that put Zoe on the outer. And who knew what revelation she would have—or deliver—when we reached Rome.

  ‘Buongiorno!’ said her husband, hoisting his still overweight pack onto his back.

  Gilbert’s embracing of his inner Italian—which had extended to learning the key words for ordering food and wine—was providing entertainment for the rest of us, and I’d noticed Camille joining in the good-natured laughter and ribbing.

  ‘You won’t be needing that for much longer,’ I said.

  ‘The pack or the Italian?’ said Gilbert. ‘I’ll need them today, and I am not thinking any further.’

  I laughed. ‘You’ve been listening to Zoe and me. One day at a time. The first rule.’

  ‘The second. The first rule is not to pack a hairdryer. When your friend Monsieur Chevalier said the Chemin would set me free, I was a little insulted. And sad. I thought he was thinking it would set me free of my duty to Camille. But it has set me free from worrying about the future. I am grateful for each day. Who knows when God will decide to put an end to our days?’

  ‘It’s a good thought. For both of us with our relationships, too.’ I wondered how much to share, but our fates were intertwined and we—or at least our partners—faced much the same dilemmas. ‘I worry that Zoe will want to stay with Camille after the walk is over. To look after her.’

  ‘She has said this to
you?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Gilbert took his time considering the implications. ‘Better Zoe stays with you. We should encourage that.’

  I laughed. ‘I’m not going to argue.’

  Of course, I could argue. Gilbert might be happy to be Camille’s second choice if Zoe wasn’t available, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel having Zoe only because she wasn’t needed elsewhere.

  ‘May I offer some advice?’ said Gilbert. ‘It is likely that you know this already, but it is good to remind ourselves. Women appreciate persistence. And consistency. We should not allow our fears to undermine these.’

  It sat well with ‘one day at a time’. What was I complaining about? There were worse ways to spend one’s time than walking with Gilbert, planning accommodation with Camille—whose company I did actually enjoy—and walking, eating and sleeping with Zoe.

  My positive attitude lasted right through to 5 p.m., when Camille and I sat down to do the bookings.

  ‘You and Zoe are having problems?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I knew what would make her think that. Walking all day with Zoe telling her she’d given up on a future with me. No secrets on the Chemin. Except it seemed she wasn’t presenting it as a consequence of looking after Camille. Just suggesting she’d be free and waiting for Camille to take up the offer.

  Which apparently she hadn’t. Had Camille not got the message? I certainly wasn’t about to clarify it for her.

  I shifted the conversation to my preferred option: ‘Things seem a bit better between you and Gilbert.’

  ‘He is a decent man. I should be grateful, no? But if I was not sick, nobody would be saying that. They would say follow your heart, not be thankful you have somebody. And if I leave him, I will be doing him a favour.’

  ‘I think if you left him for that reason, you wouldn’t be doing anyone a favour. Gilbert says he wants to stay with you, and I believe him. Perhaps he feels he has to atone for the mistake he made in leaving you. And you would understand about atonement. And forgiveness.’