It was a risky line to take—it went against her narrative. But I’d—only half-deliberately—managed to deliver a double punch with the mention of atonement, which touched on the unmentionable sin. She went silent for a few moments.
‘You are right. Though he has refused to apologise. And this is part of why I can’t truly forgive him.’
A chink. If I could persuade him to get off his high horse and apologise, just to her, for the imaginary affair, maybe she’d reconsider.
Was I being manipulative? To serve my own agenda? I was certainly getting close to the line, but I’d encouraged him to do it before, when I didn’t have a stake in the outcome. That said, from his point of view, nothing had changed since he’d refused to do so.
The ethical thing to do was to let Gilbert and Camille’s relationship find its own way without intervention from me. In the meantime, my job was to make every day as good as it could be. And I could hardly be faulted for helping Gilbert to do the same.
65
ZOE
I came down to breakfast in our hotel in the sprawling town of Massa, close to the Ligurian Sea, and found Gilbert sitting alone. I filled up a coffee cup and sat with him.
‘Is Camille okay?’
Gilbert nodded. ‘Still in our room. Martin is also upstairs?’
I nodded.
‘I know she is thinking to leave me. When we reach Rome.’
I felt my heart wrench. For him. And Camille. And myself. If Martin still had hopes for us, I could count him in too.
‘Has she…Do you know what she intends to do?’
‘I do not think she knows. Rome…the Pope…being set free. It is insane. Always she has had a need to commune with God, especially when life was difficult. But now? I think perhaps this illness has not helped her to think clearly. She thinks there will be some—’ He clicked his fingers. ‘She thinks you will give her the answer. She puts trust in you.’
Gilbert thought that in Camille’s mind I was up there with God and the Pope. Or maybe I was just easier to access. I guess he wanted me to tell her that the answer was him. I had tried and it hadn’t worked. She didn’t want me to give her the answer; she wanted me to be it.
How could M. Chevalier have been so wrong? I guess Camille would see herself being set free from Gilbert. Nothing I saw ahead of me was about freedom—more the responsibilities of later life. Other people’s welfare. Obligations. Personal integrity. Good things, important things, but not things that set you free.
When Camille joined us, I waited while she had her coffee and croissant, then set off with her. We were back in Tuscany, in the foothills of the Apuan Alps, and our walk was only a mile or two off the coast.
I needed to confirm that she was still intent on Gilbert not being part of her life before I turned mine upside down.
‘Things seem a bit better between you and Gilbert.’
‘He is being more accepting of Italian customs, which makes him a better companion, so yes.’
‘I mean, a couple days ago, you were pretty angry with him.’
‘No, this is not true. I was only angry that others were pushing me to stay with him. Including you.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
We walked a minute in silence before she spoke again. ‘If I did not have the illness, perhaps I would think differently, but I cannot allow myself to be tempted; we would both be thinking, always, that I had accepted him because of my need for care.’
It was an incredibly courageous thing to say, so at odds with my picture of Camille as flaky and…well, exploitative. I didn’t know if I would have been able to say no to Gilbert if I were her. And I couldn’t say no to her now.
‘Camille, what I said, that I’d be there for you—I meant it.’
She laughed. ‘You should worry about Martin. If you are there for me, he might not be there for you.’ And then, in a much more serious tone, an accusing tone: ‘I hadn’t thought you would bring him on this pilgrimage.’
‘Camille,’ I said, ‘I meant it. Believe me, if you need me, after Rome, I’m there.’
‘If you are serious, then thank you. But no, you have your life, you have Martin. I will be fine.’
She didn’t mean it.
‘I suggest we take time out here,’ said Martin when we arrived in a quaint town called Pietrasanta. We didn’t usually stop for lunch. But Gilbert was already heading to the café with Camille.
‘Eat later,’ said Martin. ‘This is meant to be quite an art town.’
As we’d entered, I’d noted Alba Gonzales’ multi-headed marble chimera, holding a dove, perhaps with pilgrims in mind, but the streets had many more modern sculptures—dancers, a girl on a swing, a crowd.
‘And I’ve read this is one church we can’t miss.’ Instead of leading me to the main cathedral, Martin pointed to an open door off the long mall.
At first glance, it was just another ancient church with frescoes. Then I looked closer. ‘That looks like a Fernando Botero.’
‘He has a house here, apparently. You like his stuff?’
‘Like it?’ Where to start? ‘The man is a genius.’
‘But do you like it?’ Martin was standing in front of a fresco that, compared to all the others we’d seen, was irreverent. The characters were quintessential Botero—some improbably, or impossibly, larger than life—the devil overseeing the chaos and the calvera-style woman, red lips grotesque over her skull. From the trough at the bottom, the head of Hitler poked out. Not something I’d expected to see in an Italian church.
‘Like isn’t the right word. He was transformative for me. The Abu Ghraib series…those works allowed me to survive doing political cartoons because I saw what he could do, what art could do in a political context…’
I must have talked for five minutes without drawing breath. Martin appeared riveted. When I finally stopped and asked, ‘Did that answer your question?’ he started laughing.
‘Inspiration for your own cartoons?’
I was already sketching in my mind pilgrims walking for their health, depicted in the calvera style. Maybe there was a book idea in this. When I realised that the skulled woman would be Camille, I felt less certain it was a good idea—though it would certainly be in keeping with the sombre mood of the Ligurian sketches.
‘And tonight,’ he said, ‘we’re going full pilgrim. Camaiore: walled town, established 190 BCE, and I’ve found a pellegrino hostel in an old abbey. Might be a bit spartan but they should have a nice stamp for our credentials.’
He was doing everything he could.
66
MARTIN
Chalk up one memorable day, the result of behaving as if I was a tourist planning my visits rather than a walker just taking in whatever I found. The hostel in Camaiore had been as promised, though we were the only pilgrims. Camille had spent an hour chatting with the manager, with whom she shared an interest in languages. It seemed the hostel plan, sans Gilbert, was still alive. And tonight, we’d be in Lucca, birthplace of Puccini and home of a major music festival. Back on the tourist trail.
The sun was shining without the oppressive heat we’d faced a couple of weeks earlier and we had a sense of being in touch with the sea. Beautiful as the mountains had been, the rain and chill in the evening had affected our moods, though I hadn’t thought about it much at the time. And Zoe was—again—walking with me rather than Camille.
Walking in Tuscany was very different from driving, and not just because I didn’t have to deal with Julia shouting at me to keep further left and passing me my credit card the wrong way around to put in the all-to-frequent toll machines. Not to mention a recalcitrant teenager in the back seat. On foot, the journeys between towns were serene, and the towns themselves offered a vibrant contrast at the end of the day, rather than feeling like oases after the soulless hours on the autostradas.
As for the recalcitrant teenager, I guessed that she and Bernhard would use their time away from my judgmental gaze to decide whether their fantasy was go
ing to become reality. Unless they changed their minds about each other, Sarah would be moving away. And then the only thing holding me in England would be my job. If I still had it: my leave application was apparently still in the works.
‘What about an apartment in Pietrasanta? Not Sheffield, not San Francisco, but a third way?’ I said to Zoe.
I didn’t need to look to sense her frustration.
‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘For a while I wasn’t sure about Sheffield. I got past it.’
‘So, we did make progress.’
Zoe laughed. ‘One step forward. Truly, I’m having the best time right now. I want it to go forever. The Camille thing—it’s not what I want to do, but…’
‘Leave it there. Just keep thinking about why you want to do what you don’t want to do.’
We’d said one day at a time—incessantly—but that evening I wanted it to be one minute or one second at a time. There’s a saying about knowing you’re going to be hanged in the morning concentrating the mind, and all four of us must have been aware of time running out as we listened to Puccini in the pews of an old church dotted with tourists, walls flanked with huge Renaissance paintings.
Tourist opera—a soprano and a tenor taking turns on the popular arias—but no worse for that. The singing was always more important to me than the spectacle, and Zoe was sitting beside me, holding my hand, the two of us joined by the music.
Here we were, two couples doing well enough, but stymied by the individuals’ need to be true to themselves: Zoe in her duty to Camille, Camille not prepared to compromise on love, Gilbert refusing to apologise for something he didn’t do. And me, demanding that Zoe’s love for me take priority over all else, including that duty to Camille.
Maybe an apology from Gilbert would break the impasse. If he was prepared to walk to Rome for her, prepared to be her nurse, surely saying sorry to someone who was victim of a delusion was more an act of kindness than of dishonesty. Unless, in the final accounting, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as Camille’s nurse.
And me? Had I given it my best shot? I’d never wanted anything more in the world than to spend the rest of my life with Zoe. Was ‘How about a hostel in Pietrasanta’ the best I could do? Patently not.
After dinner, I booked the best restaurant in what might be the most beautiful town on our walk, if not in all of Italy.
67
ZOE
‘You’ve trimmed your beard.’
Martin had emerged from the bathroom in our cute San Gimignano hotel looking different—in a very good way—and it had taken me a moment to figure out what he’d done. His hair looked neater, too: less sheepdog, more architecture professor.
We’d walked from one gorgeous Tuscan town sprinkled with history and magic to another, Gambassi Terme—a more working version—and now San Gimignano. It reminded me of Pérouges, without the guided tour. Ancient stone streets that seemed to be airbrushed to look new, and impeccably clean, unless you counted the confetti strewn over the steps and the piazza in front of the church.
We crashed onto the bed for a post-walk nap and were disturbed by enthusiastic noises from the next room. Maybe the new couple making an early start on the honeymoon. It was, sadly, the wrong side for it to be Gilbert and Camille.
The restaurant was hidden in a narrow lane a little way from the main square and we—just the two of us—were the first to arrive. It wasn’t a typical tourist trap. The menu by the door was accompanied by a certificate: M. Michelin had awarded it a star.
Gilbert and Camille had passed on joining us, and I wondered if Martin had correctly described what they would be missing out on. I felt underdressed. The sole of one of my lightweight evening shoes had come loose and flopped when I walked, and the elegant décor of modern paintings on a grey wall, beneath a chandelier, would have warranted a diamond or two rather than Tessa’s street-market dove.
‘And,’ said Martin, as we took in the ambience, ‘vegetarian options.’
He must have noticed that in the land of bistecca alla Fiorentina, vegetarians were not taken too seriously. Then he ordered champagne, a weird choice in Italy. He was being a bit weird in every way tonight and way too worried about whether the restaurant was okay.
I guess he knew this wasn’t my type of place, but the food was fine, though probably overpriced. We were finishing our primi piatti—which I told him was really good, so he’d relax a bit—when another couple came in.
Bernhard and Sarah.
The Assisi route twisted and turned around the Via Francigena, and it would have been crazy to miss such a picturesque town. But this wasn’t their kind of restaurant either.
We jumped up and did the heys and hugging and how-iseverythings, but something wasn’t quite right.
‘Where are you staying?’ I asked. ‘We’re at—’
Martin interrupted before they could answer. ‘Just enjoy your night, don’t mind us,’ he said, and I realised that if Sarah had told us that they were staying at the same hotel, on the same floor, it might have been too much information. Despite living so closely, we’d managed to keep our sex lives discreet. Or at least they had.
Martin didn’t ask them to join us. When we were seated again, with Sarah and Bernhard over on the other side of the room, I leaned over to him. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Of course. But it’s our night.’
‘I was thinking, this isn’t Bernhard’s usual style…’
‘Stop being sexist. Sarah might have organised it.’
‘You think? I just get the feeling it might be something special.’
‘Jesus,’ said Martin. ‘They’re too young to get married. I hope it’s Bernhard’s birthday.’
‘Maybe skip dessert and leave them alone.’
Martin was already looking a bit pissed—maybe more disappointed—but he agreed. There was half a bottle of champagne left, and he put it on Bernhard and Sarah’s table as we left.
We didn’t see Bernhard and Sarah in the morning. Gilbert and Camille set out ahead of us, something they’d started doing in case Camille got into trouble. So far she’d managed to keep walking—but the previous evening she’d been limping again. We had an extra coffee—I was getting a taste for espresso, a café lungo with extra hot water—then ambled out through the gateway and, after a mile along a footpath, turned onto a wide dirt track that took us over undulating fields and through forests.
It had rained hard overnight, but now the weather was perfect, a little cool but sunny, and in the spirit of the Chemin we enjoyed the walk, the countryside and each other’s company in silence. Until we passed a huge old building with a faded Vendesi sign. For sale. We stopped and looked at each other.
‘No hill to climb,’ I said.
‘Right on the track—Via Francigena and the Assisi.’
‘Great view.’
‘Enough garden for Camille’s vegies.’
I laughed. ‘It needs all kinds of work. Not Gilbert’s strength. And Italy. Gilbert wants France.’
‘Gilbert doesn’t get a say. Let’s just hope Camille saw it, fell in love with it, told Gilbert she’d do it with him as long as he apologised, Gilbert saw the light, knows a good builder, and tonight we’ll be celebrating their future. Not much to ask, is it?’
Or maybe she’d announce she was going to buy it and I’d be running it with her.
We came to a river and Martin said, ‘The guide says this crossing can be tricky if it’s been raining.’
I didn’t need a guide to tell me that. The trail disappeared into a dip that looked like we’d have to swim to get across. To our left, the stream widened a little and I could see the stone bed through the clear water. Not dangerous. But no way of doing it without getting your feet wet.
‘This is where the romantic hero rushes in and carries the woman across,’ I said as I started taking off my shoes and socks. My tiny towel was right at the bottom of my pack.
Martin paused. ‘Okay, I’m up for it. One condition.’<
br />
‘I dry your feet?’
Martin shook his head—and dropped onto one knee. ‘Marry me.’
If he hadn’t looked so serious I’d have presumed he was kidding. I opened my mouth then closed it again. He looked so goddamn adorable—he had to have been practising the sheepdog expression. Even with the trimmed beard.
‘I…you know…I mean…’
Martin stood up and quickly kissed me. ‘Yes, I know. I was going to ask last night, but…The offer stays open until St Peter’s. And until then, I’m assuming the answer is yes.’
With that he sprinkled a handful of confetti over my head and grabbed me—pack and all—tipped me over his shoulder and walked straight through the river.
I knew what I needed to say, but right now I just wanted to hang on to the moment. The universe really wanted to test me.
68
MARTIN
I’d now done all I could think of, and I felt pretty good about it. The marriage proposal had come from the right place: I was, like the others, being true to myself. It was all on the table now; let the cards fall where they might. Meanwhile, I’d try to learn the rules of the game. After I’d worked out what the game was.
We stayed in Strove, another attractive Tuscan town, in a nicely renovated boutique hotel and ate with Gilbert and Camille in a trattoria that was almost a stereotype of its kind, except for the food and wine, which were a class above what I’d have had at home. I couldn’t help comparing with the holiday in the same region with Julia in what had been, in retrospect, the twilight of our marriage. I was much happier with Zoe.
Camille’s ‘tired leg’ problem kept recurring, but we’d always made it home, so we chanced a longish walk into Siena, where we’d arranged to meet Sarah and Bernhard. We ended up parked at the side of the trail just a few kilometres short of our goal while Zoe tried massage, meditation and mindfulness in the hope of getting her moving again.
We’d been at it two hours before Sarah and Bernhard stumbled across us, whereupon Camille rose to her feet and pronounced herself recovered.
Two Steps Onward Page 21