We linked up, all six of us, for the final stage. At a narrowing of the track, as we instinctively began to split into pairs, I could feel Sarah about to say, ‘Can I talk with you for a few minutes?’ Which she duly did, but added, ‘You and Zoe. I mean, if Zoe’s interested.’
‘If you’re okay with me listening in,’ said Zoe.
‘That’s what I said. I mean, sure.’
We separated ourselves from the other three.
‘Everything okay?’ I said.
‘Definitely.’
‘I thought so. Anything happen?’
‘We got secretly married in San Gimignano.’ I almost believed it. ‘Seriously, we talked about some stuff. Stuff that was getting in our way.’
‘You want to share any of it?’
‘Since you ask…mainly parents.’
No surprise there. ‘They fuck you up.’
‘Dad!’
‘It’s from a poem. A very famous and accurate poem by Philip Larkin. I can say fuck when it’s English literature.’ Plus, my daughter was now an adult. I could say fuck to her now.
‘It’s never going to sound right, you saying it.’
‘Have you spoken to your mother?’
‘The fuck I have.’ I cringed and she laughed. ‘Not quite right…No, not yet. I thought you might like to finish the Chemin in peace. Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about…A while ago you asked how I felt about Bernhard, and what that had to do with my plans.’
‘And you gave me a good answer. Have things changed?’
She laughed. ‘No, same answer, but more so. We’re committed to each other, like for now anyway…and I’m definitely going to study engineering next year.’
‘Well, glad you’ve reflected on it.’
‘What you said, about would I be doing it if not for Bernhard. It’s a super-tough question. I guess we’re going with the person who’s more passionate. And the thing that’s best for the world.’
Did Sarah want my permission to push back? Or my approval to make her feel more secure in what she was doing?
I was still thinking about it when Zoe spoke up. ‘I guess it feels like a huge decision. Which it is, but sometimes, even if you make the wrong choice, you eventually circle back to what you really want.’
‘So, you guys are doing okay?’ She laughed. ‘That’s good.’
In terms of our relationship right now, yes. Our future wasn’t looking quite as uncomplicated. I suspected Sarah was in a similar position.
‘It’s probably going to come and go for Camille,’ said Sarah, as we arrived at our hotel. I’d confirmed that there was another room available, and as Bernhard registered it struck me that something had changed. They looked like a…couple. Bernhard and Sarah. An unexpected outcome of my two caminos.
‘How long before we know if she’s going to improve?’ I asked Sarah.
‘How long’s a piece of string? MS is really strange. Could be tonight, could be never. Maybe a physiotherapist will pull off a miracle, maybe the Pope will. It’s literally all in her head, but she has no control over it. I have this feeling she’ll be able to go on, but she’ll either just make it or just not make it. But it’s only a feeling.’
‘If the feeling is wrong,’ said Bernhard, ‘Sarah and I will take the train to Florence and then to Mâcon, and return with the cart.’
‘Which cart?’ Bloody hell, it came out before I could stop myself.
‘The superior one, obviously,’ said Bernhard.
I felt myself getting angry. Unreasonably angry. ‘Can’t you just for one moment…’
‘Dad.’
‘What’s the problem?’ said Zoe, appearing from nowhere with Camille, who seemed to be walking unaided.
‘We’re talking about getting the cart…a cart…for Camille,’ I said.
‘I don’t need to ride on your cart. I am fine. I am walking to Rome.’
If I’d been feeling like a tourist for the past few days, at least after 3 p.m., Siena rubbed it right in. Specialist wine stores everywhere, truffle tastings and, of course, the restaurants. I didn’t need another antipasto, pasta and steak, so when Camille joined me to do the bookings—easy now we were in tourist country—and announced that she and ‘the girls’ would be making their own plans, I was happy to take the opportunity of a night off.
Gilbert had other ideas. ‘We are on our own. Three men. We should find a bar that serves good beer.’
‘I might pass,’ I said. ‘I need to get my hair cut.’ In France, every tiny village seemed to have a hairdresser, but they were not as ubiquitous here. You needed a decent-sized town. But by the time you got in at the end of a day, showered, changed, did onwards bookings, washed clothes…
‘Good idea,’ said Gilbert. ‘It’s Camille’s birthday next week and I will make a reservation at a fine restaurant for that occasion. The restaurant will not care, but Camille will notice.’ He pointed to Bernhard. ‘For you too. You don’t want to wait until Sarah complains about your appearance.’
‘She can cut my hair if she thinks it needs cutting.’
‘If you wait for your girlfriend to do that, she’ll think you’re a slob. A man should take care of his own appearance.’
We ended up at a barber in the middle of town and, through poor selection, language barriers or just being taken advantage of, we found ourselves lined up in chairs having the full hairdresser treatment, wash, blow dry and all.
Gilbert was in the middle. It felt like a set-up for talking about our relationships, which were all either new, in jeopardy or, in my case, both—except that Bernhard’s happened to be with my daughter.
Gilbert opened with the other topic on all of our minds. ‘I am thinking Camille will make it. Thanks to everybody’s help. But none of us should feel responsible if she doesn’t. The disease does not respect our ambitions.’
‘She would not have made it without you,’ said Bernhard. ‘We see some of what you do. It must be hard work.’
‘I am lucky. The disease is terrible, but it has given me time with my wife. I am not a practising Catholic, but I have a belief, and I have trouble understanding how this gift can be given to me at such cost to Camille.’
I wondered if Gilbert would think God had given him such a great bargain as Camille’s health deteriorated and she needed more care. When Zoe had asked what I’d do in the same position, I hadn’t hesitated in responding that I’d do as Gilbert had. That was how I felt now—with the luxury of it being hypothetical.
Gilbert had more to say. ‘When we started, I thought it might be me who let us down. My doctor recommended less lunch and more walking…but he did not recommend the Alps.’ The hairdresser started the clippers and Gilbert was silent until he’d finished.
‘He said if I was going to climb mountains, I should make a will. I did this. And when I saw my son, I considered it could be the last time. We should always consider that. I send him a text message every day.’
‘I hope he appreciates it.’
‘Children don’t love their parents as their parents love them. Sometimes, perhaps, but it is not the usual situation.’
Bernhard laughed. ‘Sarah convinced me that my father fits this paradigm. It is probably true, but he is not good at…implementation. Sarah’s father has the same problems, but not so bad.’ He smiled—though there was no doubt a kernel of truth.
‘Maybe we all do,’ I said. ‘Have problems doing what’s right for our kids. Even understanding what they want.’
‘Partners too,’ said Gilbert, and that ended the conversation.
69
ZOE
When the guys went for a haircut, I’d planned to follow the sun around the Piazza del Campo and sketch—maybe the group of nuns I’d seen sitting on the wall there would still be chatting. I wanted some time to myself. I was still feeling uncentred by Martin’s proposal. Or maybe I just wanted to lose myself in the good feelings without having to think about reality.
Camille had other ideas. ‘Girls’ ni
ght out. On the way in, I saw a good bar.’
The place Camille had found was, like many of the stores, behind an ancient stone façade. It was a narrow space with a glass counter covering a vast selection of cheeses and cured meats. Three televisions, tucked between shelves of spirits and wine, were showing soccer games.
A few drinkers on the other side of the window were braving the cold weather to have a smoke. A family group standing inside with us was juggling a toddler and a baby being breastfed. Opposite the bar was a small bench table and three empty stools, looking out onto the array of people hanging in the cobblestoned shopping street.
‘Beer,’ said Sarah, grabbing one of the stools and putting her arms on the table.
‘We are in a sports bar,’ said Camille, ‘but we will drink like women.’ Camille waved to the wall menu of Bellinis, Moscow mules and everything else I’d ever heard of.
‘Sex on the Beach,’ said Camille to the bartender, who reminded me of the Puccini tenor. She looked at us and added ‘Tre.’
I’d figured out that the plates of snacks were free, and grabbed peanuts, chips, and what turned out to be fried artichokes and stuffed olives—unfortunately the stuffing was meat. Sarah, who had been checking out the television behind us, smiled sweetly to the bartender.
‘Can we have the marathon? It’s in Santa Marinella, not far from here, right?’
He handed her the remote and she flicked until a pack of runners appeared on the screen.
‘I know someone running in this.’
‘So, Sarah,’ Camille said. ‘Bernhard? Is he the one?’
‘It depends if you believe in “the one”.’
‘You are saying that if you do believe in the one, then it is him. Or it wouldn’t depend.’
It took me a few moments to get my head around Camille’s logic. Not dementia—she had a point.
Sarah seemed to have got it, too. ‘Bernhard is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
Like Martin was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Camille looked pleased: this was her type of conversation. ‘So, why: because he is tall and handsome? Because he is good in bed? German men, in my experience—’
Sarah laughed. ‘Because he is different. Not stuck in a groove.’
‘This is because he is young. Young people should not judge older people by the standards of youth.’
If someone had been eavesdropping on our conversation, there was no way they could have thought Camille had dementia. Smart observation, no weird stories, none of the tactlessness that we’d gotten used to.
‘And you shouldn’t come between Zoe and your father.’ Camille talked over Sarah’s protest. ‘You want to be the one to take care of your father when he is old and unpleasant and sick? My mother threw out my father because he was a plouc—a slob—and he came to live with me. Horreur!’
She’d never told me this. She’d told me that her father, a diplomat, had been distant even when they were in the same country, and that she had hardly seen him before he died.
‘Every day he tells me my cooking is not good enough. That I am not so good a housewife. That I need to make the coffee stronger.’
‘That sucks,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t think my dad…’
‘Then he gets depressed. Lonely, because I am at work. He calls me all the time. Then he kills himself.’
‘Oh my God—that’s awful.’
‘So,’ said Camille. ‘Be grateful to any woman who will have him. And if it is his choice…’
Sarah threw a look at me. Then, evenly, to Camille: ‘I’m not the one getting in the way.’ She walked to the bar.
‘I thought your father died of cancer,’ I said to Camille. ‘I thought he was still with your mother.’
‘Pancreatic cancer. From drinking too much. This was his choice, so…’
‘Did you just make up the story you told Sarah?’
Camille frowned, concentrating for a few moments, then laughed as if we were sharing a joke. ‘Perhaps it happened to my friend.’
I lost track of time and drinks. Sarah had been watching the marathon, but it seemed to be over and she hadn’t come back. Camille and I talked about things that had happened with our husbands and our children, how we’d survived sleepless nights, juggling multiple roles, worrying about getting older, not being attractive, about our fears for our children in a world plunging into darkness. All the things that letters didn’t do—the revelations and vulnerabilities that made for the closeness that helps women survive. Finally filling the space that had been missing between us.
‘I feel like we’re back in college,’ I said squeezing her hand. I realised I had done most of the talking.
‘We used to call you Lisa.’ Camille was fairly drunk, but she’d remembered something I’d forgotten about. Lisa from The Simpsons. It must have only been the first or second season, but everyone knew Lisa: the goody-goody.
She put her glass down, a bit too hard. ‘You were so straight. Not like my friends. You know that’s why I asked you?’
‘To help…’
‘Oui.’ She stretched it out: Ouiiiiiay. A long, long pause, then: ‘It was so awful, after. I couldn’t stay there. And then you got pregnant the next day.’
‘It was a bit longer than that.’
‘And you had a baby and then another one, and then I had one and then I couldn’t have any more and they took away Bastien because I was crazy, and here we are again and nothing has changed.’
I’d been the only one she could rely on back then, when she was surrounded by craziness and making bad choices—and, like she said, here we were again.
I must have been drunk too, and the drink gave me the courage to make the promise I needed to make. Again.
‘I’ll always be here for you. We can run a hostel together.’
I wasn’t sure Camille heard. When I looked up, she was face down on the bench table. And Sarah was standing over her.
‘Time to go home, old lady.’
70
MARTIN
I’d drifted off to sleep and was woken by the sound of Zoe stumbling, grabbing the bedside lamp and pulling it down with her.
‘Shit, who left their pack here?’
I switched on the light. ‘You, I’d guess, since it’s your pack on your side of the bed. Where have you been?’
‘Ooh, Mister Control Freak. Is this what you’d be like?’ Then an attempt at a Northern accent: ‘Where you been, then?’
Gilbert, Bernhard and I had washed our pizza down with a bottle of Chianti, but Zoe had apparently drunk a good deal more. Unusual for her.
‘Well, obviously—’
She interrupted. ‘Don’t get started on “obviously”. I have to tell you something before I forget it. You’re not going to like it.’
‘It can’t wait till morning? When we’re both sober?’ Meaning when the one of us who isn’t sober is.
‘No, I’ll forget it. I’m a bit drunk.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘No. Not just a bit. Did I say that? I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I was a lot drunk. But I said “just a bit” because that’s what you say. Not just when you’re drunk.’
I could see Zoe waking me in half an hour to tell me the room was spinning.
‘Spit it out. What do you need to tell me?’
‘I still love you.’
‘But you’ve got to look after Camille, right?’
‘Shit. How did you know?’
Zoe looked seriously the worse for wear the next morning, and I went downstairs to get her a coffee. Sarah and Bernhard were having breakfast, and Sarah made a beeline for me.
‘Can I talk to you for a few minutes? Without Zoe?’
Zoe’s welcome to join in hadn’t lasted long. ‘She’s still upstairs. You guys had a big night?’
‘Some people did. Dad, I’m really, really not trying to come between you and Zoe, and I know she was drunk, but you need to know that it’s all about her and Camille.�
��
‘It’s okay. I know. We’ll sort it out. She’s trying incredibly hard to do the decent thing by her best friend. Hard not to admire it.’
‘Dad, I’m trying to say…Camille wants you and Zoe to be together. Zoe’s pushing this thing, not her.’
Was it because her daughters didn’t need her? And she needed to be needed? Whatever the deep, underlying ‘something’ that was driving Zoe, she seemed to be set on a future as Camille’s carer, whether Camille wanted it or not.
It wasn’t that I wanted her to abandon her best friend forever, the bloody soulmate that she heard from when it suited her, but I did want us to make our plans together, not for her to go off on some path without talking to me first. Especially two days after I’d offered to marry her. The least I could ask for was a joint effort at finding a way through.
Sometimes it’s best to be direct. I told her, in pretty much those words, and from her reaction I concluded that we would be making our own ways to today’s destination of Ponte d’Arbia.
•
I hadn’t given up: I wondered how much longer I’d be saying that. I expected we would both have walked off the morning’s altercation by the day’s end, but in the meantime, I was going to push it a bit harder with Gilbert and at least establish how he saw the situation.
He raised it before I did, as soon as he joined me for breakfast. Zoe had already departed with Camille: I hoped they’d packed plenty of water and headache tablets.
‘I had to phone Camille’s physician this morning,’ he said. ‘To ask about the effects of alcohol poisoning on multiple sclerosis.’
‘Shit. Is she okay?’
‘The physician thinks there will be no change to the progress of the disease. You should be pleased with your daughter. She woke up Bernhard, and they aided her and Zoe to return to the hotel. Camille was extremely…floppy.’
‘Has she talked about Zoe caring for her?’
‘I think it is only to deflect me. If I make the argument that she needs me to look after her, she says Zoe will do this. But I don’t think she is serious.’
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