Death at that moment was no longer a thing in the distant future but a realization of now. She was saying goodbye. Raphael had mentioned the feeling of overwhelming melancholy, or saudade, that the Portuguese describe as a loss of love, missing someone, and being without. It hit her all at once, this feeling. She crumpled on the red carpeted step, her head falling to her knees. Tears flowed, without resistance. She wanted to wail but knew it wasn’t the place. This restrained remorse seemed to her more appropriate and then she began laughing at herself. Who gives a good damn, she thought? I can wail if I damn well please. But, concern for the others in the church, fear that the security guards might take her to the American Embassy, held her steady. Later, she thought, once I’m in the woods or on a beach. Then I’ll wail.
Slowly, slowly she rose, her head coming up last. Taking a few deep breaths, she dared to look at her phone. The lines of messages were endless. Scrolling through, she saw the majority were from Adam, but also, even her parents had both texted. She lit the first candle for her mother.
After, eleven candles lit, flaming in small ways, their tender tendrils reaching up into the vastness of the cathedral, Clair stood.
Chapter 30
Adam
The flight to Biarritz was brutal, sitting in a cramped seat, for over thirteen hours, with long waits in New York and Paris. Too agitated to read or enjoy people watching as he normally would during travel, he could only pace while waiting for departures, and sit and stare during flight. Sleep came in spurts. He would jolt awake, finding his neck twisted, his head aching, mouth dry.
The taxi ride from Biarritz to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port was a blur, the stunning views offering no solace to his tired eyes. He had driven to Portland after meeting with Jet. The next flight out of Harbor wasn’t until the next day. He couldn’t wait. He caught a flight from Portland to Seattle, and from there to Biarritz. At least when moving he felt like he was doing something. And now, he was here, where it begins. In his hasty research of the Camino de Santiago, he learned that the medieval pilgrimage historically began in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. This must be where Clair is, or was, and not long ago, he concluded. He felt this in his bones.
* * *
‘Have you seen this woman, my wife, Clair?’ Adam asked at every opportunity, beginning from his first stop at the pilgrim’s office in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where he obtained his passport. He had told the office manager that he didn’t need the passport, he wasn’t walking for religious or spiritual reasons, he was only looking for his wife.
‘Everyone walks for a different reason,’ she had calmly told him. ‘You will need your passport for accommodations, food and drink, friendship along the way. Here, your first stamp.’
And she stamped a small, folded booklet, with the characteristic scallop shell on the front. Adam held the photo of Clair in front of the booklet.
‘Please, look. Do you remember this woman coming in and obtaining her own passport? It would have been about three days ago?’
Adam had rushed about, packing an old college backpack with what he considered essentials. He had googled enough information to learn he would need good smart wool socks, hiking boots, and a poncho. A warm fleece jacket, and windbreaker. Anything else would make the pack too heavy to carry across the mountains towards Santiago, in the late fall, early winter passage. A fool’s game, Ben had told him over the phone, when they had finally got a chance to talk. Neither Ben nor Jodie had heard from Clair. They were as shocked, saddened, and distraught as Adam at Clair’s decision to flee to Spain.
‘I can catch up with her, I know,’ Adam had insisted. I will walk far faster than she is able, and I won’t rest until I do.’
The woman in the pilgrim’s office looked at the photo. Her eyes smiled at him but her words didn’t offer comfort.
‘No, I have not seen this woman.’
‘But, are you sure? You must see so many; how can you be sure? Is there anyone else we can ask, another person here who might have met her?’
‘I am here every day and I would remember. Each face that arrives here at my door is like a work of art, holding the past in every line and shadow, and the eyes shine bright with future sights yet unseen. This woman, your wife, I heard you say? She is so lovely. I wish I had met her. I am sorry.’
It was late, the sky darkening. He was tired, hungry, disheartened. Hefting his backpack up onto his shoulders, he looked around. He was the only one left in the office, besides the manager. He looked at her name badge.
‘Consuela, I apologize for taking your time. Is there a place I can stay tonight? I didn’t make any reservations?’
‘Yes, here is a map, with the albergues noted. You can call ahead, and see which ones still have beds available.’
‘Beds? Do you literally mean a bed, not a room?’
She laughed, her face lighting up. ‘Oh yes, and it may be a couch or rug on the floor. That is the nature of the Camino, my friend.’
Map in hand, Adam walked out, into the cold evening, street lights revealing a city settling in for the night. The Pyrenees stood sentinel in the distance. Shops and markets were closing their doors, while the cafés and bars lit up.
He entered the first café he came to, sitting down heavily in a seat by the window. People strolled through the narrow streets. Most had backpacks and walking poles. The scallop shell hanging from their packs identifying them as pilgrims. Adam marveled at this scene. It’s an entire world apart, he thought. Why would anyone do this unless, like me, they had to?
A young man, dark hair and eyes, came to take his order. Adam wasn’t certain what language to use. The young man pointed to a placard where the specials of the day, as well as standing items were handwritten.
‘Would you like something to drink while you decide, sir?’ he asked in accented English.
‘Please, red wine,’ he said, ‘and a plate of the fish and red bean stew,’ he said, noting this on the specials. As an afterthought, he pulled Clair’s photo out of his jacket pocket. Looking at it himself, seeing it as though for the first time, he felt his heart tighten at the memory of the day it had been taken.
A summer day, late August, foggy and windy as the coast gets, when heat in the valley draws cooler air off the ocean, creating the marine layer. They were sitting on a fallen tree, its roots stretching up in a wild spiral. Her hair, normally tucked into a neat bun or held back with an elastic, was escaping that day, the fog causing it to curl and frizz, like a ring of fire around her face. A face that shone with delight. They’d had their first ultrasound. A boy. She had looked at him, and he caught her, a moment when she had forgotten herself, not Dr Mercer, not Ben’s sister, or her parents’ daughter. Not even Adam Gage’s wife. Just she, Clair, holding their son in her belly.
When the waiter returned with a large glass of deep burgundy, Adam held the photo out.
‘Have you by chance seen this woman?’ he asked, trying to hold his voice steady. It occurred to him that he might be taken as a creep, or predator. ‘She’s my wife and we got separated,’ he hurriedly added.
‘She is very beautiful but no, sir, I have not seen her. I would remember.’
Adam nodded his head, feeling it drop with the weight of disappointment.
‘You can ask Benzozia to help you find her. There is a chapel on the side of the Church of the Assumption, a few kilometers towards the mountains. Light a candle. She will help you.’
Feeling irrationally uplifted, he left the café, his belly full and his mind relaxed after two glasses of the rich wine. He knew he needed to find a place to sleep but his heart pushed him towards the chapel. Never a person of faith, of any kind, except in a fierce negation of anything that might hold him back from making his own choices, he walked with hesitant steps towards this new experience.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked himself, as an overwhelming feeling of yearn
ing, for what he didn’t know, overcame him as he entered the nave. A deep longing for his old self and way of life, already far behind him. Nothing to do now except relinquish any final hold on the way things were and be open to surprise. He had stepped across some threshold, here where the pagan met the sacred. Benzozia, Mother Dragon, standing beside a keening Mary, Mother of God. Falling on his knees in the aisle, he held his head in his hands, gasping for breath.
A hand on his shoulder, light yet firm, started him back into breathing. Looking up, he saw an older man, wearing a thick hand-knitted sweater, jeans, and carrying a leather wallet in his hand. The man smiled, his deep blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Adam noticed a small clerical collar peeking out from the thick collar of his sweater.
‘I was just heading out for a meal,’ he said when Adam picked himself up, sitting gingerly on the side of the closest pew. ‘Would you like to join me? Or would you prefer to remain here for a while? I don’t lock the church but it will turn cold in an hour or so.’
‘Yes, I would like to stay, please,’ Adam replied, surprised at his own meekness. He felt like a child again, like with Jet. Was he losing his manhood, everything about himself that had made him what he was? ‘Ah, I was told I would find Benzozia here.’
‘Oh, the superstitions of our locals. But yes, we do have iconography for both our traditional Catholic saints, as well as some for the Basque creation stories. Benzozia, Mother Dragon, is believed to be the protector of lovers, and if you pray to her, offer a candle and some coin, she will help you find your lost lover. Are you looking for a lost love?’ he asked, his face serious.
‘Yes, I am,’ Adam said as he stood, reaching into his pocket for the photo of Clair. ‘Have you seen her, my wife, Clair?’
The priest held out his hand. ‘Martin Lopez,’ he said, reaching for the photo. Adam first shook the offered hand. ‘Adam Gage.’ He handed Father Lopez the photo.
‘I have not seen her. A lovely woman. Why do you think she has come this way?’
‘She is dying. And she wants to be alone.’
‘I see,’ Lopez said, looking up at the sculpture of Christ on the cross. ‘So, why are you following her?’ he asked kindly.
‘I don’t want to be alone,’ Adam replied, just that moment accepting the hard truth. He wasn’t chasing after Clair for her sake. He had to find her for his. Realizing that it took this fear of being alone, to remember how alive he had felt with her.
Father Lopez nodded. ‘Stay as long as you like. I wish you a Buen Camino, whatever you find on your path.’
Adam sat until fatigue overcame him. Rising to his feet, he walked to the altar, lighting a candle for Benzozia, and just for good luck, one for St Jude, remembering from his own catechism during his youth, the good saint of lost causes. Hefting his pack onto his back, he strode purposefully out through the heavy wooden doors into the late evening chill.
He called the first albergue marked on the map and was relieved when he was told that yes, a bunk was available. It was a two-kilometer walk. The light was less than before, and shadows played before his passage along the narrow, cobbled streets. A noise like an approaching train seemed to fill every space. As he walked, he noticed gatherings of people, in store fronts, alongside alleys, talking and gesticulating with passion, voices raised in both laughter and argument. He didn’t sense anger, just the joy of conversation.
He found the hostel, was directed to a dormitory style room, with eight bunk beds, many already filled with both men and women. Finding the communal bathroom at the end of a long hallway, he washed up. The face he saw in the mirror at first seemed strange to him, then familiar. It was his original face, before all the affectations of trying so hard to be someone else created the mask he had long shown the world. It was Devon’s face. The broad forehead, deep set neon blue eyes, and wide, gentle mouth. He touched his eyes, his cheeks, wiping the wetness away.
Then he returned to his bed, to rest ready to begin his own pilgrimage at daybreak, leaving behind everything he had been and walk with new steps towards his unknown future. The snoring and rustling of the other sleepers didn’t keep him awake.
In the morning, cold and stiff, he followed the scent of strong coffee to a communal kitchen. Pilgrims gathered around a long, rectangular table, laden with eggs, cheese, bread, pastries, and an assortment of meats and salted fish. Helping himself, he found a seat next to a couple, sitting together in that way old friends have; a comfortable silence between them.
He showed Clair’s photo, sharing his story, eager for any information. German speakers, they nodded and smiled at her photo but were unable to offer any information. Gathering his pack, he set off, following the bright yellow arrows.
* * *
‘Could she have come another way? Is it possible she skipped you and went ahead, on her own?’ Adam asked when he reached his resting place for the night, twenty-eight kilometers into his first day on the Camino. It had been an arduous climb, mostly uphill through the Pyrenees. His feet, back, shoulders, even his teeth ached. He had reached the albergue just at dusk, along with a few other pilgrims whom he had either passed or been passed by on this first day out. The manager had taken a good long look at the photo then handed it back, his face showing his concern as he told Adam that no, he had not seen this woman.
‘Are there other ways?’ Adam asked, stunned at this unforeseen possibility.
‘Oh yes, there are seven main routes in Spain and Portugal that lead to Santiago de Compostela, and several lesser traveled paths. This one is the longest. She could have begun at any of the other routes.’
Adam cursed himself for not considering this before beginning what was starting to feel like a fool’s journey. Now, he was too far into it to return, begin another route. He would have to continue on. And, he did believe, with his heart, that Clair would have come this route, only because it was the longest, hardest, and by far the most heroic of the routes. She had a lion’s heart. She would not want to take an easy route.
Uplifted by these thoughts, he settled in for the night, depositing his meager belongings on a bottom bunk in a dormitory style room, with several bunks, most already taken. He wondered about leaving his gear unprotected. He took out his passport and wallet, the photo of Clair, and left the rest.
Dinner was being served at a shared table, large carafes of red and white wine being passed around. Voices were jubilant. Words in many languages. He was welcomed as he sat at the end of a long bench. A half-moon shone through an open window, casting shadows along the walls and across the floor. A large white dog lay on a rug by the fireplace, logs burning a slow blaze, casting soft illumination around the table.
He felt like the first time he had taken LSD back in college. Everything blending into one, voices, faces, stories, all part of the whole fabric of life. Like the tapestry hanging on his grandmother’s wall, each thread unique and different. She had once told him that life was like the tapestry, and we can only see the hem. We have to trust that the complete design will be visible to us one day. Was that what this was? He asked himself. Am I seeing the tapestry in its entirety, people coming together with purpose and vision, enjoying the simplest of acts, being human? Bodies fatigued, hearts full, minds clear of worry or lists. He considered passing Clair’s photo around but decided to wait. He didn’t want anything to change this moment, when he felt his aloneness connecting with others, and it was good.
Chapter 31
Clair
The way was more difficult than she had imagined. Grateful for her good shoes, jacket, and poncho, she felt the rain fall on her head, heard it drip from the tall, sweet smelling eucalyptus and pine trees as she walked through the dense coastal forest. She had paralleled the coast for many kilometers, then veered inland. At once, captured by the rich scents of dense trees, earth, and that ethereal something that passes between all living things, she walked, looking towards the skyl
ine, enjoying the sway and music of the limbs as they rubbed together like lovers. Catching herself stumbling over old flagstones mired in the damp path, she kept her eyes down, knowing a fall could be disastrous. Her bones were weakened by the chemotherapy and now, with metastasis, she was at higher risk for pathologic fractures. Slow, and steady, she coached herself, like the story about the tortoise and the hare Devon loved for her to read. Be the tortoise, she told herself. One step at a time.
The path wound steadily uphill, the forest growing thicker until suddenly a stream ran by, the yellow arrows pointing to an old wooden bridge. Crossing the stream, she found herself in a small village, where a local family had set up an impromptu café. They offered food, water, beer, wine, and toilet facilities in their home. Several pilgrims were sitting inside an open garage, where a fire pit glowed brightly. Coats, ponchos, even shoes and socks lined the walls of the garage. Clair sauntered through the doorway, not sure of her place. Immediately, several people waved her over, motioned to the hooks on the wall. An older man, smiling broadly, came up to her, speaking in Spanish and making hand signals towards displays of food and drink.
I must look like something the cat dragged in, she thought, but then, so does everyone else. Grateful to take off her wet outer garments, she dug in her backpack for a pair of fresh socks. Her feet, bright red, toenails blue, stung with heat and tingling, as she gently massaged them before putting on dry socks. The relief was sensual.
Joining a table where she recognized a couple, Bridget and Joe from Dublin, she had met on the path that morning, she helped herself to a slice of the local tortilla, a mix of eggs, potatoes and onion, giving herself over to the experience of being part of this confluence of beings, not needing to speak, or even listen. It was enough. For now.
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