Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  I shook my head more forcefully this time. I didn’t need easy. ‘No. I need solitude.’

  Monsieur Chevalier muttered something in French, then, ‘It is possible that you are right.’ I could see it took an effort. He had wanted to be my guide, but above all he was philosophical and spiritual, and I respected him for that.

  His next words surprised me. ‘You must still go to Santiago. There is a path through the Pyrenees, but it is difficult walking, not so well signposted. It is not part of the Camino; there is only accommodation for hikers and vacationers. So, you take the train via Bayonne. At Hendaye, on the coast, you will find the Camino de la Costa. It is longer and more difficult, one of the oldest ways, used in the Middle Ages to avoid the bandits. Only the last two days are shared with the Camino Francés.’

  He was still holding my hand. Longer and more difficult. Good.

  ‘Maybe it’s what I need,’ I said. If fate had sent Monsieur Chevalier all the way from Cluny with a message, I would listen to it and worry about the flight home later.

  He hugged me and kissed my cheeks. ‘I will see you in Santiago,’ he said. ‘Bon Chemin.’ Then a smile. ‘Buen Camino.’

  ‘Camille?’ Margarida had loaned me her cell phone.

  ‘Zoe! Soon I will be there, just some hours. Then Paree. We will take two days to drive there—a road trip in France—then a day for shopping.’

  ‘Camille…’ I felt bad for her, hoped she hadn’t driven too many miles already, but I had to do this. ‘I’m sorry to mess you around, Camille, but I had to change my plans.’

  After saying goodbye to the Brazilians, I returned to the hostel and discovered that all the packs had been moved, mine included.

  ‘Where are they?’ I asked the hostel supervisor.

  ‘People leave. They take their packs. Or have them transported.’ She saw my alarm. ‘There was a bus that took the Americans’ packs. It is possible…’

  ‘Where?’ I could feel panic welling up.

  ‘I do not know. The bus takes the walkers to the top of the mountain, so they only walk down. No climb. The backpacks are going to their hotel. Maybe Roncesvalles. They are travelling to Santiago in one week, so it is possible the bus will take them further.’

  My pack must have been swept up with the rest. The stars and stripes on the top wouldn’t have helped.

  If they were using transportation, they wouldn’t be limited to hotels on the track. They could be going anywhere. When would they work out they had an extra pack? Would anyone recognise it as mine? Maybe they’d send it back to the hostel. The supervisor let me use the internet to track down details for Americans on the Camino but all I could find was an email address and phone numbers for the US. It was after midnight on a Friday in LA. I sent a message, but whatever happened it was going to be a while before I saw my stuff again.

  I did a stocktake. I was in walking clothes, but sneakers, not walking shoes. I had started the Camino in these and they had been okay. I had no change of clothes but I could wash what I had every night and wear them wet if I had to. But no sleeping bag or wet-weather gear. I had 275 euros in my pocket and no money in the bank.

  ‘One of the Americans,’ said the hostel woman, interrupting my thoughts, ‘left some things here. The young man is carrying his pack. Unlike the others.’

  Looking at what Todd had discarded, I wondered if he had bought the sketch as an explanation to his parents. There was a down sleeping bag—‘Too hot for Spain,’ said the supervisor—a sleeping mat, T-shirts, Chicago Bulls sweater, thermos, deodorant, sunscreen, shampoo and conditioner, insect repellent, a bottle of bourbon, two boxes of Oreos, a whistle, large flashlight, metal mess kit, two pairs of walking socks still with their tags and a pair of sandals. And three books on the Camino.

  ‘Keep the books and the sandals,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the rest.’

  I used the hostel’s computer to email my travel agent. She had said my ticket couldn’t be changed a second time but I had to try—and I had a bigger favour to ask, as I would now need to fly out of Santiago. I went for the last day of my visa: May 13. Friday the 13th. Great. I scanned a cartoon of me begging, in pilgrim gear, and hoped she was religious. Or had a sense of humour. Then I wrote a short email to the girls, assuring them that I was getting plenty of help and support, and not to worry about me.

  At the Pèlerins’ Boutique, I spent half of my money on thermal leggings, a basic pack, and a poncho to cover it and me. Back at the hostel, I stuffed it full of Todd’s leftovers. The hostel supervisor looked at me sympathetically. ‘Stay here, for free, tonight,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the backpack will be returned.’

  I thanked her but the thought of spending a night with another group of enthusiastic Americans was more than I could bear. Their journeys would be different than mine, though maybe, along the way, they would learn tough things about themselves. Right now, I had my own tough things to deal with.

  42

  MARTIN

  A day of wandering around St Jean Pied de Port produced no signs of Zoe. In the evening, in the interests of improving my mind and, I hoped, running into her, I fetched up at the Camino seminar, in a meeting room at the Office de Tourisme.

  No sign of Zoe, but the seminar turned out to be a treat in itself, not only for its educational value but as a dramatic performance. I had assumed Dr de la Cruz would be Spanish and, to my shame, male. In fact, she was Brazilian—our Paola, the tour leader. And it was apparent that she was the senior player. She had written two books on the Camino, and walked several of its variants and feeder paths. When the tourist-office manager introduced her, he used the word walked, and I smiled inwardly, thinking of her tumbling from the taxi in Figeac.

  Monsieur Chevalier spoke first, in keeping with his role as support act. As Dr de la Cruz was the expert on the history of the Chemin, he would confine his remarks to the practicalities, and in particular the insidious lowering of standards as the walk had become more popular. He enumerated the travesties: packs carried by taxi; certificates of completion awarded for a mere hundred kilometres; people walking for non-spiritual reasons; and widespread cheating by pilgrims doing the minimum distance, which had led to a requirement that they collect two stamps per day in the final hundred kilometres.

  No doubt he regretted the demise of sackcloth robes as standard pilgrim attire and the use of penicillin in cases of infection. Then, in what was surely a targeted remark (he had definitely seen me), he confided that he was concerned at the recent appearance of unconventional approaches to carrying provisions. He was not yet ready to make a definitive ruling on carts, but the original pilgrims did not have access to carbon-fibre technology and computer-designed suspension. I wished I could have recorded him and his implication that dragging the cart was easier than wearing a pack. There were many times I had doubted this basic selling point. He received a good, if perhaps slightly guilty, round of applause from the thirty or so walkers and tourist-office staff.

  Then Paola ripped him to shreds. In what must have been something of an embarrassment to her hosts, she pulled no punches. In excellent French, she stopped short only of attacking Monsieur Chevalier personally. People walked for different reasons. No one owned the Camino. Why should it be restricted to the athletic, the religious, to those who could afford six weeks away from earning a living or healing the sick? She, for one, had abandoned Catholicism, and gratefully accepted money for guiding others on their journeys without regard to their reasons. And yes, sometimes she took taxis. This must have been the final blow for Monsieur Chevalier—but, to his credit, he kept a poker face.

  After her minute or two of destruction, Paola segued into an erudite and entertaining history of the Camino. And, at the end, she thanked Monsieur Chevalier—Jules Chevalier—acknowledging his vast experience and right to his view, then pulled him to his feet and embraced him warmly.

  I bailed him up as the audience dispersed and we shook hands. I did not sense that my making it as far as St Jean Pied de Port had impro
ved his impression of me.

  ‘I enjoyed your talk,’ I said.

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘You were right about the boots. I have lighter ones now.’

  ‘Very wise. You are continuing to Santiago?’

  ‘Via the Camino del Costa.’

  ‘You should complete the traditional route before attempting the variants.’

  ‘I have a personal reason for taking the alternative,’ I said.

  He seemed unimpressed. ‘You must walk, then, the GR10. I believe it is very beautiful, many pleasant places to stay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, keen to keep him on side for the question I really wanted to ask. ‘Have you seen the American woman?’

  ‘There are many American women walking.’

  ‘Zoe. She was there when I collected my credencial.’

  He performed a poor impression of a man scouring his memory, then shook his head. At that point, Paola joined us and embraced first me, then monsieur.

  ‘Wonderful talk,’ I said. ‘I was just asking Monsieur Chevalier if he had seen Zoe.’

  ‘We said goodbye to her this morning,’ Paola said. ‘After Jules had breakfast with her. She is planning to return to America.’

  I let him stew for a few moments.

  ‘Did she say when she was leaving?’ I asked.

  ‘I think she has left already.’ He extended his hand in dismissal, but I fancied I saw a trace of gratitude.

  43

  ZOE

  The weather looked threatening as I walked out of St Jean Pied de Port in my old sneakers, wearing a heavy pack and without my scallop-shell charm. I hadn’t considered taking the train. I had no guidebook telling me how far I had to go, but I could follow the red and white stripes of the GR10 and walk twenty-five miles in a day if I had to. I forced aside the mundane things that had kept me distracted until now. And thought about how I had killed my husband.

  When I met Keith, he was focused on making a success of his business, but he took time out to pursue me with a determination that eventually wore me down.

  I guess he saw me as someone to be rescued. Even though I had coped for six years by myself, looking after the girls, I had little money and no qualifications that were going to get me a well-paid job, unless you counted a half-completed fine-arts degree and a three-quarter-completed certificate in massage therapy. Manny was unreliable and my family was no support.

  Keith and I were opposites in many ways, and not always in the positive sense of yin and yang. There were times when he had to restrain himself from exploding at my take-it-easy approach, my Leo on the cusp of Virgo exerting its influence. There was a Thanksgiving dinner when I invited his extended family and hadn’t done the math. Some of us had to sit on crates, and we stretched the food with packets of pretzels and chips. So? We were having fun and I figured that being together mattered more. After that, Keith organised the family gatherings.

  When he died, I hadn’t wanted to deal with it. If I had, even for a moment, I would have kept my mind open about what really happened. It took Lauren’s story about the life insurance to force me to confront reality. I didn’t know he had a policy, and it seemed he hadn’t even told Albie. There was no way he would have paid the premiums when he was in financial trouble and without discussing it with anyone unless…Two years. Had he been planning it that long, all the time hoping he’d find a way through, but unable to turn to me for help because he thought I wouldn’t cope? When had he given up? Where was I at that moment?

  The only hint of trouble had been in postponing our French vacation. He hadn’t asked me to cut my spending, maybe because I didn’t spend much. He hadn’t looked for support of any kind from his wife of twelve years. He had preferred to die rather than face me as a failure.

  I saw now how the differences between us had played out, and how our relationship had been eroded by misunderstandings and miscommunication. In hindsight, it had been hanging on by a thread when he died. That was why I hadn’t felt the cosmic shift.

  I wasn’t sure if I was crying for him or for me. I felt raw, like I had been attacked with a steel pot scourer. When the rain started I barely noticed. I had told Monsieur Chevalier I could walk, and that was what I did.

  Hours passed, and if there was beauty in the landscape I didn’t notice. The wind picked up and blew my poncho wildly, the plastic flapping in the wind. I was chilled to the core. I embraced the suffering as I stumbled along the rough track. Penance.

  It was dark when I arrived in St Étienne de Baïgorry, grateful for Todd’s flashlight.

  I couldn’t find a hostel, so I went for the cheapest hotel. It was about as welcoming as a dentist’s chair. The manager seemed to have no French or English or Spanish. More likely, one or both of us didn’t understand the other’s version. No, he didn’t need to pay me for help with anything and the room would cost forty euros. I was the only guest, so no massages. I ate some of the Oreos and crawled into the sleeping bag, where my head filled with images of Keith’s last moments. It was only after two big swigs of Jack Daniel’s that I got any sleep at all.

  44

  MARTIN

  It was time to move on, physically and metaphorically. Zoe was gone, and there was nothing I could do about that. Perhaps I could track her down in Los Angeles when my walk was over. I had plenty of time to decide whether that would be a good idea. I had seven weeks to make Santiago in time to take the train to the trade show in Paris, assuming the Germans didn’t make me an offer too good to refuse.

  I did a little research on the GR10 route. The first two days, ending in Bidarray, involved ‘up and overs’—tough mountain trekking. The good weather that had greeted us in St Jean Pied de Port had given way to intermittent rain, not unpleasant, but always an inconvenience. By road, Bidarray was an easy twenty-six kilometres. I embraced Monsieur Chevalier’s advice to enjoy a pleasant walk and took the D route.

  Traffic was light, my jacket dried off between showers and I found myself feeling buoyant. Not quite singing in the rain, but in much the same mood as when I had left Cluny.

  In almost twenty years of marriage I had never craved freedom. The grass is supposedly greener on the other side, but I had been happy on my patch. Yet now I was feeling what was surely some sort of relief at having escaped even a one-night stand a long way from home.

  On the highway, navigation did not require any concentration, and I indulged in a little reflection. Truth was, I did not see Zoe as a one-night stand. I saw her as the beginning of a return to what I had before. And, like her, I was not ready for that.

  My feet had begun to hurt from walking on the sealed road when a Saab swerved across to the left-hand side, where I was walking, and pulled up in front of me. The driver, a middle-aged Swede with excellent English, wanted to see the cart. The woman in the passenger seat was giving him a hard time, and rightly so, as they were parked on a bend, and she would have been the one to take the hit if someone appeared from either direction—or both.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘Bidarray.’

  ‘Which hotel?’

  ‘I haven’t booked yet.’

  ‘Stay with us.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Draw him a map.’

  Mrs Saab gave him a dirty look but found paper and pen, and sketched a simple diagram.

  ‘See you tonight,’ said Mr Saab. He pulled back across the road just as a lorry came the other way and squeezed us all into single file.

  The location marked on the map was a couple of kilometres past Bidarray but I avoided the climb into town, or at least deferred it until the next morning, when I would have to retrace my steps. Zoe would have said that the universe was speaking to me. I decided to listen.

  The hotel was more of a resort, complete with golf course and buggies to drive from the gate to the accommodation. I walked it, pulling the cart and feeling distinctly out of place.

  But I received a warm welcome at reception.

  ‘Monsieur Carte,’ the young woman said,
and laughed. ‘Mr Cart. You prefer English?’

  ‘French is fine.’

  ‘Herr Nilsson reserved your room, but did not know your correct name. He will meet you for a drink at nineteen hours.’

  She pushed me a registration form, and I dug out my passport.

  ‘You are in the main building—here. Herr Nilsson has taken care of the room and breakfast. May we have a credit card for any extras?’

  The decor was upmarket but in keeping with the rural location and not ostentatious. I could not have been the first hiker to stay. I would get away with not having a jacket at dinner.

  Two nights in a row in fancy hotels. My room was huge, with a claw-footed bath and a full selection of creams and cosmetics. Zoe should have walked one more day with me. After rinsing my clothes and putting the electronics on to charge, I had a soak in the bath and cleaned myself up.

  The evening felt out of time—more so than the previous night, when I had other things to occupy my mind. An oasis in the desert, a few bars of popular music in the middle of a jazz performance, a quiet moment in the eye of a storm. But it was the walk that was the anomaly in my life. This night was a reminder of the way I had lived before it, and would presumably do again.

  My host’s name was Anders, and he was a director of a diverse marketing and distribution business—in other words, a generic businessman. But he had a background in engineering and was fascinated by the cart. His wife, Krista, was delightful company once the threat of being killed by a French lorry was gone, and we sat on a deck overlooking the mountains drinking white Burgundy as the sun set on an almost perfect day. I was living the life of Riley—or perhaps the life that Zoe had enjoyed in that first week on the Camino when fortune had delivered her hospitality and guidance.