Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  He was a sophisticated companion, trim and witty, his slightly crooked nose fitting his character. It helped that he was Spanish, comfortable with the language and the menu, though he was the kind of guy who would be comfortable anywhere.

  And the food was good: Marco ordered a parade of vegetarian dishes for both of us. We talked about the grown-up children he didn’t see as much as he would like: ‘I do too much work.’ I knew he was a physician; I heard more about the work he did in his clinic and as a volunteer in Haiti.

  ‘So, you have a wonderful balance—important work, but you can kick your heels up on vacation,’ I said.

  He frowned and I reworded it. ‘You are enjoying life.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Marco. ‘I am still young and healthy; I walk the Caminos each year; I travel often. I have many friends.’

  ‘Do you get lonely?’ I asked, thinking more of me than I was of him, wondering what my future would look like when the walk was over.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marco, suddenly serious. ‘But—I am forever searching for the right woman.’

  He accompanied me back to my hostel, not far from his own pensione. Walking in heels after so much hiking was not easy. Then he took my hand.

  It felt awkward. When I closed my eyes for the kiss, awkward became more like plain wrong. I dealt with the immediate problem by a turn of the cheek; it is the European way, after all. But the I’m expecting more look needed a clearer response.

  I was now quite sure I didn’t want a kiss goodnight—or anything more. Our energies weren’t aligned, but it wasn’t just that. I felt I’d be betraying—not Keith, but Martin.

  While I was trying to decide between I really like you but and I promised Paola a massage, he took my face in his hands. I had one foot in the flower bed when the door of the albergue flew open.

  Paola ran over to me, ignoring Marco. ‘Can you stay with Tina? I must go to the hospital.’

  ‘Hospital?’ Marco and I asked at the same time.

  ‘Fabiana. Margarida and she are poisoned. I must see the situation and let her family know. Your friend Felipe is with them.’

  ‘What sort of poison?’ asked Marco the physician.

  Paola hesitated. ‘Alcohol.’

  ‘I will drive you to the hospital.’

  Paola wasn’t going to waste any time. I waved Marco off, unsure what I would have said had we not been interrupted, but not sorry we had been, circumstances aside.

  Tina, hair in pigtails and dressed in Minnie Mouse pyjamas, wouldn’t have been able to convince anyone she was old enough to drink—not even in Spain, where you only had to be sixteen. Now, I figured, I was going to get the tears and rant.

  ‘Do you think it was my fault?’ she said.

  ‘Were you there? Did you drink the drinks?’ I was channelling Martin.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Brazilian accent, but valley-girl eye roll.

  ‘Fabiana and Margarida have their own problems, nothing to do with you or Bernhard.’

  ‘Bernhard. He is so, like, not important.’

  Then: ‘Why don’t you and Martin tell each other how you feel? About each other?’

  I was still trying to work out what she’d been told and by whom when Paola returned. Tina disappeared without saying goodnight. I looked at her mother and shrugged. ‘She’s okay. How are Fabiana and Margarida?’

  I made Paola herbal tea while she brought me up to date. Fabiana and Margarida had been drinking with the locals. Both had become ill, but Fabiana had passed out. An ambulance had been called. She was being kept overnight for observation.

  ‘Margarida stays with her.’

  I caught something in Paola’s voice. ‘You made her?’

  Paola shook her head. ‘No, I think finally something shakes sense into this girl. It is time she grows up.’

  ‘And Felipe?’

  ‘Felipe will go back in the morning. He is a good man, understands Fabiana.’

  ‘She had problems in love? A married man?’

  Paola looked surprised. ‘She told you this?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not exactly, but it wasn’t hard to guess.’

  ‘Did I give myself away also?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘You know my story? Like you, I lost my husband.’

  Paola had first walked the Camino twelve years earlier. The traditional Camino Francés, five hundred miles from St Jean Pied de Port.

  ‘Then, I carried my pack,’ said Paola. ‘My husband and I were making a true pilgrimage. He was a man of God who had left the priesthood to marry me. But he knew there would be a price to pay. We both knew it.’

  Tina was standing in the doorway. The friction between them about Tina’s behaviour seemed to dissolve. She came and sat by her mother, snuggling into the maternal hold in a position instinctive to them both.

  ‘He got cancer, and finally there was no more that the doctors could do.’

  ‘Papa had always wanted to walk the Camino,’ said Tina. She would have been four or five. I wondered how much she remembered and how much was family storytelling.

  ‘It was a hard six weeks,’ said Paola. ‘We had to go very slow at times. Sometimes, I carried his pack. He died in Melide. Two days before Santiago.’

  I felt my own grief stirred by her story.

  ‘There was much to be organised. But later I returned with his ashes. I left some in Melide, the rest in São Paulo.’ Paola smiled. ‘So now you see we are both torn between the Camino and Brazil, he and I.’

  Paola had decided to bring the Camino to other people. She’d written two books in Portuguese, so everyone in Brazil knew her story, and now she ran tours. I guessed that at home she was a bit of a legend.

  ‘Each year I come with another group, and each year I stop in Melide. I go no further.’

  ‘You’ve never walked into Santiago?’

  Paola shook her head. ‘The last two days are simple to navigate—the group walks without me. I think they enjoy it.’

  I thought of Martin returning my scallop shell, how I hadn’t wanted it back. I realised I needed to finish the Camino, without it—to show I believed in myself, rather than luck or chance. Monsieur Chevalier had said it was destined to go to Santiago. I knew now who to give it to.

  64

  MARTIN

  I took a day off in Lugo, resting my knee and forcing myself not to dwell on Zoe hooking up with Marco. It was probably a positive for her: a step towards moving on without the risk of a relationship. Marco would surely be returning to his wife and family after the holiday fling was over. I wondered if Zoe knew he was married. I didn’t want her to get hurt, but it was no longer my place to intervene, nor to judge. Still, I could have done without watching it from my box. And helping out by giving her something to wear.

  In the evening, I ventured downstairs. The swelling was down a bit, but there was not as much improvement as I’d hoped for. I was sitting at the table in the courtyard, watching the track for arriving pilgrims, when Tina appeared.

  ‘Still here?’ I called.

  ‘Evidently.’ She walked over. Not happy.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fabiana got sick.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it but…you can guess.’

  ‘Too much partying?’

  ‘Drinking shots. She’s not used to it. She goes to Mass, then she gets smashed. She choked on her vomit—totally gross.’ She rolled her eyes, then looked at my leg, elevated on the chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘Bernhard hurt your leg?’

  ‘I hurt my leg. I didn’t have to race him. Or play his games. If there’s something you learn as you get older, it’s that most of your problems are of your own making. Like Fabiana’s.’

  She managed a laugh at that, and I pushed a little further. ‘Let me guess: she was drinking with Margarida.’

  ‘Right.’ Long pause. ‘You saw. After the race.’

  ‘What about you? Are you o
kay?’

  ‘Totally.’ Where had I heard that before? DW.

  ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I pulled a twenty-euro note from my phone wallet. ‘I can’t walk. You want to get some tortillas—or burgers and chips or something?’

  Tina was back in twenty minutes with a square box, grinning. Pizza. And cola.

  ‘I need some advice,’ I said.

  ‘From me?’ She laughed. ‘It’s about Zoe, right?’

  ‘Wrong. I’ve got a daughter about your age. Her mother and I split up about a year ago, and she’s finding it difficult.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  With the Brazilian accent, I wasn’t sure for a moment whether she was asking me to elaborate or just showing empathy. I settled on the latter: she seemed to have a good grasp of English—or American—vernacular. I told her about it anyway as we ate the pizza.

  ‘So, what do you think she’d want me to do? What would she say to me if she could?’

  Tina sipped Coke from the can. ‘Don’t believe her if she says she’s not in love with…What’s his name?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You should ask. Anyway, she is in love with him—obviously, or she wouldn’t be doing these things you think are stupid. Everyone falls in love with the wrong people, but you don’t want to have to defend them to your parents, because they’ll just tell you why they’re wrong for you…which you know already. So, you tell them you’re not in love.’

  ‘Like with Bernhard.’

  ‘Do you know how crap it is travelling with your mother watching you all the time? And one of her…clients…who’s old enough to be his—Bernhard’s—mother…almost kills someone by doing stuff that I wouldn’t do and I’m the one…’

  ‘I haven’t had the experience, but I think crap is probably the right word.’

  ‘I wish I had a father like you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you care so much about your daughter. I thought you were going to ask me about Zoe, but you asked about Sarah. Like she was the most important person in your life.’ And suddenly, out of nowhere, Tina was crying.

  I put a hand on her shoulder, then both hands, awkwardly as we were both sitting, but she leant her head on my arm and sobbed. Eventually, she pulled back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. You should have seen me a year or so ago. Your dad’s not around?’

  ‘He died when I was five. And you know what he spent the last month of his life doing? Walking the fucking Camino with my mother. While I was with my aunt and my cousins, waiting for him to come back. I knew there was something wrong, but nobody told me I would never see him again.’ Pause. ‘That was not a problem I made for myself.’

  ‘Point taken. You felt like he put your mother first?’

  ‘Don’t tell her I told you this. She was only doing what he wanted. I think this walk is supposed to make up, like she’s finally bringing me along. She thinks she’s doing something for me, but it’s the other way around. You know what I mean?’

  ‘I do. I wish I could say something to help. But as you know, I can’t even work out what to do for my own daughter.’

  ‘You care about her. You’re putting her first. Number one. If she knows that…’

  ‘Maybe your mum’s trying to put you first too.’

  It was the best I could manage.

  I sat by myself for a while as the sun set, feeling oddly calm, and not because a teenager had given me a vote of confidence. Rather, she had reduced all the turmoil to a simple question: what did I have to do to put Sarah first?

  The equally simple answer—the one I had been avoiding for the last week, or year—was: resolve the conflict with Julia. The only way that was going to happen was if I said, ‘All is forgiven.’

  It was galling. The one thing I had held onto through the separation and divorce saga had been my sense of righteousness. It had been Julia who had cheated. I had denied myself time with my daughter so she would not have to suffer our mutual hatred. I had given Julia all my money.

  Zoe had forgiven her mother. It wasn’t quite the same. Infidelity is not just about morality—it’s personal. But, unlike Zoe’s mother, Julia had said sorry. She had made a mistake. She had wanted us to repair the marriage. And I had been too consumed with righteous anger to listen.

  Back in my room, I composed the email. I was not going to delay it like the ‘I love you’ to Sarah, but I couldn’t do it verbally. Sarah and I were as one there.

  Dear Julia

  We need to do something about the situation with Sarah, and I think that means putting our relationship on a more civil and co-operative basis. Let me be the one to start. I forgive you for the affair. I apologise for not doing so long ago. Though I know it’s too late to try, as you offered, to rebuild our marriage, I’m willing to do what we can now in Sarah’s interests.

  With love

  Martin

  The ‘with love’ came spontaneously—and unexpectedly—and was the only part I considered deleting. But it was, of course, true. Or I would never have been so angry.

  I was prepared for a protracted back-and-forth and much consumption of crow before we reached an understanding that would benefit Sarah. Julia was hardly going to respond with a male engineer’s matter-of-fact agreement.

  Wrong, as usual. By the time I’d showered and washed my clothes, there was a reply on my screen. Thank Christ, or whoever you’ve met. After that it was all about Sarah. And just to ensure I had not a shred of moral superiority left to cling to:

  I gather you know that Sarah hopes to study medicine, which will keep her at university well beyond 21.

  I assume that was the reason for the cheque you sent me. It provided both of us with some reassurance that you still had some interest in her during the period that you were out of contact. I assure you it has been put aside for her.

  I was sure that neither Julia nor I would be able to refrain indefinitely from sniping, and I wondered what was behind ‘whoever you’ve met’. But the breakthrough had been made. I replied, thanking her for being so gracious and asking the obvious: What do you want me to do?

  The reply was instant. I don’t need you to forgive me. I just need you to put your anger with me aside so we can do what’s right for Sarah. If you can do that, I can work with you.

  I could do that.

  65

  ZOE

  In the last weeks of my Camino I had felt the spirit of every walker past and present buoying me toward Santiago, so I wondered why in the hell I was feeling lonely on my evening in Melide. I had joined the Camino Francés and the pulpo bar was full of pilgrims from that route catching up and sharing the excitement of the end being only two days away. But none of my friends from the Camino Primitivo was among them. I had taken an extra day in the hope that the Brazilians might catch up, but there was no sign of them.

  I had a strange feeling of emptiness. I couldn’t help thinking of Paola’s husband, who had died here without finishing. What was the point? If I’d stayed in LA and seen a therapist, I’d have worked through the same stuff. Without blisters. I wondered where Martin was.

  ‘Nearly there,’ someone said behind me, and it was only when she added, ‘and soon we can decide if we have wasted our time,’ that I realised who it was.

  ‘Renata!’

  She flopped down on the wooden bench opposite me. There was a roundness to her shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘Where are the others?’ I asked.

  ‘Still behind. A day or two. I need to finish this thing.’

  ‘So why did you start it?’ Of the Brazilians, she was the one I knew least about.

  Renata picked at the bread left over from my dinner. ‘To contemplate. That’s what it’s supposed to be about, isn’t it?’

  ‘About anything in particular?’

  ‘Life.’

  Well, that narrowed it down. I guess I hadn’t shared much either. Renata
laughed. ‘You first. You’ve had more time on the Camino. You started…where?’

  I was about to say Cluny, but realised I was wrong by a day. ‘Los Angeles. That’s where I walked out the door and left everything—I mean everything—behind. That’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it?’

  ‘You left your possessions behind. Do you miss anything?’

  I shook my head. To be honest, in the moment I didn’t even miss the girls, though I was looking forward to seeing them again. And…

  ‘You know, my husband died,’ I said. ‘Only four months ago.’ Four months. The time had stretched without me noticing. ‘I’m desperately sorry it happened, and I wish I’d been able to do something to prevent it…but…I’m not missing him.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘You mean, has he taken his place? Back in France, I think I might have let him, but it would have been a mistake. I needed to work out who I was again.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Paola told me that you’ve discovered you’re a cartoonist.’

  ‘I was thinking about something deeper than that. Maybe I’ve lived too long in California.’

  ‘I think so. You find a new career, you learn that you have strengths you never thought you had, maybe you’ve fallen in love—and you say you haven’t found anything important.’

  I could hear Monsieur Chevalier saying, ‘The Camino has given you all this, not to mention forgiving your mother, grieving your husband and forgiving yourself. And you are asking for more?’ But I was.

  ‘I’m still missing something.’

  ‘What does it feel like? The thing you are missing? The gap, the hole?’

  ‘Just a feeling…some part of me I’ve lost.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me a story. I like stories. Tell me your most important story.’

  The choice came without thinking. I told her about Camille and our drive from St Louis to San Francisco, two thousand miles each way, about detouring via Fergus Falls to see my folks on the way home and the fight that had erupted.

  My father was away, and my mother must have sensed something. When she said grace, she inserted a long reference to unborn children and Camille fled the table.