It had been a while since we’d left the last tau-and-dove sign behind and switched to satnav to guide us to our accommodation. I was hoping that in the morning there would be a path to connect with the Chemin a bit further on—two sides of a triangle, rather than a complete retracing.
The hotel’s restaurant was closed. Permanently. It was two kilometres, back the way we’d come, to the nearest alternative, a pizzeria. And it had started raining. No avoiding it, unless we wanted to order a taxi. Nobody was going to suggest that: we hadn’t been in a car for almost a month.
The pizzeria would likely have looked spartan when it was empty, but it was packed and noisy, and we were lucky to get a table after we hung our wet-weather gear at the entrance. An extensive buffet of antipasto with plenty of vegetables, plus an array of hot dishes, all for twelve euros a head, wine included. Gilbert naturally wanted a wine upgrade and called for the list.
He was still struggling with the Italian wines and I was enjoying the ride as he upped the financial ante in search of something to his taste. I was no connoisseur, but, as a Brit, I was accustomed to varieties from around the world.
They found a bottle of Barolo—not on the wine list—and it was decanted with a degree of ceremony that seemed out of place at an ‘all you can eat’ establishment. Gilbert tasted and nodded his head, but as the waiter filled the other glasses, his expression said ‘disappointing’.
‘For forty euros…’ he said. Bloody hell. By the time he ordered the inevitable second, he’d have spent more on wine than we were spending on our meals—combined.
Camille lifted her glass, swirled the wine, sniffed, took a sip and swished it around in her mouth, before finally swallowing. She’d done everything except spit it on the floor.
‘This is excellent wine. We have now tasted many in this style, and it is not French, but it is interesting and enjoyable, well structured. Gilbert is being unreasonable.’
‘Italy makes the best Italian wine in the world,’ I offered and was duly ignored.
But the unreasonable wine merchant didn’t argue. He repeated, exactly, the tasting ritual that Camille had performed—and that he himself had done a minute or two earlier. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand the style.’ And then, ‘She is amazing. Her palate is better than mine.’
It was a nice moment, and would have stayed one if five minutes later Camille had not asked him, ‘What do you think of the wine?’
25
ZOE
I looked to Gilbert to see how he’d deal with Camille’s memory lapse.
‘You have forgotten what I said about the wine?’ he said.
‘This wine?’ She looked around the table. ‘Who remembers everything their husband says?’ Then, perhaps because she knew what we must be thinking, ‘Who can remember all the places we’ve stayed?’
Not me, for sure. The days had blurred: I had memories of hotels and scenery and events, but it was hard to put them into the right place and sequence unless I got my sketchpad out. I knew from my previous camino that this would happen and had accepted it as a natural part of becoming one with the walk. It was just a different way of experiencing, a more holistic way.
Martin found it frustrating, as if he was losing bits of his life, and gave each day a name. The Day of the Rocky Ascent; The Day of the Phone Booth; The Day of Zoe’s Fingernails.
‘I think Martin could name them all,’ I said, hoping he’d keep that last one to himself.
‘Generally, the brain can only hold about seven items at once,’ said Bernhard.
Camille nodded, as if she’d been let off the hook for forgetting Gilbert’s wine comments.
Martin smiled. ‘Is that a challenge?’
‘Dad, you’re being annoying.’
‘First night, well, it was the first night, so we all remember Gilbert’s friend’s hotel in Tramayes. Second night, Beaujeu, the night of the King of Beaujolais. Third—’
‘We believe you,’ I said. ‘What’s been your favourite?’
‘The one where the owner was a walker. With the chapel. In Saint Maurice de Rotherens.’
‘You’re choosing a chapel?’ I said, but I knew why.
‘It had a bit of the spirit of the Camino de Santiago. Felt like a hostel. Most of the places we’re staying aren’t specifically for pilgrims.’
‘You and Gilbert are the ones booking them.’
‘I’ll let you try if you like. Not a lot of choice.’
‘I know. But it was up that hill, remember? The perfect hostel would be right on the trail.’
‘You said favourite, not perfect. So yours?’
I was about to say the eco-gîte, where the cellists had serenaded us as we finally shared a room and everything else. But that was where Sarah had lost it over the sweetened yoghurt. Better not to bring it up or remind her why it was special to me. ‘I loved the chateau we stayed in after the Mailman’s Way,’ I said. The owner had cooked us a wonderful meal and shared stories of the chateau’s history—it had been a wedding present from a knight to his page.
‘Where we had to sleep in the tent because there were only two rooms,’ said Sarah.
‘And your choice?’ said Martin to Sarah.
‘I guess the place in France where we cooked the mushrooms.’
‘Where you guys had that separate annex.’
Was Sarah blushing? Looked like she had the same reason as I did for remembering a particular hostel.
Bernhard confirmed it by covering for her. ‘We have not seen the perfect hostel, because it probably does not exist. But it should. Cheap, dormitories, simple food, a kitchen with pasta and rice and oil and tomatoes in cans and muesli. These things are not expensive to provide.’
‘Espresso machine,’ said Martin.
‘With cream,’ I said.
‘A pool, with water,’ said Sarah. I couldn’t tell if she was kidding.
‘Vegetable and herb garden.’ Camille.
‘If you want the perfect hostel,’ said Bernhard, ‘you will need to open one yourself. Martin could be the bricoleur—the handyman.’
‘Not bloody likely. Put me down for designer and walk away. But I’d at least be bringing some experience of what pilgrims need.’
‘And I would be the cook,’ said Camille.
I thought of the hassle Sarah had given the owners of the eco-gîte. ‘I worked in a vegetarian restaurant for a while,’ I said. ‘Doing it every day is tough.’
Camille opened her mouth, then stopped. ‘You don’t think I could do it?’
‘It’s not that…I just meant it’s hard work and—’
‘You think that I would forget things?’
Shit. How did I get myself in this position?
‘Camille’s a brilliant cook,’ said Sarah.
26
MARTIN
We were saved from Zoe, Camille and Sarah digging themselves into more trouble by the arrival at our table of another woman, whom I placed in her mid- to late sixties, a little worn out by life and, quite obviously, a walker. After more than two and a half thousand kilometres on caminos, I had a sixth sense, though the tech pants and fleece were strong clues. She had a bottle in her hand.
‘Excuse me, but I heard you speaking English, and I would be happy to share this wine.’
We established that her name was Grietje (pronounced Graitch, approximately), she was Belgian and she was walking solo from Brussels, or thereabouts, to Rome. She had joined the Chemin d’Assise at the source, Vézelay, and had been moving a little faster than us, anxious to beat the snow in the Alps. But since reaching Italy, she had been struggling with the practicalities.
‘I have only Flemish, French and this little bit of English. Italian, none. I was always a dunce at languages.’
Zoe, our American, was laughing self-deprecatingly, but she had some Spanish, which helped with Italian, and had picked up quite a bit of French. Sarah, as far as I knew, was strictly monolingual.
Camille and Gilb
ert switched to French, and the rest of us followed along, to varying degrees. It emerged that Grietje’s main problem was loneliness, and, after coming this far, she was close to throwing in the towel. Then she confided—confided, because there was an element of awkwardness—that she was walking for religious reasons.
At which point, Camille took her hand and pulled her over to a vacant table, her body language leaving no doubt that the conversation was to be private.
‘Shit,’ said Zoe. She didn’t have to add, ‘There goes my cartoon.’ And the rare chance for the rest of us to enjoy the camaraderie of a fellow pilgrim.
‘They’ll be back,’ I said.
‘You think?’ said Zoe.
After forty-five minutes, Camille and Grietje returned but only for Grietje to say goodnight. She was looking brighter, whereas Camille was subdued. She collected her fleece from the back of the chair and headed to the door. Zoe kept Gilbert company as he settled the account, while I chased after Camille.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. But I do not wish to talk.’
The rain had eased to a drizzle and it was now dark. I turned on my phone torch and we walked in silence. We were almost back at the hotel when Camille touched my arm.
‘I can talk now. I had a strong experience and did not want to forget—did not want to lose it. But now we can talk about food and wine and hotels.’
‘Grietje had an interesting story?’
‘Everybody’s story is interesting. She is also walking to atone for sin. A sin not so different from mine.’
‘She seemed close to giving up.’
‘This is true, but now she will continue. I don’t want to… blow smoke…but she is a little inspired by my story.’
‘The illness?’
‘Of course. And that I forgave Gilbert and let him accompany me. I told her the facts and she believes that I have done penance already.’
I decided to let that go for the moment.
‘You didn’t ask her to join us?’
‘Of course not. That is not my right, not without talking to my friends. And Gilbert. Anyway, she prefers to walk alone, as I would if I had the choice.’
‘Well, thank you for that. I like walking with you too.’
‘It’s not a joke. This is a spiritual journey, and it should be made alone or with others who share your beliefs. This is not to criticise you. But Grietje is walking for the same reasons as me, so tonight was…I can’t find the best word.’
‘Maybe because you don’t know how it’s going to affect you yet.’
‘Exactly. But I think there will be a strong effect.’
27
ZOE
The following day, under another clear sky, with the snow-covered Alps behind us, we alternated between small roads winding through fields of corn and beans, and untidy highways with busy intersections where we hoped that Camille’s god was looking over us.
We heard a few calls of Buon Cammino and in one village a fruit vendor gave us a generous bunch of grapes. Later that day, there was a disturbing moment when we passed two women by the roadside, far from any town, seated on folding chairs: heavy makeup, very short dresses. Both were women of colour—refugees? They nodded in acknowledgment as we passed, but, with none of us comfortable in Italian, we pushed on.
We caught up with Gilbert and Camille as we navigated the traffic into Carmagnola. Gilbert, as always, was happy to talk about food.
‘Italian cuisine…There is truth in the clichés.’
‘Hey, the food’s been great. What about the upscale restaurant with the wine lady? And the seafood in Sant’Antonino di Susa?’
‘All in the Italian fashion. Olive oil, tomatoes, pasta…’
‘You ate Sarah’s croissant this morning,’ said Camille.
‘One is tasting the jam, not the croissant.’
‘Perfect breakfast for walking,’ said Martin. ‘Caffeine for the quick hit, sugar in the jam for the next stage, fat in the croissant for the long haul.’ I hoped he was kidding. In Sheffield, would he want sausages for breakfast? Was there a Whole Foods near his apartment? Did they even have Whole Foods in England? I needed to know more about the neighbourhood where he lived. And figure out what I’d be doing there. But right now, I was focused in the moment, on the Chemin; real life and the future seemed unreal.
I had resigned myself to hearing Grietje’s story second-hand and got right to the point as soon as I was walking with Camille. Turned out to be a mistake.
‘I cannot share what I was told in confidence. This is why we moved to another table. So her trials would not be in a cartoon for Americans to laugh at.’
‘Camille…no one would know it was her. I mean…cartoons are not just for jokes. Sometimes they’re the best way of saying something truly important. Perhaps her story can help someone else…’ I wasn’t getting through and, wary after the previous night’s screw-up about her being the absent-minded cook in an imaginary gîte, I gave up. ‘Sorry, Camille—we’re not in the same place right now.’
Camille walked a little, letting the road give us both space. ‘It’s not your fault. I did not know how you would come to this chemin, what…attitude…you would bring, but now I see that for you, it is an adventure. A romantic adventure. For Martin and Sarah and Bernhard too. I am grateful to you, but you must see that for me it is different. It is my only hope.’
What did I do with that? ‘You’re talking about the Pope? Something you need to confess?’
There was a long pause. Then she nodded. ‘I told Grietje last night.’
I had known that there was something. But why had Camille shared it with Grietje and not me? Had I let her down because I’d allowed Martin to get between us?
‘Are you able to tell me?’
Camille shrugged. ‘It is…a lie. I told a terrible lie.’
Clearly she didn’t want to tell me what she had lied about. Was she afraid I’d judge her? ‘Did telling Grietje help?’
‘Yes. I think I helped her also. This is the spirit of the Chemin that I have been looking for.’
28
MARTIN
‘Dad!’
The horror in Sarah’s voice was unmistakable. Bloody hell. I’d taken a shower and left my change of clothes in my room rather than get them wet in the bathroom that five people had used already. I had a towel around my waist as I traversed the common area. Living so closely, we had instinctively become careful with barriers, but I was more modestly attired than I’d be on the beach, she was family, and, at least until recently, a medical student.
Then Camille, in her doorway, laughed. More a snicker. A crude snicker.
‘Dad, your back!’ said Sarah.
Then I realised. Zoe had this thing she did with her fingernails. Quite effective, in the sense that it achieved what I suppose it was meant to achieve, though the balance between pleasure and pain was a fine one, especially the second time around. From Camille’s reaction, she knew exactly what the marks were, and I guess Sarah did too. I suppose I’d have been similarly shocked if I’d seen them on Bernhard’s back.
Not much I could say. I went for ‘No secrets on the Chemin,’ and beat a retreat to our room. Zoe was suitably amused.
A couple of kilometres down the track to Carmagnola, Gilbert, who had been bringing up the rear with Camille, caught up with Zoe and me—minus pack and out of breath.
‘Is Camille okay?’ said Zoe.
‘I have forgotten something,’ said Gilbert. ‘I need to return.’
I had a checklist I ran through each day before departing: it was too easy to leave your passport or phone charger or even sticks behind, or forget to drop off the room keys. But I’d have thought Gilbert was even less likely to leave something behind.
‘You definitely need it?’
‘Medicines. I did not want to go back without telling you. Or leave Camille alone.’
The upshot was that the three of us walked back to Camille and left her and Zoe with our packs while Gil
bert and I did the pick-up trip. We had to return not only to town, but to our two-kilometres-out-of-town B&B. By the time we got back to Zoe and Camille, it would be the sixth time we’d walked the road between town and accommodation: our arrival, return trip to dinner, departure and now another return trip. A couple of kilometres had become twelve.
Gilbert and I had been spending time together every day doing bookings, but not really had a conversation, both of us focused on the task at hand, and keen to get back to our partners and dinner as soon as the job was done. Over dinner and on the trail, he’d told us more about wine than who he was. He was a bit fussy, but never a problem: a good guy to have along.
The previous night, Zoe had got herself in a twist about Camille’s reason for walking, which was apparently some undisclosed sin. I’d assumed that it was the abortion—hard to imagine Camille had done anything that would be more dimly looked upon by the Catholic Church. But, according to Zoe, it was about a deception: not thou shalt not kill but thou shalt not bear false witness. My guess was that the victim was Gilbert.
‘No progress on the Pope?’ I asked him, wanting to tread carefully.
‘I don’t think it’s going to be possible. If I fail to achieve an audience…Better to say that if I succeed, Camille will be very appreciative, and it may make a difference to us. If you have any suggestions…’
‘Afraid this isn’t my world. Unless you can get her elected president or make her a movie star—I don’t think humble Christians get much of a look-in. If you’ve told them she’s ill and making a heroic pilgrimage, I think you’ve done all you can.’ Gilbert nodded. ‘But is it so important she sees the Pope? She’ll have walked a thousand miles and lit a hundred candles: isn’t that penance enough? I mean, we’re all sinners.’
Two Steps Onward Page 9
