Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘I am running out sooner than I thought. Maybe it is my memory.’

  ‘Running out?’

  ‘Of sins,’ said Camille.

  I laughed. ‘Maybe you haven’t sinned enough.’ That didn’t land, so I added, ‘Or because some days you go into two or three churches.’

  ‘Possibly that is the problem. Perhaps you can you think up one for me? From college?’

  ‘Umm…smoking dope?’

  ‘Did that hurt anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said—and this time Camille joined in when I laughed. Marijuana had been an aphrodisiac for her.

  ‘Maybe I can light one for your mother.’

  I had lit one for my mother in Conques, on my first camino, and had forgiven her and myself—but that had been about us, not what she’d done to Camille. ‘My mother? If she was alive, she should be apologising to you. She had no right—’

  ‘Your mother spoke her beliefs, even though it meant losing the love of her daughter. You. Can I light a candle for her?’

  When I lit my own candle my mother, for the second time, I felt an echo of her accusation: murderer. Her truth had not been mine. But nor was Camille’s.

  The B&B was owned by a retired couple who had renovated an old home specifically for pilgrims—pellegrini. The care showed in the details: for once, someone had got most stuff right, plus fun things like moisturiser in the bathrooms. They offered to put our clothes through the washing machine and dryer. Bernhard accepted right away, and I ran with M. Chevalier’s advice to take what was offered.

  The proprietors opened a bottle of sweet white wine, talked about their dream that was now reality, and gave me permission for their story to go into the Pilgrim’s Progress series that the Chronicle had agreed to consider. I had thought it would be full of pilgrims—like my Camino de Santiago cartoons—but clearly I was going to have to rethink this. My Californian readers might relate to older people finding a lifestyle that worked for them.

  I figured that making dinner for guests would be the biggest hassle.

  ‘We don’t do it,’ said our host.

  ‘There’s a restaurant nearby?’

  ‘There are no restaurants or shops. We have the kitchen for guests to use.’

  Which would be great if we’d brought groceries.

  36

  MARTIN

  ‘Surprise!’ Sarah pulled a paper bag from her pack and dumped the contents on the kitchen bench. Porcini mushrooms.

  The surprise for me was not so much the mushrooms but the repeat of the playfulness that Sarah had displayed earlier with the vegetarian joke on Zoe. She could have just volunteered to cook dinner—which would have been a surprise in itself—but she’d managed to surreptitiously source wild mushrooms and must have let Camille know that dinner was in hand. Another reminder of what she’d been like before her psychological struggles.

  Bernhard was unpacking more shopping.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ I asked.

  ‘Secret,’ Sarah said.

  ‘There was a vendor,’ said Bernhard, ‘in one of the villages. The gatherers are not permitted to sell the mushrooms they find. Of course, it is possible the mushrooms from the vendor are also illegal.’

  ‘And deadly poisonous,’ said Sarah. ‘No pharmacist to check with.’ She was smiling.

  ‘Unfortunately, no wine,’ said Bernhard. ‘Too heavy to carry.’

  Gilbert couldn’t hide his disappointment, but Sarah was doing a worse job of hiding her own expression. Our hosts duly produced the two bottles that Camille must have specified.

  Antipasto, porcini pasta, bread, salad. Cooked by Sarah and Bernhard, who were obviously enjoying playing host, with advice from Camille, who had been noticeably withdrawn over the past couple of days.

  ‘So,’ I said, to everyone, but Zoe in particular, ‘it is possible. Throwing it all in and starting again.’ My comment was meant generally, but Bernhard interpreted it as ‘running a hostel’.

  ‘If you want to lose money.’

  I left this one to Gilbert. Zoe might think there were things more important than money, but she was American. Her denial of materialism was rebellious, whereas for Gilbert it was cultural.

  On cue: ‘Possible they already had sufficient money. Or they value this work more than money.’

  ‘It would be interesting to consider alternative uses of the investment,’ said Bernhard. ‘They could travel, or…’

  Gilbert added, ‘This sort of work is fun for friends, but it would be annoying to have guests snapping their fingers for a special coffee or complaining that the room was not perfect.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Zoe. ‘In the vegetarian restaurant in San Francisco, the customers were counter-cultural, against exploitation, loving…but they could be incredibly demanding and demeaning. You’re so right about the coffee.’

  ‘But you’re talking about Americans,’ said Sarah. ‘They have a reputation for being demanding.’

  ‘We have a service culture…’ said Zoe, evenly.

  ‘Because of tips,’ said Bernhard. ‘Servers are subservient because their income depends on it. That is not the system in Europe.’

  ‘Which means,’ I said, ‘that pilgrims may not be such difficult customers.’

  ‘Unless the Americans discover the walk,’ said Bernhard. ‘Then it will become like the Camino de Santiago.’ He clicked his fingers and said in a loud American voice, ‘Bring me some grappa. Presto.’

  He can’t have seen our hosts hovering at the door, presumably checking if we needed anything. They hastened to organise digestifs as the table dissolved in laughter.

  37

  ZOE

  CARTOON: A middle-aged couple stand in the doorway of their hostel, smiling in welcome. Six travellers are lining up for entry. Two are talking with the owners—the man has their packs and the woman is offering them wine. These two pilgrims appear happy and relieved. Another seems lost, cross held in hand as she looks ahead for answers. A couple hold hands, tentative and shy, as if they were much younger than they appear. The final older man appears exhausted but undefeated.

  STORY: Andrea and Gianna have been married thirty years. They worked hard in the furniture business and raised three children. When the grandchildren began to arrive, they realised that their house could not fit everyone for vacations and religious festivals, so they used their savings to renovate a former school in their village. They would not recoup their investment, and would perhaps not have the money for vacations, but the joy of their family visiting was what they valued. But the family didn’t come. They’d moved; they had other places to go.

  So they opened their house to pilgrims. Now they are more content than they have ever been. They have a full life tending to their house and garden, and sharing a lifetime’s wisdom. Perhaps as they grow older their children will come to value that wisdom too.

  •

  After the screw-up with Grietje, I’d decided that instead of interviewing pilgrims, I could tell the stories of the owners of the places along the route. Unlike those on the Camino de Santiago, most could not rely on the walkers for income. My Camino credential was full of scallop shells and religious icons, symbols of the pilgrimage, whereas the Chemin d’Assise stamps were about the hotel or town.

  Beyond the Pilgrim’s Progress series, I needed a purpose. Right now, the walk was giving me that—but afterward? I’d been restless enough in San Francisco; I didn’t want to be alone all day with nothing to do in Sheffield.

  I’d held back on talking to Martin about it because every time I did, it felt like a downer. Which was a bad sign. If he was going to be my life partner, we needed to be able to work through stuff together. Keith and I had messed up there: back then, the problems had been his, and he hadn’t been able to share them with me. With the worst possible outcome.

  So, as we did a long day along the border of Piedmont and Liguria—on pavement, but through a spectacular landscape, both natural and constructed—I reached out
to him. Talked about what was bothering me with Camille and Sarah, and with us.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t love you. But I’m really struggling with the practicalities of how this can work.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right guy. If you’d wanted emotional support, well, I do my best. But practical solutions: that’s my job.’

  ‘So, what are we going to do? You and me?’

  ‘Well, for a start, work it out together instead of you trying to come up with the answer by yourself. Involve all stakeholders. Identify their individual goals.’

  ‘Like living in Sheffield?’

  ‘Maybe, but I said that: you should be interrogating it. Why do I want to live in Sheffield? Is there a deeper goal that I’m trying to support? And why that goal? All the way down to the depths of my psyche.’ Martin was making light of it, but he was also making sense. It was great just to be talking.

  ‘Okay, then. Why do you want to live in Sheffield? Why do you want us to live in Sheffield?’

  ‘Well there’s the weather for a start.’ He pointed to the sky, which had clouded over. ‘I mean, this is so much nicer than all that heat we had a week ago.’

  ‘You really…’

  ‘No, not really. There’s great pubs. And parks. Walks on weekends on the Yorkshire moors.’ For a moment he seemed to be back there. ‘It’s me roots.’ He’d heaped on the accent. ‘The purple heather on the hills is a sight not to be missed. A glass of fine stout? A freshly shot grouse?’

  ‘What’s grouse…stop it.’

  There was no doubt Martin loved Yorkshire, which was cute. But a lot of what he was describing seemed to be in the country, not in Sheffield. I was going to need work—cartoons, yoga classes, maybe more. I wasn’t even fifty, and I couldn’t let Martin support me.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be digging deeper. What you said isn’t exactly deep.’

  Martin laughed. ‘The guy I’d like to interrogate a bit more deeply is Gilbert. Why does he need Camille’s illness to give meaning to his life? By the way, I have a little inside information on what’s happening with Camille.’

  ‘Something she told you in one of your little evening tête-à-têtes?’

  ‘Give me a break. She’s your friend. She drives me nuts with the French accent, now I know it’s put on. But apparently you’ve brought her closer to God.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Meditation. She was having trouble with prayer, but now she’s found some clarity. You know what I’d say—they’re the same thing, because there’s nobody on the other end of the line.’

  ‘Well, you know I’m somewhere in the middle. But I’m pleased I’ve helped.’

  ‘I think she’s wrestling with something, and the…preoccupation…we’re seeing is a sign that she’s getting close to an answer. With creativity, there’s often a period of tension, even distress just before the solution appears. Like childbirth.’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Bad analogy. But creativity: I told you. That’s what I do; that’s what I research and teach. Funny how partners often don’t really understand what the other person spends most of their day doing. Julia did HR, and she talked about the politics of it, but never the actual discipline. I know stuff-all about managing people. As I’m sure you can see.’

  ‘I never learned much about shoes. That’s what Keith did. Owned a shoe store. I guess I never understood properly what was in his head—messing with his head—all day.’

  ‘We all learned something when you did your meditation class. Including respect. I’m talking about Sarah in particular. You share what you can do well and suddenly people see you differently.’

  ‘So you’re going to give us all a lecture on…design theory?’

  38

  MARTIN

  I was not going to give a class on design theory. But Zoe had gone downstairs ahead of me to pick the owners’ brains for her cartoon project, and when I joined her and the others for pre-dinner drinks, I found that plans had been made.

  Gilbert was collecting a jug of red wine and a bunch of glasses from the bar, and he led us down the hallway to a conference room—basic, but equipped with whiteboard, boardroom table and tired-looking chairs. For all that, it felt less grim than the empty bar, with its Formica tables and threadbare sofas.

  ‘The marker pens have dried up,’ said Bernhard. ‘Are you able to teach without the board?’ Was he taking the piss?

  ‘I wasn’t planning to teach at all.’

  ‘You must,’ said Camille. ‘Zoe has taught us meditation, Gilbert teaches us about wine, Sarah is helping everyone understand my illness. Also, there is nothing else to do.’

  Bernhard nodded. ‘It would be embarrassing if I had travelled for two months with a design-theory expert and learned nothing from him.’

  ‘I thought you’d given up on engineering.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Zoe. ‘What you said to me today was good—just share more of that.’

  ‘This will help,’ said Gilbert, pouring from the jug. ‘Negronis, a traditional Italian cocktail. Unfortunately, the choice of wine is limited.’

  ‘But you found a creative solution,’ I said. ‘We’re constantly being creative: every time we decide where to stay, what to have for dinner, what to say when it’s our turn to talk. Some would say that’s the most characteristic quality of being human.’

  I could have felt like a wally, but I didn’t, any more than I imagined Gilbert felt awkward talking about wine. I’d done this a thousand times, for a thousand audiences.

  ‘And, as it happens, one of the most widely recommended techniques for encouraging creativity is repetitive physical activity, such as…’

  Camille laughed. ‘Walking. By now we should have solved all our problems.’

  ‘Walking, absolutely. Can anyone suggest any activities that might also work?’

  ‘Dad! Stop it.’ I was hamming it up, and Sarah was laughing.

  Gilbert topped up his glass. ‘Since we all have problems to solve, what is the best advice you would give a novice? The most common mistake to avoid. In wine, I would say that if you are tasting many wines, after a while your palate will want sweetness, and as a result you will overrate fruitier wines and later you will regret your purchase.’

  ‘Worth the price of admission for that,’ I said. ‘Okay, the most common mistake people make is that they don’t know—deeply—what they’re trying to achieve. They don’t state their goals clearly enough—and they don’t interrogate them sufficiently—and then they thrash around looking for solutions without knowing what the solution has to do. Camille talked about solving our problems, but we need to start with understanding our goals.’

  I looked around. ‘If anyone wants to share…I’ll go first. I’ve been wondering about what I’m going to do after this walk. It took me a while to clarify that my most important goal is to be with Zoe, and now I’m clear on that, finding a way of getting there doesn’t seem so difficult.’

  Gilbert jumped in. ‘For me, it’s easy. My goal is to support Camille. And since I have understood that’—he tapped his head—‘everything has been clear.’

  ‘Pass,’ said Sarah. I wasn’t expecting her to bare her soul in front of me.

  ‘I need to decide my future,’ said Bernhard. ‘You are right that the goal is important, but creativity is required to establish that goal.’

  ‘Quite,’ I said. ‘You need to do the advanced class.’

  ‘And for me,’ said Camille, ‘this is all true. I began this walk because I wanted to atone for my sins—for one sin which I will not name. This was my goal. I was not hoping to be cured, because I believe things, even illnesses, are given to us for a reason. But after I achieve my goal, I hope to go on living. So I am also asking God a question, which is what He wants me to do with the rest of my life.’

  ‘And do you feel you are close to getting an answer?’

  ‘Very close.’

  39

  ZOE
<
br />   CARTOON: In the background is a huge hotel; it was once magnificent, somewhere families would have vacationed in the 1950s. Now, signs of decay are everywhere: a shutter half-off, the garden overgrown. On the grass, a table is set for lunch. The owner and his family are serving a couple whose backs are to us—but whose Mercedes looks out of place. It is the family we see. The owner, in his sixties, overweight, tired and with a forced smile, the strain showing as he tries to satisfy a difficult customer. His wife too, worn down by life. The veins on her hands holding a tray of food are bulging, the tendons taut. Two teenage children help out: the girl looks like life is passing her by; the boy has a hint of anger and is looking to the driveway. For an escape.

  STORY: The hotel was once a bustling weekend and vacation destination, popular with the residents of nearby Genoa. A new road was built for the holiday season, two bridges spanning gorges that look like small-scale Grand Canyons, ravines down to a river that races over rocks and boulders, overshadowed by rocky crags and shale landslides. Now the balustrades of the bridge stand rusty, the road’s edge littered with fallen rocks and the broken pavement neglected. A ghost road and a ghost hotel.

  Antonio inherited the hotel down the line from his great-grandmother. He has worked in it all his life, as his father did before him. His wife once worked in a university but it was too far to commute, and as Europe opened up and Genoans turned away from local vacation spots to join international visitors in the centres of art and history, she too must work here. They own the hotel, but nobody wants to buy it and there is only a trickle of customers. All they can do to survive is use their own labour. The past has a grip on them all.

  I had returned to the garden to finish the cartoon when Sarah came out. There was still some light, and though dinner had been served inside—an okay meal that nevertheless bore out my story—I had chosen to recreate it outside, on account of the hotel being a major character in what I had written. The walk here and the scenery had been among the most stunning of the Chemin, yet the sadness of the people threatened to overshadow them.