Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘For me, the walk is about being one with the universe—feeling nature’s power and using it to re-energise,’ I said.

  ‘Time to think,’ said Bernhard. ‘Too little deep thinking at university.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘What I do with my life. There is no bigger question than that.’

  He and Sarah had so much time to work it out. Or at least they thought they did. Where did that time go?

  ‘Is Sarah part of your thinking?’

  ‘Is this question yours or Martin’s?’

  ‘Mine. Being young can be full of joy and possibilities—but it hurts too. You’ve been great meeting her physical needs—shit, I mean breakfast—’

  Bernhard was laughing.

  ‘But don’t forget she’s looking for meaning too. Being a physician is important to her. She was right there for Camille when she had heat stroke.’

  ‘Of course. But I’m telling her, if she wants to save people, building turbines will have more impact. Sarah told you I am thinking of this?’

  ‘No, but you seemed passionate about it yesterday. Which was great. But it’s not a competition.’

  Bernhard grinned. ‘Maybe she could come to Africa with me. That would mean she would not have her father around. A good solution for both of us, perhaps?’

  56

  MARTIN

  Six weeks and a day into our pilgrimage, well over halfway to Rome, we were still in the Apennines, still walking alone through wild and sometimes spectacular scenery, and staying in run-down hotels with erratic heating, idiosyncratic service and solid Italian cooking.

  Tonight’s accommodation, slightly off-route near Bergugliara, operated primarily as a pizzeria. No point trying to sell Gilbert on this one as a project; I doubted it was what Camille had in mind, either. Perhaps her gîte would one day be the competition for the pizzeria, but there were advantages in being the only game in town. And serving pizza.

  Camille and I spent a good two hours sorting accommodation for the next few days: it was mainly a matter of stringing together the few available places into walking days of reasonable length. More work for me than Camille, but she seemed happy to be involved and was good at refusing to take no for an answer when she got on the phone. She was fun to work with and seemed to have forgiven me for my enquiries about the mechanics of stand-up sex. Afterwards, I was careful to not let Zoe think I was having too much fun.

  Tonight, there was an additional item on my agenda, which I was looking forward to with more relish than I should have.

  ‘Ever been to Morocco?’ I asked.

  Her expression told me everything I needed to know. Jim had replied to my email. His and Camille’s separate mentions of the Fez medina, his presence at dinner chez Camille, and his recollection of Jesus overlooking the marital bed were not coincidental. To be fair, the last might have been gleaned in the course of his professional work; his reply, perfectly candid, indicated that their affair had been limited to a mad weekend in Fez.

  ‘How long have you known this?’ said Camille.

  ‘Only today. I had an email from Jim.’

  She could see where I was heading. ‘Unlike Gilbert, I was discreet.’

  ‘I know about it. And…’ I pointed skywards.

  She sighed. Loudly. ‘You win the argument. I will forgive Gilbert. I will tell him, and that will make him happy. Also you and Zoe.’

  It was the result I’d wanted, but I wasn’t convinced we’d won the war.

  After pizzas that even Zoe the American conceded were as good as any she’d eaten, I tackled Sarah. There had been a signal moment when we’d arrived with Bernhard and Sarah, and the host had asked for payment in advance. Before I could pay for both rooms as I usually did, Bernhard put a credit card on the counter.

  ‘I’ll pay for ours,’ he said.

  ‘I think you’ve got extra spending money for the rest of the walk,’ Zoe had said as we climbed the stairs to our room. When had we last seen a lift? It was always the final climb of the day.

  ‘You don’t think that was a one-off?’

  I didn’t need to wait for Zoe’s answer. Bernhard’s body language had said: ‘From here on, I pay for Sarah. You are no longer the primary male in her life. I, Bernhard fucking Müller, arrogant millennial berk from Stuttgart and your one-time business partner, have, with a flip of my credit card, usurped the role you held for twenty years. Up yours, Martin Eden.’

  I’d shared my interpretation with Zoe and she’d laughed. ‘You couldn’t be more patriarchal if you tried. They have decided to pay their own way. Your twenty-year-old daughter is finally showing some signs of breaking free. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  Actually, it wasn’t particularly what I wanted. I wanted her to get her head straight and her life straight. Independence was a secondary issue. We’d had a day of Bernhard waxing lyrical about cheap renewables in Africa, and she’d hung on every word. I’d joined the dots. Breaking free could mean spending the remainder of her year off as his helpmeet in a third-world country…because helpmeet was all she’d be. Bernhard, qualified or not, was the engineer.

  On the other hand, it would probably look good on her CV when she applied for re-entry to the medical course. Three months supporting a person with complex physical and mental problems, six months doing charity work in a developing country: if they still cared for passion and decency in the medical world, she’d be well set.

  Sarah steered me to the bar, where we established that I was still permitted to purchase drinks for her.

  ‘I’m not about to go to Africa, Dad.’

  ‘It’s what you and Bernhard have been talking about all day. I just assumed…’

  ‘No. But what do you think of his ideas?’

  Deep breath. Don’t let your attitude to Bernhard get in the way. ‘Actually, I think it’s something that needs to be done. I think,

  for an untrained guy—and I’m not insulting him, but he’s a twenty-two-year-old—’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘With a business degree. He could be a good engineer, and if he went to Africa with a qualification in that field, maybe a master’s specialising in renewables or the mechanics of the turbines, he’d be able to do a lot more than an ordinary volunteer-abroad type.’

  I was thinking aloud, but I liked what I was coming up with. Bernhard might find himself thanking me one day.

  ‘Exactly what we were thinking, Dad. Me too.’

  ‘You mean you agree with me?’

  ‘That too, but I’m saying I want to study engineering as well. With Bernhard. That’s our plan.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I mean, me sort of following in your footsteps.’

  ‘You don’t want to finish medicine first?’

  ‘You know, that’s what everybody says to you. “Lay down foundations first; do what you want to do later.” Then I see—no offence, Dad—people like you, in their fifties, still preparing or waiting until later instead of doing what they want to do. Like they’re going to live forever or something.’

  Sarah’s point was fair, but it was going to be an interesting conversation with Julia.

  On the way up to bed, having done my best to interfere with the direction of everybody else’s lives, I did some thinking about my own.

  57

  ZOE

  The walk to Passo dei Casoni was mostly a wide forest road surrounded by thick bracken, high along the ridge. The weather was traditional mountain climate; foggy and windy at times, but we were never long without a view.

  The day ended up in another hunters’ haven, with long tables not yet cleared from lunch. We were all in cold-weather walking clothes, as they’d turned the heating off. As we finished and headed upstairs for warm showers, Sarah must have noticed me grimace.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  ‘Meaning mind my own business, right?’

  Right. I took a breat
h. ‘It’s taken a while, but I can honestly say, I’m pleased—really pleased—that you came on the walk.’

  Sarah took a moment to process this. ‘You know, I’m okay with you and Dad. I just wasn’t…well, I wasn’t prepared for you two still, like, sorting it out.’

  I had to smile, partly because in the last couple days I felt I had sorted it out, at least in my head. ‘Old people are meant to know what they’re doing, right?’

  She laughed. ‘Something like that. But tell me what’s hurting. I owe you one for the blisters.’

  ‘I just had a twinge…something weird. No big deal.’

  She waited. She’d probably make a good physician.

  ‘Tingling and numbness, and I had burning in my leg which has come back. Maybe just sciatica.’ Which, according to Dr Google, probably meant a disc herniation. Not great, but better than cancer—or multiple sclerosis.

  ‘Where?’

  I pointed to the side of my leg.

  Sarah frowned. ‘It’s not sciatica. Sorry…I don’t know.’

  So, probably something worse.

  Camille was already in the bathroom when I got there, but there were two shower stalls and I took the other.

  ‘I have decided,’ said Camille over the sound of running water.

  Oh shit. What now?

  ‘I will forgive Gilbert. And he will be the manager of the hostel.’

  If I hadn’t been naked and on the other side of a wall, I would have thrown my arms around her.

  ‘He will be so happy,’ I said.

  ‘There is too much work…too much work I do not wish to do, that Gilbert will manage.’

  Martin had been right. We’d got through to her. But her tone made me glad I hadn’t been able to hug her.

  ‘All relationships are a compromise,’ I said. ‘I mean…I’ve decided I’ll just damn well make Sheffield work, at least as long as that’s where Martin has a job. Which means leaving one of the great cities of the world.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Camille, emerging from the shower with her hair in a towel. ‘But you compromise for love. I am obliged to compromise for the practical.’

  Dinner was with the family in their cluttered kitchen—less space to heat—complete with an actual phone booth and a parrot in a cage. We were seated as couples at non-matching tables, with a litre of wine on each.

  It was different talking at dinner than on the trail. I was struggling to shed the cloak of sadness and regret that Camille had left me with. I wished she could love Gilbert.

  ‘She’ll get her joy out of saving pilgrims, spiritually,’ said Martin. ‘Marriages aren’t all hearts and flowers. At least if she’s forgiven Gilbert, they can move on, maybe find something as good or better than what most people have.’

  ‘Camille would say, “Why do I have to settle for that?” Sarah and Bernhard wouldn’t.’

  ‘You say that, but I spoke to Sarah last night, and it was all about joint plans and supporting each other. I was a bit humbled.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you…I’m kidding. Go on.’

  ‘Let me tell you a story about Jonathan.’

  Martin’s military friend. A general or colonel who lived in a ‘pile’. I had only found out recently that it wasn’t a dump but rather a grand old mansion. Alone. He’d fit right in here in Liguria.

  ‘Jonathan’s family—the one he grew up in—were loaded, but his parents were always tight,’ said Martin.

  ‘So, drinking problems?’

  No, British English problems on my part, Martin explained, laughing. Money issues. Of the first-world kind.

  ‘And he really wanted a train set. You know, the sort that needs a whole room to set up—points and level crossings and flyovers?’

  I knew what he meant. Vaguely.

  ‘He had a basic set and got pieces for his birthday and Christmas, but even a carriage cost weeks of pocket money…’

  ‘So, now he’s bought himself one? That’s what he does in his pile?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘That’s the tragedy. He keeps buying bits—probably has enough to set up several rooms. But he just stacks the boxes up and says he’ll get around to it one day.’

  I wondered where Martin was going with this.

  ‘Sarah made me think of it,’ he said. ‘She accused me of spending my time planning, dreaming about things and not actually doing them.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘Maybe before the Camino…but then you followed your architecture dream.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘I suspect that was like Jonathan collecting his trains. It was an old dream. Maybe not what I really wanted. As I said, I may be in the Architecture School but I’m doing basically the same as I was in engineering. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’ve been going on about dreams and everything, and I know Sheffield doesn’t…float your boat.’

  ‘I’m really okay with Sheffield. I can cope with a pea souper.’

  ‘Pea souper? It’s not the sixties. And you’re talking about London. Sheffield versus London is a bit like San Francisco versus LA.’

  ‘You’re comparing San Francisco to Sheffield?’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’d be happy to live anywhere that’ll have me. LA, San Francisco—Santiago de Compostela, if you want. As long as it’s with you.’

  He poured wine from the carafe into his glass while he watched my reaction. I was smiling. I had everything I wanted. But somewhere inside me I felt a small shudder.

  And when I looked at my email before I went to bed, the shudder became a quake. The Chronicle had rejected my cartoons.

  58

  MARTIN

  After Zoe had gone up to bed, I found myself sharing the remainder of our wine with Gilbert. Our hosts had retired and left us in the kitchen, with the embers of the fire to keep us warm.

  ‘How are things with Camille?’

  ‘No better, maybe a little worse. It comes and goes. On the track she is usually good, but in the mornings, at night…’

  ‘But the two of you? You said things had improved.’

  ‘Our…physical…life is much better.’ He laughed. ‘Not as good as yours.’ He formed his hand into a claw and made back-scratches in the air. ‘But she is…difficult. She is not thinking rationally about this hostel idea.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It has become an obsession. She is not weighing the advantages and disadvantages of the options. She wants an immediate decision, which would mean a purchase in Italy.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘These old hotels are not suitable. The purchase cost would be low, but they have been allowed to decay too long and, in any case, the atmosphere is not what Camille is looking for and…I do not wish to live in Italy.’

  ‘The Chemin starts in France.’

  ‘Also the chemin to Santiago. If she gives me time, we can look at hostels close to home. And in the meantime, we must watch the progression of the disease, to determine whether the project remains feasible. Can your daughter get me more pills for my heartburn?’

  I let him get away with the change of subject. ‘She’s not a doctor.’

  ‘In Italy, they may not be so scrupulous. I am going to run out. I have been taking a double dose to deal with the Italian food.’

  I laughed. ‘The rest of the world would complain about French food being too rich. But if I can offer a word to the wise: Camille talks to me when we do the reservations. She was happy when you decided to enjoy Italian wines.’ I winked. ‘Very happy, as you may have noticed.’

  ‘You are suggesting I should be more enthusiastic about Italian culture?’

  ‘I’m not saying you have to turn into an Italian. But perhaps you’ll both enjoy the journey more.’

  He smiled.

  My turn to change the subject. ‘Are you familiar with the geography of our walk?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, if you look at a map, we’re not exactly taking the shortest path to Rome. Assisi is way off to the east. Is there a reason
we need to pass through it?’

  ‘I do not think so. We took the Chemin d’Assise because it passes through Cluny. It finishes in Assisi, of course. There we meet the Way of St Francis that runs from Florence, through Assisi, to Rome.’

  ‘There’s another option. The Via Francigena, the path from Canterbury in the UK. We meet up with it tomorrow, in Aulla.’

  ‘And this chemin is shorter?’

  ‘From Aulla, the Assisi route takes five weeks to Rome. The Francigena would get us there in three. If Camille doesn’t need to go to Assisi…Think about it.’

  Gilbert smiled. Hugely. ‘I will not need the extra pills.’

  At breakfast, Zoe was still down in the dumps over the cartoon rejection. It was my understanding that artists of all stripes had to face a string of knockbacks before breaking through, but Zoe had pointed out, not unreasonably, that she was closing in on fifty and thought she’d already jumped that hurdle.

  ‘It’s more like being fired than rejected,’ she said.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘I can guess. You want to know how much money I’m not going to make.’

  ‘That’s part of it. I’m presuming you couldn’t have lived on one Chemin cartoon a week for however long the series was going to run.’

  ‘Last time we published them as a book as well.’

  ‘You can do a book without them being in a newspaper first.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s not so much financial. The thing that’s keeping me sane right now is that you’re prepared to come to San Francisco. I know I can teach meditation classes and I’ve actually been thinking of running drawing classes. I own my apartment. I’m not going to starve.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Now I’ve been set free from the cartoons?’ She laughed. ‘You know, I’d love to do a pilgrim and hostel-owner book of cartoons and stories. Longer stories. And I actually enjoy the massage and the teaching. But I lied.’

  ‘About?’