Two Steps Onward

by Graeme Simsion

‘What was keeping me sane. It’s actually being out here with you and not thinking past it. To San Francisco, or what’s going to happen with Camille.’

  Gilbert and Camille had already left; today we’d reach Aulla, the end of the Ligurian section. The next three weeks would take us to Assisi, or, if we bypassed that town, as I’d suggested to Gilbert, directly to Rome. I filled Zoe in on the option, then she took off with Bernhard to give me a chance to talk to Sarah.

  ‘Do you want to tell your mother, or shall I?’

  ‘About switching to engineering?’

  ‘And where you’re going to do it.’ Sarah and Bernhard had decided that they would study together and combine it with learning another language—so the UK and Germany were both off the list. The language opportunity may not have been the only reason.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Okay. Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.’

  ‘I probably will.’

  ‘Are you in love with Bernhard?’

  Sarah laughed. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. What do you think? I mean, I’m planning to spend the next four years of my life with him…’

  I suppose that made sense, though she apparently hadn’t been in love with him when they hooked up.

  ‘Why does it matter?’ she said.

  ‘Just that love doesn’t exactly go with level-headed decision making. I suppose I just want to be sure you’d do what you’re planning to do if Bernhard wasn’t in the picture.’

  ‘How can you ever know that? He is in the picture, so…’

  ‘It is what it is, right?’

  ‘That’s not exactly how you’re supposed to use the expression, but yes.’

  ‘Can I ask you another question?’

  ‘About love?’

  ‘Funnily enough. Can you think of anything you’d do that was more important? That you’d walk away from Bernhard or whoever you were in love with for?’

  ‘You mean if my best friend—my soulmate—had multiple sclerosis and she’d kicked her husband out?’

  ‘Very astute. So now you can answer the question.’

  ‘Maybe I’d wonder whether my friend really wanted me to look after her or if she was testing me. But if I was Camille…If I had MS, I’d want to keep all my options open.’

  ‘Well, at least for the moment, I think she’s decided that Gilbert’s the better deal.’

  ‘Do you still want me to answer the question?’

  ‘I thought you did.’

  ‘If I had a choice…Most women would tell you they’d choose their best friend, but they’d actually choose the man. I mean, if they were really in love, not some guy they’d been married to for twenty years and given up on. So, I think you’re good, as long as you keep Zoe happy.’

  I walked alone for a little while and reflected on it. I appreciated Zoe being the sort of person who would make great sacrifices for a lifelong friend. But she and Camille had seen each other—what, twice?—since university. They hardly corresponded. Even now, on the walk, Sarah spent more time with Camille than Zoe did, and I was doing reservation duties with her every evening. Gilbert, of course, spent more time with her than either of us. Zoe was fourth out of five.

  I didn’t think I was being presumptuous when I reassured myself that, if push came to shove, she’d choose me. And in the meantime, we were both hoping that it was just a test, and that Gilbert would continue the role he’d so nobly taken on. Camille had at least notionally forgiven him; even if it was a ‘fake it till you make it’ scenario, it was a step forward.

  I was less convinced that Sarah was making the right choice: she was so patently being driven by Bernhard. That said, I’d offered to up sticks and move to San Francisco for the same reason.

  59

  ZOE

  There was much about the walk into Aulla that lifted my spirits: views of hilltop towns on distant peaks, families enjoying Sunday lunch at the albergos we passed, and the winding path through and under the town of Meredo, via ancient stone staircases. Camille and I found a small chapel and she lit the last candle from the supply she carried.

  A wizened Italian lady no taller than my shoulder, I guessed in her nineties, had been watching us from her doorway. She grabbed me with tiny hands and cracked fingernails, spoke in rapid Italian and disappeared.

  Less than a minute later, she was back with a candle for me. I was happy I didn’t speak Italian so I had an excuse for failing to tell her I wasn’t Catholic.

  All the same, the ritual had come to have a warming, centring effect on me. It was hard not to feel that this candle was meant to be. I thought of the conversation I’d had with Camille in the shower, and about how lucky I was: if I ended up compromising about where Martin and I lived, it would be for love; Martin and I would have each other. Camille’s compromise was part practical and part penance. I lit the candle for her.

  I had done my best to put aside the rejection from the Chronicle, trying to reframe it as a chance to review the future—which might now mean San Francisco. Martin’s offer had filled me with we-are-one joy. It should have felt like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place, but it didn’t, and I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  The feeling was a bit like what I had experienced near the end of my first camino. Renata, one of the Brazilian women I’d walked with, pointed out what I was trying to—and did eventually—find. The can-do part of me I’d lost as Keith’s wife. The me that had screamed back at the pro-life protesters in St Louis, found a doctor in LA who Camille could trust, and a car to drive her across the country to get her there.

  The feeling I had now was more a weight than an absence.

  ‘These last two weeks have been difficult,’ I said to Martin, trying to make sense of it as we walked.

  ‘Because of Camille and the hostel stuff? Because we haven’t made up our minds about where we are living?’

  I shook my head, though those things must have contributed to me feeling a bit lost.

  ‘It’s been hard. Not just the terrain and the weather. I’m okay with that. But…the people. The oppression. No wonder the Chronicle didn’t want my cartoons. They are depressing.’

  ‘Tuscany will be different. Though…you were talking about time in Florence, looking at the art?’

  ‘When I got on the plane to get here, yes. But now? I can draw and observe while I walk, but serious art…I’m not in that space.’

  ‘Probably just as well. The Chemin d’Assise doesn’t actually go through Florence. It’s the Way of St Francis that starts there.’

  Which was different from the Way of Assisi. Or the Alta Via. Or the Camino de Santiago, which had routes from here as well. More trails than walkers, it sometimes seemed.

  But Florence. The Uffizi. Michelangelo’s David. I felt less upset than I should have been. Part of me wanted to walk forever, like the Dutch guy we’d met on the first camino who had sold his house and used the money to walk for as long as he was able; better to die doing something he loved than live a life without passion.

  ‘There’s always Rome,’ I said. ‘Maybe then we can take a week to go to Florence. Check out the art and architecture? Decide where to live? Flip a coin?’ Right now it seemed a bit unreal. There was still a way to go—walking, washing clothes every day, worrying about Camille.

  Martin interrupted my reflections, but it turned out we were thinking about the same thing.

  ‘About Camille…’

  I laughed. ‘Always about Camille.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive Gilbert. But it’s not about the fridge.’

  60

  MARTIN

  ‘I thought she had forgiven Gilbert,’ said Zoe. ‘Thanks to your stroke of genius.’

  ‘Is that the impression you’ve got? That it’s all forgotten and forgiven and happy families from here on?’

  ‘You’re saying you’re not such a genius?’

  ‘One of the things I’ve learned in engineering and in life is
that if a solution looks too good to be true, it usually is. If you beat people down with logic, they get back up and do what they want, logic be damned. I’ve told you I’ve been seeing a therapist, haven’t I?’

  ‘That’s about all you’ve told me. I’m kind of curious…You don’t have to share anything.’

  ‘It’s not going to surprise you that he’s big into unconscious motivation. I’m sure Camille’s dementia adds another dimension, but…she’s got a history of being rejected, right?’

  ‘If you’re talking about the crétin—the guy who got her pregnant—I’m sure she’d say it was a good thing, but you’re right: he was the one who bailed and she was pretty unhappy at the time. That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘This is the life-defining event for her isn’t it? The break-up and the abortion?’

  ‘I don’t know…It was a big deal for me.’

  ‘And you were only aiding and abetting. She was at the centre of it.’

  ‘Not sure where you’re going with this.’

  ‘Gilbert was the one who walked out. He rejected her. She couldn’t deal with it and made up a story—not deliberately—that was more palatable to her.’

  ‘Or she made it up because she didn’t want to deal with the idea that she was going crazy, hiding her underwear and everything.’

  ‘In which case my argument comes crashing down. But if her real problem is that Gilbert left her, she’s never going to forgive him. Because that can’t be undone.’

  ‘Maybe she just needs time.’

  ‘Did she ever forgive the guy who got her pregnant? How long ago was that?’

  ‘The crétin didn’t carry her hairdryer across France.’

  ‘You know, I really hope I’m wrong and that it’s just that she’s still pissed off with Gilbert because she thinks he jumped the housekeeper.’

  ‘Why is that any better?’

  ‘Because then it means she doesn’t have a deep-seated issue with being abandoned. And that there won’t be a problem with you walking away when we get to Rome.’

  I watched for a reaction. Yep. I wasn’t the only one who’d thought that if Camille decided to let Gilbert go—to pay him back in kind for leaving her—then her next option might be Zoe.

  I pushed on. ‘There’s something else Camille told me that wasn’t particularly important to me, except that you’d never mentioned it…’

  ‘Go on. What did she say?’

  ‘Just that the guy who got her pregnant was actually your boyfriend, but when it all went pear-shaped you stuck by Camille. Seems like an easy choice, given he was obviously a cad, but you never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘I never told you because it’s not true.’ Zoe looked shaken. ‘Jesus, she really is…confabulating. Creighton—the crétin—was totally preppy. He wouldn’t have looked twice at me, and anyway I was dating Manny. Manny—I mean, the guy I ended up marrying—was my boyfriend back then.’

  ‘So, while I’ve got my psychoanalyst hat on…She’s made up a story—and I’m sure she didn’t make it up deliberately, because why bother—about you choosing between her and a man. And choosing her.’

  ‘Well, Dr Freud, I’m just glad it’s not going to happen in real life, even if the only reason she’s staying with Gilbert is because of the hostel. Remember, the hostel is a message from God, and her faith seems pretty unshakable.’

  ‘And maybe it’s a way of allowing herself to stay with Gilbert.’ I hoped I was right.

  Back near the beginning of the walk, Gilbert had told me that Camille needed Zoe to be with her in Rome. My fear now was that the pieces that Camille had pulled together to create the story about Zoe, the crétin and, perhaps, Zoe’s first husband, would be reassembled in their original form to reveal some terrible reality—somehow connected to the Big Lie. Along with a goodbye to Gilbert and an offer Zoe would be unable to refuse.

  I knew Zoe had felt that our future was constrained by my responsibility to Sarah. That was changing, but now I sensed that our paths had become intertwined with those of Gilbert and Camille.

  61

  ZOE

  I joined Camille for the final stage of the walk into Aulla. Sarah and Bernhard had gone ahead as usual, and Martin was walking with Gilbert. It had started to rain, so we put on our wet-weather gear. Camille seemed to be struggling with her jacket and over-pants, and I helped her, as you would a child.

  ‘Soon it will be winter,’ said Camille.

  I thought of the lush green forests we’d left behind in France, scattered with gold and brown. Here, some of the branches were already bare. I had always loved the changing seasons, but in California you were protected from them.

  I was too deep in thought to notice that Camille had turned inward too. We had left a large monastery as we descended into town and she had been checking out roadside signs I had barely noticed. It wasn’t until about the third time she stopped that I finally paid attention. What I’d thought was a road sign was actually a drawing of someone tying Jesus to the cross, inside what looked like an oversized mailbox with the door open. Above it was written: XI STATIONE. Gesù è inchiodato sulla croce. I didn’t need any Italian to figure this one out.

  Camille appeared to be praying. Until she wasn’t. ‘Merde.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘This is the Stations of the Cross. Jesus and his trials on the way to Crucifixion. It is to help contemplate the passion of Christ.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘It should help, this. With my own pilgrimage.’

  I decided to just wait. It didn’t take long.

  ‘Nom de Dieu. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Camille took a last look at the graphic then stormed on, past the next station without stopping. I hurried after her.

  ‘I forget the prayer. What sort of pilgrim am I that I forget the prayer? How will I ever be saved if I can’t remember?’

  The last time—perhaps the only time—I had seen Camille this upset had been when the crétin in St Louis had dumped her. Her rage and despair had never been far below the surface during the long drive across the country and back.

  I was pleased no one was around. ‘What do I have to do just to have peace?’ she shouted. ‘Am I that awful? What about fucking child abusers, Daesh, Trump and Putin and that guy in Korea. And the one in the Philippines, huh?’

  I hurried in her wake. She’d dropped her French accent. I guess she sounded like me. Having a really bad day.

  ‘Why did you give me multiple sclerosis? Why are you punishing me?’

  And there it was. Under la belle indifférence, behind the religious acceptance, how she really felt—scared and angry.

  She got to the last station and crumpled, crying. I sat beside her, hugging her as best I could, given she was still wearing her pack.

  ‘Zoe, I will never make it. I can’t do this anymore. I want to die.’

  ‘Camille, deep breaths.’

  ‘How can I give guidance to anyone, me who has sinned so much? What was I thinking?’

  ‘You helped Grietje.’

  ‘I know you know,’ she sobbed. ‘I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ I asked, pushing her bangs out of her eyes.

  ‘That I won’t see him. I am nothing.’ French accent back. ‘The Pope. He will not see me. And there will be no salvation.’

  ‘You told me it wasn’t about the men of the church,’ I said when she’d quieted down. ‘And Pope Francis might be a good guy, but…even Saint Francis was just a man, at the end of the day. Your relationship is with God, isn’t that what you said? That He brought you peace? I figure He can see in your heart and won’t really care if you forgot a section of prayer.’

  ‘But what will happen to me?’

  I wasn’t sure how to answer this question—my stomach tightened in a knot as I let myself contemplate the options.

  ‘Everyone wants me to go home to die, to leave me with Gilbert.’ Camille gave another loud sob. ‘I don’t love him. No one is here for me; no one listens to me. Just because I am ill, doe
s this mean I have no feelings, no free will?’

  It looked like Martin’s theory about logical solutions not being accepted had legs. And was kicking.

  ‘It was only…He’d help, with the hostel. If you wanted.’

  ‘I don’t want. I will get someone else to help if I need it. I don’t want Gilbert.’

  I thought of how Martin and I had been clear—insistent—about Gilbert being the best option. Right from the beginning of the walk. From our perspectives. Not Camille’s. We had all let our own agendas dominate. Except Sarah, which was maybe why Camille was drawn to her. Rather than helping her work out how to face a serious illness and what it meant for her life, we’d pushed her on Gilbert because we liked him—and it was easier for us.

  You think this is an adventure, Camille had said, and she’d been right. I had answered her call but the walk had turned into a romantic interlude for me; every time she lit a candle, though, she had faced a sin and someone she’d hurt. And had suffered for who knew how long for the sin she was taking to the Pope—who wasn’t going to see her.

  I felt ashamed. For worrying about my nerve numbness, for the pettiness with Sarah, and, of course, for being preoccupied with Martin and the practicalities of where we were going to live together. Distractions from why I had come, why I had been needed.

  I had been there for her abortion when no one else had. I had listened and written and supported her through the miscarriages and failed IVF. I was meant to be here for her.

  ‘I hear you Camille,’ I said. ‘What you want. Whatever you want. I’ll support you.’

  ‘Stay with me, Zoe.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I knew you would come.’

  It was a slow and sombre trek down the mountain, made worse by the rain. When a dog—unleashed—came bounding out at us, teeth bared and barking angrily, I shielded Camille and shouted back at it. The owner came out to see what was going on and started screaming at us instead of at the dog. Whatever Camille yelled back at her in Italian shut her up but it was at least two hundred yards before I finally felt safe.