by Kevin Craig
The best pic was caught the moment Manny went crazy. The look on his face. I mean, obviously I think he’s one of the most gorgeous boys on the Camino. It’s no secret. But his face in that pic? Priceless. But not pretty.
The albergue tonight is small. There are only three other peregrinos besides our group of twelve. We’re all sitting in this huge common room overstuffed with couches, chairs, coffee tables, and bookshelves filled with books, puzzles, and board games. There’s also a large floor model TV that may not have been used in years, if it even works at all.
Kei’s sisters are sitting on one of the couches with Bastien, trying to convince him to pick up the guitar beside the fireplace and serenade them. I’m guessing he’ll eventually give in. He’s got this cute little smirk on his face, like he’s holding out for more adoration. Cheeky.
There’s a pile of old-fashioned photo albums on one of the coffee tables. The albergue owner used to get people to mail back photos and she’s collected them for decades. Shania and Diego are cuddled into an armchair that’s too small for them; they’re poring over all the old photos and making up stories about the lives of the people in them.
Manny and Greg are playing a fierce game of chess at the dining table, and Claire is doing her best to churn their competitive natures into a frenzy.
It’s comfortable. Everyone is chilling. Something about the hushed busyness makes me feel nostalgic. Sad. And so filled with stupid happiness.
I’m looking at Kei, who’s sitting across the room by himself. He’s playing with one of those Rubik’s Cubes and failing miserably. I’m waiting impatiently for him to look up from his cube and make eye contact with me, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.
For what I’m thinking, it’s now or never. Gil and Meagan went outside, the other peregrinos are talking amongst themselves, and the three albergue people are cleaning up after supper. I did the math carefully, accounting for every single person in the house. All present. And Kei won’t look up from that stupid toy.
I get up from the 1970s spinning egg chair I fought so hard to score and I make my way over to Kei. I pray nobody’s paying attention, because my motives are not pure.
I’m right in front of him before he finally looks up from his frustrations. When we make eye contact, I nod in the direction of the bedrooms.
Kei follows me down the long hallway and, thankfully, nobody seems to notice. Mission accomplished.
It’s four to a room here. We’re sharing with Gil and Manny, both presently occupied. I wait for Kei to come in behind me before I shut the door. Kei leans against the wall with a smile on his cute little face and says, “What’s up?”
But he knows.
I take his hand and lead him to his bed. His sleeping bag is already spread out on top of the sheets, protection against bedbugs and anything else the sheets may be harboring, according to Gilbert.
Kei spreads out on the bed, and I lie beside him. As scared as I feel, as much as my heart beats out of my chest, I know this might be our last opportunity. When I roll onto Kei, he groans, but not as much as the bed. We both laugh nervously.
“Is there a lock on the door?” Kei asks. I see that there is. Reluctantly, I leave him to push in the lock in the doorknob. As I make my way back, I slip my T-shirt off. “Are we doing this?”
“Shhh,” I say. “Can we just let whatever happens happen? We probably don’t have much time.”
I ease myself on top of him, and we start to kiss, taking it slow. I kiss the stud in his nose and Kei giggles. “Sorry. Tickles.”
“I like you, Kei,” I say. “A lot. I’m crazy about your beautiful face, your heart. I love the way you think. I’m going to miss you when this is over.”
“I want us to find a way, Troy—”
“Me too. I do. With all my heart.” I roll over and wedge myself between him and the wall and drape a leg over him. I snuggle my head into his shoulder and sigh. “I mean, think about where you live and where I live. And how we’re only teenagers. It’s so depressing.”
“But,” he says, “if we both want it, it shouldn’t matter what we have to do to make it happen. Long distance.” He runs a hand through his hair, attempts to tame it away from his face.
“I want it.” I lift my head, lean up on my elbow, and kiss his open mouth. Even as I do it, I fear this will be our last time. But I can believe in the possibility of anything. Especially in this moment.
“We still have the next couple of days,” Kei whispers at the end of our kiss. “We have now.”
“Yeah. We do have now, Kei Amano.”
“Yes we do, Troy Sinclair.”
This time, Kei’s the one who makes a move. He rolls onto his side toward me until I’m pinned against the wall. He snuggles against me and kisses me again.
“Just a sec.” I strain to get free of the wedge I’ve gotten myself into. He lets me go, and I jump up over him and off the bed. I dart across the room to the light switch and flick it off.
After I stumble my way back to the bed in the dark, I’m careful not to smack my shins on its metal frame.
“It’s so dark in here,” Kei whispers, his voice silky and filled with nervous energy. It’s the last thing I hear him say before I let myself fall on top of him. I try not to think about the way Dad insisted I come to Spain prepared. I try not to think about Dad at all.
Chapter 37 — Diego Nelson
This is a sad day. It’s the last one when we will walk toward an albergue. Because tomorrow afternoon, we’ll make our way into Santiago de Compostela. The end of the road for us.
“We walk, you and I?” Bastien says, as I step off the doorstep of the albergue and walk down the long driveway to where he stands waiting. He’s more eager today than he has been the past couple of days. The closer we get to Compostela, the more he seems to slow down.
I sling my backpack into place on my shoulders. “Ready. Let’s do this.”
Shania is still in the albergue with the rest of the kids and Meagan. Gil is just up ahead, across the road. He walks with Kei’s sisters on either side of him. Everyone has made plans to meet in a place called A Calzada for lunch on our last day before Santiago.
I can sense everything rushing to an end, winding down. Every step is closer to Moms. And to a world where my abuelita is no longer here.
“You must be getting ready to see your mother at home, no?” Bastien asks, reading my mind. We head out on the shoulder of the road and kick the shifting gravel as we go. “She will be very happy to see her little boy.”
“I hate that I left her when she needed me most. She’s kicking around in the apartment alone. Everywhere she looks, she’ll see my grandmother. And I did this all for some stupid girl who doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
“This does not sound like Diego of the Camino,” he says. “That Diego walks for different reasons, not because of what he did.”
He holds everyone to their truth, always. I forgot about Sabrina Vincent long ago. You set idiotic bonehead fires for girls like Sabrina Vincent. You live inside fires like Shania Reynolds.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“It is not often, I guess,” he says, smirking. “We go this way.” Bastien points to a dirt path that goes down the embankment, moving away from the road. As we take it, I can see that it leads to a tunnel under the road.
The concrete walls of the tunnel are covered with graffiti and paintings of peregrinos in various poses. They range from cartoonish to Michelangelo-esque.
“Wow,” I whisper as we walk past a painting of St. James walking with his pilgrim’s staff. I swear he’s going to walk off the wall and join us.
“St. James. He’s happy here. Almost home to his bones in the cathedral, no?”
“I guess so.”
The last message on the wall before we leave the tunnel is Life Is Too Short, in a fancy graffiti
script. I think of my grandmother and wonder if Bastien sees the message and contemplates his daughter’s cancer or his wife’s heart attack four short years later. I wonder if he has anyone else.
We walk downhill through a roughly paved lane with old stone houses close on both sides. The wall of one house displays a hastily painted yellow arrow, in case we’re unsure which direction to take. I rush to keep up with Bastien. He’s focused this morning. The new stick he picked up clicks a steady rhythm as we make our way deeper into the little sleeping town.
Up ahead, I see Gil, Becky, and Mia stop to let an old man with three cows cross their path in the narrow laneway. The man tap, tap, taps a long thin stick on the cows’ butts to keep them moving.
By the time the cows pass, we have caught up to the others.
“After you,” Gil says as he ushers us through with his hand.
“Onward to Arzúa,” Bastien says, pointing the way ahead. “We stop there for café con leche, Mr. Gil?”
“I would kill for a coffee,” Mia says. She fixes her long black hair into a scrunchie as we all start to walk. She looks like an older version of her brother, with girl hair.
“We see you there, then.” Bastien strikes off at a quick pace.
“Late for the marathon?” Gil says to me as I walk away. I turn back and offer him a weak smile before I rush to keep up with Bastien.
We hit the outskirts of Arzúa and it opens up to a large boulevard with four lanes of traffic heading into and out of the heart of the town. Both sides of the road are filled with restaurants and coffee shops. We walk past a restaurant with an impossibly giant pan of paella in front of it, right on the sidewalk. My mouth waters as I catch the spicy aromas of seasoned rice, chorizo, and shrimp. Café after café beckons us inside, but Bastien shows no sign of slowing down, even though his breathing is heavy and he has this look like he’s really struggling to keep going. After we pass a number of perfectly reasonable cafés, I become suspicious.
“Aren’t we stopping for coffee, Bastien?” I ask. “Like we told Gil and the girls we would?”
“No, no,” he says, pointing ahead with his stick. “We walk. We will stop at the church here for a stamp and then continue to Casa Calzada, no?” He pats his breast pocket where the top of his passport peeks out.
It’s not like I have a choice if I want to continue walking with him.
We turn off the main strip, and the town opens further. We see a church with a large courtyard filled with trees.
“The church.” He stops for a second, taps his stick on the road a couple times, takes a deep breath, and continues onward toward the church. “Merde.”
Two nuns at the door greet our arrival. They are both ancient and they wear the scapular and cowl, so only their faces show. No hair. My abuelita would be happy. She liked the old ways of the Catholic Church, when nuns were nuns.
“Bonjour,” Bastien says as he offers a great big Bastien smile. They light up at it, mesmerized by the kindness in his face. Just like everyone else.
“Ola,” one of the ladies says as she hands him a pamphlet on the church. “Veña, entra.”
The other nun opens the door to a cool rush of air-conditioned air.
“Ah, yes,” Bastien says. “Lovely.”
We step inside, and the relief is instant. I hadn’t realized just how hot the day had become. The coolness on my arms and face as my sweat begins to evaporate is heaven.
As there are no other peregrinos nearby, the nuns follow us inside.
“Veña,” the speaking nun repeats. The other woman has yet to speak, but her face is pure kindness.
They lead the way up the main aisle. I follow at their heels with Bastien behind me. The pews on either side of us are solid pine and polished to a blinding shine. The smell of lemons is thick. The scent fills the church. As I look about in every direction, I touch the back of a pew. It’s buttery soft and chill to the touch.
Near the front, the sanctuary opens up, and there is a prie-dieu on one side and a pulpit on the other.
“Mon Dieu,” Bastien says from somewhere behind me, a little more than a whisper. Both nuns look over their shoulders; their smiles fade momentarily. Perhaps at his choice of words? I’m pretty sure My God is a swear in here.
“Apologies, sisters,” he says. I turn to him, and he smiles meekly, but there is something else in his face. In his eyes. Almost panic. And, even though my own sweat has dried up in the coolness of the church, Bastien looks as though his has gotten worse. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his face.
As I turn back toward the sanctuary and the nuns, I hear a quiet thud. I turn in time to see Bastien hit the side of a pew on his way down, but not quickly enough to catch his fall before he lands on the stone floor of the aisle.
I scramble to his side, and already he’s waving me away with his arms. “I’m fine, I’m fine, Diego.” He sits and props himself up with one arm. “Just a little light in the head. The heat. I need no help.”
I kneel to help him the rest of the way up anyway. By the time I get him seated in a pew, the sisters are at my side tsking and fussing.
“Vous n’êtes pas bien, monsieur,” the talking nun says. I try to translate, with my terrible high school not-really-paying-attention French vocabulary. You are not well, sir? Spanish, I would have understood.
“Sit, sit. Sentarse. Asseoir,” She continues, moving from one language to another almost effortlessly. “Por favor,” she says to the other nun, who looks like she may cry. “Vai buscar auga.” Though she’s speaking Galician, it’s close enough to Spanish. Water.
“I’m fine; I’m fine,” Bastien repeats, pleading for the attention to stop. I sit beside him and rest a hand on his shoulder while the woman disappears to find some water.
“Monsieur, if you will excuse me,” the nun who stayed behind says. “You are not fine.” She puts a hand to his forehead. “You are too hot.”
I follow her lead after she removes her hand, and she’s right. He’s burning up.
“Bastien,” I say, a little shocked. “You didn’t say you weren’t feeling good this morning.”
“Ha ha. Maybe I was trying to outwalk the cold, no? The Compostela waits for no one, Diego. Just one more day. It is a simple cold.”
“You’re sick.”
“And I will be sick in Santiago. Not now. Now, we must walk. I rest tonight. I’m fine.”
I know he keeps saying this to convince himself, as much as us, that he is okay.
“You’re really pale, Bastien. You don’t look fine.” As I say this, I realize just how sick he looks. I try to remember this morning. I’m sure he didn’t look like this when we set out. Even if I hadn’t noticed, somebody else would have, for sure.
He leans back into the pew and sighs. The silent nun comes running up the aisle with a bottle of water in her outstretched hand. “Beber, beber,” she says, breaking her silent streak as she encourages Bastien to drink.
While the nuns fuss over him, I go toward the back of the church. I pull out my phone and send a text to Shania to tell her we’re in Arzúa and that Bastien is unwell.
She replies almost immediately, first with an Oh no, and then follows it with an I knew it. I wish I had realized, or she had mentioned it to me if she suspected it.
I’m afraid to be alone with him.
* * *
At Bastien’s frustrated insistence, we left the panicked nuns of Arzúa behind. Even though A Calzada is well over an hour away, he says one should never stray from the plan on the Camino. I don’t remember that Bastien wisdom being brought up before today.
We walked deep into a valley, across a stream, and then had to climb again. A terrible day to have to hit everything but flatland. Bastien keeps telling me he’s fine, but I can see how he struggles. The road is leaving him breathless.
We have made it to As Quintas. W
e veer off into a wooded area, following a mile marker. The trees get thicker as we go deeper into the forest path.
“We are close now, Diego. As Quintas. Soon we stop for lunch. Ten minutes, yes? Maybe fifteen. We look for A Calzada.” He leans harder on his walking stick, but trudges on. “Then we rest. We eat and feel better.”
I don’t fully believe his sense of timing or his promise of feeling better after he’s eaten something. These are his attempts to calm my panic and worry. I continue in silence, wishing more than anything that we had not set out alone.
Everything begins to hit me. Even as I attempt to keep it together, I know there’s nothing I can do. A ball of tension forms a knot in my throat, and I can feel it every time I swallow. The tears begin to fall, and I have no choice but to give in to them.
“I don’t want you to be sick, Bastien,” I say.
“I’m okay, Dieg—” he begins, before he looks my way and realizes the state I’m in. “No, no, no. Don’t cry, Diego.” He takes out his handkerchief and hands it to me. Even though it’s still damp from the last time he used it, I don’t care. I wipe the tears.
“You’re sick. The lady back there. She said you’re not well. I don’t think she meant you were having a bad day.”
“Come,” he says. “Sit.”
We’ve reached an open area in the forest. There’s a vast assortment of rocks spread out beside the path. Some are painted with little symbols or words. There are also sticks and twigs arranged in the shapes of arrows on the ground by pilgrims who came before us.
Off to the side, three boulders are large enough for us to sit on. Bastien leads the way.
“I do this for my wife,” he says, once we’re sitting down. I’m looking at my feet. I won’t look at him while he speaks. I feel pouty. Before he continues, a small group of peregrinos walk past and Buen Caminos are exchanged. Bastien waves as they wander deeper into the thickening forest.
“I carry her in my heart as we both carried our daughter on our second Camino. To Finisterre and Muxia. Not her ashes, no. That is just, that is nothing. Ashes are not the person. The soul, it is gone from them. The soul is everything.”
