Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘But it is winter.’

  ‘I grew up in Minnesota.’ That was cold. Here it was about forty degrees outside. Walking would warm me up. ‘And Spain is south, right?’

  She wrote down the name of a café. ‘Monsieur Chevalier is meeting another pèlerin—pilgrim. At fourteen o’clock.’ She rolled her eyes, maybe because someone else was stupid enough to walk in winter. ‘For a small price, you get your passport for the hostels from him. Also, advice.’

  I had lunch at Camille’s. It was more relaxed than dinner had been. Gilbert was out with friends, Bastien ate in front of his video game and if Océane was there I didn’t see her.

  ‘You must stay!’ Camille said. ‘How will there be enough clothes? Cream for the face?’

  ‘I’ll have to leave stuff here, if that’s okay?’

  ‘There will be too much time to think.’

  She stuffed my pack with food, gave me a long hug and her phone number for when I realised this was all a crazy mistake and, finally, wished me luck and courage.

  The café was at the far end of town. The bartender pointed me to a corner table, where a man of maybe sixty, with a kind face, glasses and a cross of medical tape on his balding head, was sitting. Skin cancer, I figured. All that walking in the sun.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I said. ‘Monsieur Chevalier?’

  The Frenchman looked over his glasses at me with brown eyes framed by long lashes and dimpled cheeks.

  ‘Oui. And your name is?’ He spoke English with an accent that reminded me of his namesake—I half expected him to start singing.

  ‘Zoe Witt.’ I explained the tourist office had sent me and put out my hand. Monsieur Chevalier took it but leaned in and planted a kiss on each side of my face.

  ‘You will have coffee?’

  My look must have given me away. ‘It is paid for,’ he said, and held up three fingers, not to the bartender but to a tallish man in a familiar checked jacket waiting at the bar. The shoplifter from the hunting store.

  Monsieur Chevalier pulled out a passport-sized folder, which concertinaed to reveal squares for stamping, like a girl-scout badge book. He stamped the first square Cluny with a graphic of a scallop shell and what looked like a lamb. I’d earned my lamb stamp just for starting.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘There is no charge.’

  ‘But the tourist office…’

  ‘This is your first lesson of the Chemin. Take what is offered. You will have chances to help others and you will take those chances also.’

  The shoplifter came to the table with three coffees: two little black ones and a larger one for me with a jug of cream and two sachets of sugar. ‘Merci.’ Another thing to pay forward. The shoplifter said something to Monsieur Chevalier in rapid French. From his body language, I figured he was making a light-hearted complaint about picking up the tab.

  He extended his hand to me and, as I shook it, his eyes dropped to my chest. French men were no better than Americans. But I sensed something between us changing, and not in a good way. He sat down without introducing himself.

  I got it. Before he’d started playing games, I had actually caught him trying to steal something. Awkward.

  He looked a bit older than me but was in good shape. Six foot, or a little over; brown hair, neat; and now, cautious, unrevealing eyes. A hunter, for sure. Charming when he wanted to be.

  Monsieur Chevalier continued with me. He had made the journey from Cluny to Santiago five times, including one return trip.

  ‘Why are you walking?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s hard to explain. I feel I’ve lost touch with the universe…’

  He didn’t push it. Instead, he shared some of his own wisdom. My sneakers were not perfect but they would do to begin with. I should change my socks every day and not wear them wet in the evenings; blisters—ampoules—were inevitable but could be treated by running a needle and thread through them, and leaving the thread in place. I needed safety pins to hang clothes, which could dry on my pack during the day.

  ‘Only two things are certain on the Chemin,’ Monsieur Chevalier concluded. ‘The first is ampoules. The second is that when you arrive at the Santiago cathedral, you will cry.’

  As I wasn’t intending to go beyond the Spanish border, the crying was not going to happen then, though I knew I needed to do it sometime.

  Monsieur Chevalier noticed my scallop shell and became quiet for a few moments, channelling something.

  ‘Zoe,’ he said, his accent making my own name sound exotic to my ears, ‘this shell will go to Santiago. And when you finish your journey, you will find…what it is you have lost.’

  He looked a little longer at it, maybe sensing its emanations as I had. ‘I have the intention to walk the Spanish section in April. Perhaps I will see you.’ And finally: ‘The Chemin will change you.’

  I finished my coffee, picked up my pack and walked toward Spain.

  6

  MARTIN

  By the time Zoe departed, with only a curt nod to me, I was feeling less than favourably disposed towards both her and Monsieur Chevalier. The balding version of Gerard Depardieu, with his contrived gravitas and a hint of the fanatic, was predictably attentive to the younger woman. I was more surprised that Zoe was about to stand Jim up to walk the Camino for hazy spiritual reasons. And that her finances, supposedly insufficient for a rucksack or a cup of coffee, had run to 275 euros for a souvenir.

  The scallop-shell charm that I’d spotted hanging around her neck as we shook hands had been in the window of the bric-abrac shop for some time. A month ago, I had enquired about it, with an idea that Sarah might like it as a memento of my walk. Late nineteenth century, possibly Viennese, possibly Russian, said the shopkeeper, watching my reaction to see which I would prefer. I would have preferred affordable.

  I had listened in silence as Monsieur Chevalier waxed lyrical about the Camino: he did seem to know what he was talking about, and was likely being more generous with his advice than if he had been giving it to me alone.

  With Zoe gone, he reverted to French. ‘I need to see your boots.’

  ‘I don’t have them with me. I’ve used them before. I’m an experienced walker.’

  That was stretching it a little, but I’d done a few days in the Lake District with my friend Jonathan, a British Army brigadier, only a year earlier.

  ‘The Chemin is not a conventional walk.’

  ‘They’re good strong boots. I’m very happy with them.’

  ‘For ninety days, you require light boots. Heavy boots are a grave error. Blisters will be guaranteed. Also, problems of the knees.’

  If anything was going to scare me into taking his advice, it was the risk of knee injuries. But I would be pulling a heavy cart, and would need all the ankle support and grip that I could get.

  ‘You will carry your own backpack?’

  Putting aside the technicality that I would be hauling rather than carrying, I did not think there was much option. Sherpas were likely to be a bit thin on the ground in rural France.

  ‘Is there an alternative?’ I asked.

  ‘It is possible to have the pack portaged, by taxi.’ This was news to me. I knew there were services on the Camino Francés in Spain, but my research had not turned up anything in France. ‘If you are incapacitated, this is understandable. But otherwise… You will be staying in the hostels?’

  ‘I’m planning on hotels and chambres d’hôte. I thought I should get the credencial just in case.’

  ‘You should stay in the hostels. At this time of year, they make little money. It is generous of them to open at all.’

  Monsieur Chevalier produced my credencial. Like every official in France, he found it necessary to demonstrate that his job involved a high degree of personal discretion.

  ‘I will give you this, but you must stay in the hostels.’ The words petty and bureaucrat both come from the French.

  He stamped the first square with some ceremony and added the date. ‘Forty euros.�
��

  Half a day’s budget. I handed over a fifty-euro note, which monsieur inspected before passing me the change. He must have caught my reaction.

  ‘Less than fifty euro cents a day. Along the way, you will see how much volunteers have done to make your journey safe and comfortable. It is right to return even a little.’

  Fair enough. But he could have spared me the lecture.

  Then he looked intently at me and delivered the benediction he had given Zoe. ‘The Chemin will change you. It changes everyone.’

  He doubtless thought that would be a good thing.

  7

  ZOE

  The sky was cloudless, and there was some warmth in the winter sun. The blue and yellow scallop-shell markers—stickers about two inches square—were easy to find on lamp and fence posts, trees, gates and buildings. The road rose steeply out of town, then flattened out, taking me into my first forest.

  It was a paler version of home, with soft, muted colours. One of my happier childhood memories was of kicking up the darkened leaves of fall that were strewn thick on the ground, as they were here. The trees were barren, and occasional conifers reminded me of Christmases in upstate California and Colorado.

  In the dappled sunlight, I saw a deer in the distance and watched her for a while, conscious of the silence. Eventually, she turned and in one bound leapt over a log and disappeared into the dark.

  The trail took me in and out of the woods and through farmland. The small paddocks were marked with tracks in the mud and divided by rock fences. A large white cow roused itself from its bed in the mud to watch my progress and I was conscious of how peaceful this journey was going to be. Alone in the natural world, I would have time to think and feel and remember. My hand went to my pendant. The scallop shell provided a nest for the small heart charm that Keith had given me. We had been different, Keith and I, but we had come to understand each other and work within those differences.

  Right now, there were more urgent things to think about. The ancient pilgrims had hospitals and monasteries that provided food and a place to sleep. Many were still standing and some offered beds, according to the brochure in the tourist office. But where were they?

  After two hours, with the sun beginning to set, the track led me into a small village. Sainte Cécile, said the sign. The auto-repair shop and café looked long abandoned, and through the window of the bakery I saw paint tins and drop sheets. The public bathrooms were closed. There was just a church and a restaurant—and a teenage boy sitting on the sidewalk. The music coming from his cell phone was loud and strange in the silence, and he didn’t acknowledge me. One of the cows in the shed behind him lifted its head briefly.

  A small, grey-haired woman answered my knock at the restaurant: ‘Fermé.’

  ‘Would it be okay to use the restroom?’ I asked.

  She shook her head and it took me a moment to realise that she wasn’t saying no—she just hadn’t understood my English.

  ‘Toilette?’ It was a good word to have remembered. I didn’t want to mime it.

  That worked, and I used the time to figure out my next question.

  ‘Un hostel? Un motel? Un trailer?’ I asked, tipping my head and resting it on my hands.

  She pointed down the road and held up ten fingers. Ten miles—no, kilometres. Whichever, I wouldn’t make it before dark.

  ‘Pelèrine?’ she said, pointing to my backpack. It took me a moment to recognise the feminine form of the word for pilgrim.

  ‘Chemin de St Jacques?’

  I nodded and she continued in French, none of which I understood, but I could see that she related to what I was doing and wanted to help. She gave me a glass of water. I think she figured I was going to walk on.

  The cows didn’t look like they wanted company, which left only one place to stay: appropriately enough for a pilgrimage, the church. Open and empty, no signs prohibiting it. There were some cushions, and I lined them up along a pew.

  I was brought up in a God-fearing family, though it was my father we feared more, but when I went to college I left the church behind. Camille’s Catholic guilt during our year together hadn’t encouraged a return to the fold. The final severing was my mother’s doing. When I told her about the help I had given Camille, she disowned me. In return, I disowned religion. In the twenty years since, I had only set foot in a church twice. The first time was for my mother’s funeral. She had died of cancer and I hadn’t seen her in the three years since we had our final showdown. She had never met her two granddaughters.

  The second time had been three weeks ago, for Keith.

  Now I was in a small, dark, cold French church for my first night on the Camino. On the positive side, I had not spent a cent since leaving Cluny. With all my clothes on I was warm enough—just. Madonna and child smiled down on me from the pulpit, and maybe Sainte Cécile was lurking somewhere. The hard reality of the wooden bench and a coat that was not meant to be a winter blanket taught me my first lesson of the Camino. My scallop shell might get me to Spain, but if I wanted to travel in comfort I’d need to do some planning.

  8

  MARTIN

  In lieu of carrying a magic scallop shell, I had made thorough plans, which now had to be shifted back a further day. I organised accommodation for my first night at a bed and breakfast run by an Englishman in Tramayes, nineteen kilometres down the track. For the second night, I booked a private room at the hostel in Grosbois. My investment in the credencial would pay its first dividend.

  Jim had extended my lease in exchange for beer and company. I broke the news about Zoe and he took it in his stride, but was surprised by my take on her.

  ‘I didn’t pick her for a hard-ass. I’d guess she said yes to lunch because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Hope I didn’t drive her out of town.’

  On reflection, I had probably been unreasonable in my judgment. She was entitled to have second thoughts about a date that had been set up by her friend. It’s hardly a grand deception to say ‘I can’t afford it’ in the hope of getting a better price on a rucksack—especially in France, where shopkeepers refuse to budge an inch outside government-approved sale periods. And it wasn’t her fault that I hadn’t bought the scallop shell for Sarah when I had the chance.

  My kit was laid out on the floor for a final check.

  Walking clothes: boots, three pairs of socks; Gore-Tex jacket with hood; walking pants, waterproof over-pants; two sets of thermal underwear, fleece, four specialised walking shirts; convertible woollen hat/balaclava/scarf; gloves; glasses; sunglasses; watch. For evenings, a spare pair of walking pants, shoes that could double as emergency walking boots and a cashmere vest.

  Camping equipment: tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat; microfibre towel; tiny gas stove, aluminium pot, cutlery.

  Toilet bag and medical kit. I had kept it minimal: every village in France seems to have a pharmacy.

  Electronics: lightweight PC; power adaptor; phone doubling as camera; miniature tripod; rechargeable batteries for GPS; charger; earphones; memory sticks. I could have used the phone as my GPS but Jonathan had mailed me a military-spec unit and a cheque for two hundred pounds drawn on the army in exchange for a report at the end of the walk: ‘You don’t want to be trying to keep a phone dry in the pouring rain, just when you need it most.’ The maps were still on a memory stick at the outdoors shop.

  Thermos; water bottle; torch; compass; Swiss Army knife; last year’s guide for the Chemin between Cluny and Le Puy—an orange booklet listing accommodation and services; passport; wallet with credit card, cash and photo of Sarah; business cards; credencial.

  I had decided to walk with bâtons. If any part of my body was likely to let me down, it was my knees. One had been rebuilt; both needed to be treated with care. The carbon-fibre, shock-absorber-equipped sticks would take some weight off.

  Harmonica. In my twenties I had messed around with music but had not played for years. Maybe I could use some of the free time on the track to revisit my artistic sid
e.

  A selection of spares and tools, including tyre pump.

  ‘That fits into that?’ said Jim, pointing first to the array of equipment on the floor and then to the three detachable bags that were the cart’s storage units.

  ‘Room to spare. And the suspension can take eighty kilos.’

  ‘Then pack something else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Something that’ll look good in the photos. It’s like vacation rentals. You know what the houses are like around here, pretty shabby a lot of them. But for a few euros, you buy some nice wine glasses, a coffee machine, couple prints on the wall…’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll carry a painting to brighten up the hostels.’

  ‘Listen to me. Take a glass or two, folding chair, a little coffee machine for that burner. Then you’ve got a photo of yourself by the track, drinking a coffee, looking like—’

  ‘Like a right wanker.’

  ‘Who’s gonna buy this cart? People with bad backs. Boomers. Trust me, I know my market.’

  ‘You know the market for people who sit on their bums drinking wine and coffee.’

  ‘Same people. They like their little luxuries. I’d forget the cart and start a shuttle service to carry the packs.’

  ‘They already exist. But no respectable pilgrim would use them unless they had a disability.’

  ‘Or nobody was watching. Anyway, I brought you a farewell present.’

  Jim gave me a three-pack of condoms and I laughed.

  ‘I doubt I’ll have much use for these in France. Probably no one else walking this time of year.’ As soon as I said it, I realised the awkwardness.

  Jim smiled. ‘Say hi to Zoe if you see her. And think about the coffee machine.’

  9

  ZOE

  When I woke up in the church, all I could think about was coffee. I would have traded my whole bag of cosmetics for a cappuccino. A woman coming in to pray looked surprised to see me. Or maybe she was shocked at how I looked. I shrugged. ‘The village could use a hostel,’ I said.