Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  I contemplated my reflection. I had not shaved since the night of the Hot Rabbit. My walking trousers, tucked into heavy socks, were streaked with mud and the red mid-thigh-length jacket was looking less fresh. Scott of the Antarctic. The contrast with the businessman presenting his passport ahead of me could not have been more dramatic.

  In my room, I showered in the pristine bathroom. A change into my cashmere vest and a finger-comb restored me to something like the engineering academic I had been two weeks earlier, but I kept the beard. After examining my feet and the remains of punctured blisters, I decided there was nothing to lose by taking Monsieur Chevalier’s advice and investing in lighter boots.

  The town was well served with outdoors shops—all of them closed on a Sunday afternoon.

  Back in the hotel, I spent a while updating my blog, then headed out to dinner, expecting I would have a good range of eating options. The camping shops should have given me a clue: the streets were almost deserted. I used my phone to google restaurants. A long walk—relatively speaking, of course—brought me to a couscous restaurant which was open, but not for eating. ‘The chef has gone to Spain.’ They directed me to the competition on the other side of town, which was, unsurprisingly, full.

  I joined a tall handsome woman, perhaps a little older than me, her short dark hair streaked with grey, to make a queue of two.

  ‘English?’ she asked. Did I have a Union Jack painted on my forehead?

  I nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said, with what I guessed was a Spanish or Italian accent. ‘My French is terrible. Have you seen three women?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘They went to Mass. All of them. I’m Renata.’ She shook my hand, firmly.

  The maître d’ waved us in as a couple departed. A table for four was not yet available, and I invited Renata to join me while she waited.

  Her English was excellent, and we established that she and her missing friends—all Brazilian—were beginning the walk from Le Puy to St Jean Pied de Port the next day. She was from São Paulo, a historian. I liked her and hoped her friends didn’t find the restaurant.

  We had made a start on a carafe of red and a mezze platter when her fellow walkers arrived. There was a blur of introductions, dominated by a woman of about forty, platinum blonde in a tight white dress, bare legs and heels.

  How far had I walked? From where? Carrying how much? My God, for three hundred kilometres! Her admiration was a bit disingenuous, given that she and her friends had eight hundred kilometres of their own to walk. But in the flirtation stakes, she would have had the Hot Rabbit for breakfast.

  She invited me to join them, but they appeared to be gearing up for a big night and I was conscious of having a big day in front of me. My new guidebook warned that the stage from Le Puy to St Privat d’Allier was deceptively tough.

  23

  ZOE

  The climb out of Le Puy was no big deal: I’d been doing hills like this for two weeks. But something had changed: the number of people. I was no longer the only carrier of a scallop shell—most of the walkers had real shells tied to their packs, some with painted red crosses or pictures of St James. I chatted with them before I powered past. There was a couple pushing a child in a stroller, a guy in running gear taking a break and a group of four with a dog. All on their first day. Many Europeans, I found, did two weeks at a time, starting from where they had left off the previous year. None I met were going as far as St Jean Pied de Port. Four days earlier I had sensed that I had graduated to another level of fitness, and that feeling had not gone away. I hadn’t bothered getting a guidebook—I’d done okay without one so far.

  Keith would never have taken on the Camino. Aside from business—and, it now seemed, money—having gotten in the way of vacation plans, he wouldn’t have seen the point. Too much walking; not enough famous sights.

  The Camino was more me. Not the physical me, whose hardest exercise back home was yoga. But being in the moment, having space and peace, taking each day as it came. I didn’t want the autoroute of pilgrims I had heard about in the tourist office in Cluny, but neither did I want to be alone all the time. Now it looked like I would have company, and it would be good to meet a bunch of different people.

  The walking got tougher. The Camino route was following the GR65 trail, and its red and white bars painted on trees and posts had mainly replaced the scallop shells. I missed the sense of being guided by the saint’s spirit. After the screw-up in Montarcher, I was wary of tracks overlapping then separating, and kept a lookout for the occasional scallop.

  My work was rewarded with spectacular views across the valleys to rolling hills. I rested for half an hour. After the break, the muscles in my legs and shoulders seized up. All day, my senses had been directed outwards, and I’d forgotten to be mindful of my body. Some yoga stretches helped, but then my feet started to hurt. I was moving at maybe half the pace I’d started at. Long is a mile to he who is tired, said the Buddha.

  In mid-afternoon, the sky turned to fierce shades of grey and black, and the sun’s rays illuminated my destination for the night: the hilltop town of St Privat d’Allier. Hilltop meaning climb. It was thankfully short.

  As usual, the church dominated, in this case a formidable structure with what must once have been a monastery. The word at the hostel in Le Puy was that there were plenty of beds and I passed two gîtes on my way to the tourist office to find out which was cheapest.

  I had forgotten it was Monday: the office was closed. In the main street was a bar that advertised rooms. I stepped inside and, sitting alone at a table, laptop open with a cup of coffee beside it, was the Buggy Man. The Englishman.

  He now had a light beard. He looked more like a walker, rather than the hunter I had once imagined him. Not an unattractive look—but out of all the pilgrims now on the trail, why him?

  The Camino changes you, Monsieur Chevalier had said. Maybe the Buggy Man was working on his personality. He had saved me from walking an extra twelve miles and I hadn’t thanked him. I could at least show him I was civil.

  24

  MARTIN

  Zoe stopped when she saw me. Our last encounter in the snow had been chilly, but I was prepared to put it down to her being embarrassed at getting lost and annoyed at having to retrace her steps. I’d have felt the same.

  We hadn’t got off to a great start back in Cluny. Her collusion with Bernhard in taking advantage of local generosity had not advanced her cause, but we couldn’t have exchanged more than a dozen words. I should at least give her a chance to speak for herself.

  I beckoned her over and she stood, still wearing her backpack, looking like she’d done a hard day.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she said. That one word was laced with enough sarcasm to support a longer statement: Thanks for letting me assume you were French when I might have felt a bit less lonely on the trail if I knew there was a well-informed fellow walker of roughly my own age who spoke my language.

  I kept it light. ‘Lost again?’

  ‘Screw you.’ She turned around.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘To McDonald’s for a burger and a shake. Where do you think I’m going?’

  ‘I imagine you’re planning to walk around until you work out what I can tell you now. Only one hostel open and it’s full.’

  ‘And you know that how?’

  ‘I’ve got a guidebook. Quite useful. I’d recommend it.’

  ‘This café…’

  ‘Hasn’t got around to updating the sign.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s something.’

  ‘I suppose every village has some lonely old chap…’

  Even as I spoke the words, I regretted them, not just because it was a crass thing to say, but because at that moment I stopped believing Bernhard’s story. Zoe’s face was a combination of anger and mortification. Whatever had gone down, it hadn’t happened the way Bernhard described it. For a moment, I thought she was going to burst into tears, but ange
r won.

  ‘You conceited…prick. You’re telling me—who was it sending messages that he wanted to share a room with me, no charge, just…’ This time, she was the one who trailed off. ‘The little shit.’

  Neither or us said anything for a few moments as I, and presumably she, reflected on how much of what we knew about each other had come from Bernhard.

  Zoe looked down at me. ‘Just to be completely clear, did you or did you not suggest we share a room in a bed and breakfast—on your dime?’

  I looked straight back. ‘No. I didn’t. Bernhard said you were paying.’ It took her a moment to realise I was joking. I offered a friendly grin to confirm it.

  ‘You are on thin ice,’ she said, but she took off her pack and sat down. ‘I’ll have a coffee. Where are you staying, then?’

  ‘I’m not. I’m moving on. The hotel across the road is supposed to open at 6 p.m. but it’s a Monday. I don’t want to walk in the dark if it doesn’t.’ I had called ahead to Rochegude, the next village, and confirmed the hostel was open. The stretch was classified as steep and rough, but I would make it before sundown.

  ‘I’m not walking any more today,’ she said. ‘If the hotel doesn’t open, I’ll try the hostel—the one that’s full. I figure they’ll make space.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘You know, one thing I’ve learned in life is that sometimes you have to trust fate.’

  ‘If it’s on your side. Otherwise, you’re glad you packed a tent.’

  She laughed. Paused. ‘Did I get your room at Grosbois?’

  ‘I assume so. Sorry I was a bit taciturn.’

  ‘A bit?’

  ‘I was stuffed.’

  ‘The owner said you hadn’t eaten.’

  ‘Stuffed meaning exhausted. I appreciated the food. You don’t draw, do you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I saw the sketch you left. You know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Thanks. The owner showed it to you?’

  ‘No, he let me use your room for a shower. It was still there.’

  ‘I could have told Bernhard we’d shared a room already.’ She grinned.

  ‘Do you still want that coffee or can I get you a beer—or a wine?’

  ‘Beer’s good. And you could tell me your name.’

  ‘Martin. You didn’t know?’

  ‘A few days ago, I thought you were French. And a shoplifter. I’m guessing you’re not.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m an Englishman named Martin?’

  ‘No, because I’ve been wrong about everything else so far.’

  I fetched two beers, and she said, ‘That’ll give you a lift for the last stage.’

  I drank half my glass in two swigs. ‘I’ll take a chance on the hotel.’

  Six o’clock came around quickly. With a second beer down and the sun about to follow it, there was no sign of the proprietor. Zoe was right: the hostel could probably be persuaded to provide a place on the floor, and I always had my tent.

  Our conversation hadn’t departed much from the Camino, and I sensed she had also missed having someone to talk to. On my blog I was focused on delivering a commercial message, and my chats with Bernhard had suffered from me trying to hold my tongue and him looking for openings to score a point. I’d sent only a couple of bland emails to Sarah and her replies had been similarly brief.

  Across the road, a van pulled up. I settled the bill and caught the proprietor as he was unlocking the door.

  ‘The hotel is open?’ I asked in French.

  ‘Bien sûr, monsieur et madame.’

  We were fortunate, he explained, as there was just one room remaining.

  ‘Only one room left, apparently,’ I said to Zoe. Shit—it sounded like I was making it up, following Bernhard’s script. I held one finger up: ‘Only one?’

  Zoe laughed. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘It’s okay, you take it,’ I said.

  ‘We can share and toss a coin for the sofa.’

  ‘You sure? But you can have the bed. I’ve got a sleeping mat.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll get some drinks? What’s your poison?’

  I mentally kicked myself. A fellow walker had generously offered to share her room, and I’d responded by sounding like a lounge lizard.

  ‘Another beer or a glass of white wine would be great. I’m not much of a drinker.’

  I was giving the room key to Zoe when Renata, the tall woman from the restaurant in Le Puy, walked in, again the advance guard. She looked more wrung-out than Zoe had done. Day One. The veteran and I exchanged knowing smiles.

  Zoe headed upstairs and, in response to Renata’s raised eyebrows at the single key, I explained that we were sharing only because of room availability.

  The remaining Brazilians arrived a few minutes later. The blonde woman who had flirted with me the previous night had exchanged her dress for unusually tight walking pants, but not lost the makeup. They headed upstairs and were back, changed, before Zoe had reappeared.

  Blondie, in the short dress again, was apparently in charge of the social programme.

  ‘We are in France. We drink Ricard!’ No point explaining that we might be in France but we were not in Marseille.

  She slipped behind the bar. The proprietor came running over.

  ‘Tell him it’s okay, we buy the whole bottle.’

  Monsieur was not convinced that this was a good idea. But he had his hands full.

  ‘How much?’ I asked him, quietly, in French.

  ‘For the bottle, fifty euros,’ he said. ‘This is not a supermarket.’

  ‘Sixty euros,’ I said to Blondie. ‘Sessenta.’ I suspected the proprietor would have earned the tip by the end of the night. She had him take a photo of the group—on all of our cameras and phones—with the two of us front and centre, arms around each other.

  She poured five glasses. One of the women—about the same age but the polar opposite in grooming and manner—made an attempt at refusal, but Blondie was brooking no party poopers.

  25

  ZOE

  After a long soak in the bath I felt like a new woman; the beer may have helped. It had also mellowed me toward Martin. I figured that his attitude was just a national trait. I made use of the tub of water to wash all my clothes, and it was only as I began putting my underwear out to dry that I remembered I would be sharing the room. I put it all on one radiator and draped my coat on top. I could uncover it when Martin went to sleep. And try to wake up before him.

  When I made it downstairs, four women were in the bar. One, dressed for a party in a tight white dress and bare legs, was almost in Martin’s lap. He stood up, quickly. ‘Have some Pernod,’ he said, taking a bottle from Party Girl and pouring me a glass. It was the stuff I had seen bereted men drinking in bars at 11 a.m. The aniseed smell was strong enough to knock me out. A conservative-looking woman was looking at her glass like Alice contemplating the Drink Me bottle.

  I took a sip and felt the alcohol burn. I held the key out to Martin.

  ‘I’ve got it sorted,’ he said. ‘The room’s all yours.’

  Party Girl was smiling. Right.

  ‘I am Margarida,’ she said as Martin walked away, I guessed in embarrassment. ‘Like the cocktail, only with a d.’ Her mother must have been given a sign when she named her. ‘Fabiana and I will share.’

  I should have remembered that stereotypical Britishness included being a gentleman.

  While Martin was upstairs, I introduced myself to the other women. I figured they were the Brazilians who had kept me awake at the hostel in Le Puy. The tall woman, with a bone structure like Grace Jones, was Renata. The conservative—pious—looking one was Fabiana. She seemed to have decided the Pernod was safe to drink.

  The group leader was Paola, a motherly woman of maybe fifty who organised a private tour each year on a section of the Camino. After reaching St Jean Pied de Port, she was going to take a three-week b
reak before leading a second walk from somewhere in Spain to Santiago. Her three customers planned to rejoin her, along with her teenage daughter.

  Paola had a wealth of knowledge but needed a lesson from Nicole the Australian—the pack sitting at her feet looked bigger than the one I had started out with.

  ‘My knees are not good,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t help with knees,’ I said. ‘But I do feet and shoulder massages.’

  ‘How much?’ Paola asked.

  I took a breath. ‘Five euros for ten minutes of either, seven for fifteen minutes of both combined.’

  Keith would have fallen over if he’d heard me.

  Margarida told me that they were all taking the pèlerin menu. I was welcome to join them. Chicken and pasta. As I dug my fingers into Paola’s shoulders, the barman hauled her pack upstairs.

  I was finishing Margarida’s feet when Fabiana walked over. Margarida refilled her glass from the bottle beside her.

  ‘Do you think this is okay for pilgrims?’ Fabiana asked me.

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the drink or the massage.

  ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that the ancient pilgrims would have taken what was offered.’ Margarida added that if her feet were no good then there would be no pilgrimage. It got me another five euros.

  Massaging someone, even if it’s only their feet, creates a connection. I sensed that Fabiana was carrying a lot of emotional baggage, perhaps guilt. Margarida was closed, shutting me out of her space. I didn’t find their energy totally negative, but a little at a time would be enough.

  If there were enough pilgrims around with sore feet, I could finance my way to St Jean Pied de Port—and feel good about how I was doing it.

  Then Bernhard arrived.

  ‘Zoe! You and Martin?’ He must have seen the cart. ‘I will have a massage too.’

  ‘Twenty euros,’ I said. ‘Per foot.’

  Martin was unpacking his cart when I came downstairs after cleaning up from the massages—and rearranging my drying clothes. The Aspen jacket now had brown stripes on the inside. ‘Bernhard’s eating with the Brazilians. The other side of the restaurant looks good to me.’