The abbey rose from below the level of the road we stood on to tower above us. The rest of the town merged with it, born of the same era and stone. A single red tulip along the path swayed gently.
Martin unhooked himself from the cart and put his hands over my eyes. ‘Your turn.’
‘Um…red on bleached canvas. An amazing abbey, pitched slate rooftops…spires, a path that goes around the church and leads to a square building which must be the monastery.’
It was hard to concentrate on anything except the warmth of his hands on my cheeks, the hardness of his chest behind my shoulder where he had manoeuvred around my pack and the tingling sensation that went through my body.
Martin uncovered my eyes and delivered a lesson on eleventh-century architecture, still standing close behind me. When he’d finished, I turned to him and he looked at me intently, as though he was trying to see something or make up his mind. He kissed me on the lips, quickly, then turned back towards his cart. It wasn’t there.
It took us only a moment to find it, resting against a stone wall where it must have rolled, taking out the tulip on the way. We walked over to it and he checked for damage. All okay.
‘Good lesson,’ he said. ‘I need to design a brake.’
Then he hitched it up, threw his sticks on top and took my hand.
We walked down a narrow cobblestone street, which wound past bars and souvenir shops, and then back on itself. I followed it toward the monastery hostel, leaving Martin to check into his hotel. Walls rose above me on either side. At the entrance to the monastery, several people with pilgrim hats and packs and the occasional traditional wooden stick had congregated and were talking to a man in a long fawn robe, who introduced himself as Brother Rocher.
I checked in and climbed the huge staircase of worn stone to the dorm; it seemed like the monks of the ninth century had just departed and, for a few moments, standing alone in the silence, I felt I was somehow connected with all the souls that had gone before.
‘You know Compostela means “field of the star”?’ said Martin. After exploring the town, we had climbed a flight of uneven wooden stairs to the rooftop bar of his hotel, and were bundled up, drinking local red wine. We had a perfect view of the abbey as dusk settled.
‘As in Santiago de Compostela? Not a word I ever needed to use in Spanish.’
‘The story is that a star led a hermit to the remains of St James, buried in a field. Over a thousand years ago. They’re now in a silver coffin in the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. Now you know why you’re walking.’
I could see the first of the stars high in the sky and, for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine Santiago as a destination. There was something romantic about the story, however misguided—literally—the ninth-century hermit had been. We were all shown signs. It was just that we usually missed them, or misinterpreted them.
‘I love the bells,’ I said. ‘Not just here. In every village, chiming us in or out. How many people over the centuries have heard those bells, and here we are…’
‘You know the Edith Piaf song? “The Three Bells”? A bell for birth, a bell for marriage, a bell for death. The church was the centre of everything back then. The abbey here took a hundred years just to rebuild in the eleventh century. People would have spent their whole lives working on it and never have seen the end.’
‘I guess they were earning their ticket to heaven.’
‘Quite,’ said Martin. ‘Their lives had purpose.’
‘That doesn’t make it right. The church was taking money and labour from poor people who didn’t know any better.’
‘They believed in what they were doing. Who are we to say what is and isn’t a good life?’
‘Not being tortured to death with a brazier. Or burned at the stake. While the Pope puts another Michelangelo on the wall.’
‘Or the ceiling,’ said Martin, laughing at my intensity. ‘You should be pleased that the church patronised the arts.’
‘I can’t believe you’re defending it.’
‘I’m not,’ Martin replied. ‘Just putting it into historical context.’
‘It’s still going on today.’
‘Hard to change centuries of beliefs.’
‘Because people are selfish, because they’re indoctrinated and threatened with hell and…’
And Martin was being annoyingly reasonable.
‘Go to dinner with the monks. Maybe go to the blessing,’ he said. ‘With an open mind—judge not, lest ye be judged. Come back for a drink afterwards.’
Martin assured me his own mind was already open, so I left him to eat while I joined the Brazilians and the monks at the hostel.
Renata’s view of religion made mine look mild. Researcher or not, she was having nothing to do with the Catholic Church. ‘The feeling is mutual’ was her only explanation, and I wondered what she might have done—or published—to earn their wrath. After dinner, she stayed behind drinking beer with the older Danish man she had been walking with.
The interior of the Sainte Foy abbey, with its five radiating chapels, was as impressive as the exterior. The roof of the nave was a high barrel vault, divided into bays by massive stone blocks. Above us were galleries from which choirs would have sung. I took a moment to check out some of the artwork on the columns: palm leaves and monsters competed with scenes of Sainte Foy’s short life. In one spot, I could still see a trace of the colour that must once have brightened this huge stone interior.
Fabiana was looking stricken; she pulled me aside as we made our way to the front pews.
‘Do you think God knows I try?’
‘God is supposed to know everything. If you believe, I guess the answer has to be yes.’
‘But I make so many mistakes,’ she said. ‘Not from hate, from love. Do you think that makes it less…’
I wasn’t the best person to ask. Maybe that was why she had chosen me. I thought of a guru I had spent a weekend retreat with and tried to channel him.
‘The path is not a straight line but every step takes you closer,’ I said. Wisdom all the way from Fresno, California.
Almost as soon as we sat down, the bells rang. There was dead silence as we listened—and then in the stillness came the sound of men singing without accompaniment. Five monks, including Brother Rocher, filed in. They were wearing cream cassocks over long pants, all but one in shoes and socks. At maybe forty, Brother Rocher looked the youngest; one of the others must have been ninety, wizened and huddled over his prayer book.
I had no idea what they sang. I guessed it was all in Latin but some could have been French. I didn’t need to understand the words to have them touch me. I don’t know whether it was the acoustics, the song, the beauty of the singing or the conviction behind it, but there was grandeur and hope in every note.
The frescos flickered in candlelight and stained-glass men looked down upon me benevolently as the monks’ singing brought pieces of me apart. Maybe this was why I had come, why I was meant to be here. I saw tears running down Fabiana’s cheeks.
Brother Rocher asked in French and English for those wishing to be blessed to come forward. I sat and watched the three Brazilians and half a dozen others move forward in turn. There was a final chant and everyone filed out. Except me.
Centuries of singing, service to others and dedication to something bigger than twenty-first-century materialism had created a peace that permeated the walls. Whatever issues I had with religion were not relevant here. The stillness and austerity gave me a strange sense of comfort, and I seemed to be moving toward some sort of clarity.
A voice startled me. ‘You are most welcome to stay,’ said Brother Rocher emerging from the front of the church. ‘But if I can help?’
I wiped the tears that had been trickling down my cheeks. ‘Thank you. I’m okay.’
‘You have a large heart.’
‘I have had some losses—a loss,’ I said. ‘And I…haven’t been able to grieve.’
‘Some wounds heal
quickly; some wounds heal more slowly,’ said Brother Rocher. ‘What matters is that they are healing.’
‘I didn’t get blessed,’ I blurted out as he turned to go. Inexplicably, I felt that I should be.
Brother Rocher turned, smiling. ‘Come tomorrow night. I will be happy to bless you, if you are ready.’
As I made my way up from the abbey to the hotel, on stones worn from centuries of pilgrims’ footfalls, I wondered at my change of heart.
‘It isn’t the church I’m angry at,’ I told Martin. He pulled out a chair, but I didn’t want to sit. I didn’t need a drink and certainly wasn’t ready to pursue the feelings that had flashed through my mind when he kissed me earlier.
‘I’m staying an extra day,’ I told him. ‘Or as long as it takes. I think…I have found why I am on this walk.’
Martin went to say something, then stopped himself.
‘I mean, I know I have to grieve for my husband…but all this anger isn’t me.’
‘No? I seem to remember being told to screw myself when I teased you about losing your way in St Privat d’Allier. And the blueberry beer…’
‘Not taking shit is something else. I’m talking about the religion. The crosses and the…’
I sat down. ‘After I helped Camille…’ How to put into words the look on my mother’s face? The judgment she had handed down not just on Camille, but on me? ‘My mother said I was no longer welcome in her house.’
‘Because of her religious beliefs.’
‘Yes—or the pastor’s, though he was damn forgiving of my father.’
‘Violent?’
I nodded. Martin looked at me for a while. ‘You’ve never forgiven your mother.’
‘She never forgave me.’ I wiped a tear from my cheek. ‘And she’s dead now, so she never will. But I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Something you said helped, actually. Judge not, lest you be judged.’
‘Wise words from you-know-where,’ said Martin.
‘My mother might never have forgiven me, even if she’d lived. But I have a choice about how I judge her now.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ Martin hesitated, then squeezed my hand, and kept holding it. ‘But sorry I’ll be losing my walking partner.’
Could I ask him to stay with me? I stopped myself. He had a deadline.
‘Maybe I’ll catch up with you,’ I said. It was unlikely. Once he was one or two days ahead, under more time pressure than me, we wouldn’t see each other again unless something slowed him up.
I kissed him goodbye on the cheek. ‘Stay in touch with Sarah, okay?’
I spent the night thinking about my mother. For the first time in years I remembered some of the positives: the stories she told me, decorating the tree at Christmas with ornaments we had made together; how she made soup and cut up my toast and put on extra peanut butter when I had a cold.
I thought of how hard her life had been with my father, and with her father before that. She had never believed in herself enough to survive without husband and religion, and who was I to judge that? She had been raised in different times. I was grateful instead for the love she had given me when I was young and how that had helped me be a better mother to my own daughters. And that, despite all the negative energy in our home, she had somehow given me the strength to follow my own path.
I was outside the abbey the next morning, with Brother Rocher, when I heard a faint bell in the distance.
‘Where’s that coming from?’ I asked.
‘The chapel on the hill opposite, along the Chemin toward Santiago.’ As Brother Rocher spoke the bells from the abbey chimed. ‘And that is the church bidding farewell to the pilgrim who rang it.’
‘The pilgrims ring it themselves?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and we always reply.’
I asked if I could see the bells of Sainte Foy abbey, huge thick domes once rung by a long rope from below, now controlled electronically.
‘Does the bellpull still work?’ I asked, thinking it was more romantic to drag on the cord that coiled in front of me than to push the button.
‘Oh yes—the traditional way is still good.’
I heard another bell in the distance. Then another. Three in all. The three bells. My skin tingled, just as it had when I had picked up the scallop-shell charm. I was sure it was Martin standing there, across the valley, saying goodbye not just to Conques but to me.
‘Can I ring it back, the traditional way?’ I asked. He seemed to understand and gave me the heavy cord to pull, and I was able to say goodbye to Martin. If Brother Rocher thought it was strange that I had tears streaming down my face, he didn’t say so.
34
MARTIN
How was Conques?
Awesome.
I was using the word in its proper sense, but I knew Sarah would be amused.
What’s her real name?
Who?
Candy.
I’m not walking with her anymore.
Poor u.
Too many assumptions. Bad habit in science.
Speaking of…Can u do calculus?
I can do calculus.
Got time to talk?
I opened Skype and pressed call. Sarah answered—without video.
‘Hi Dad.’ It was the first time I had heard her voice for six months.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Integration by parts. I don’t get it.’
‘Probably because it’s not easy.’
‘So it’s not just that I’m a moron.’
‘Not just.’
‘Dad!’
‘Have you got paper? It’s not that hard—it’s just the way they teach it.’
Decazeville, where I was holed up in my hotel room with a flaky internet connection, was less than hospitable. Perhaps in the right season and the right mood it was a pleasant town, but I did not catch it under those circumstances. Winter had returned and the hotelier denied having taken my booking before eventually giving me a room.
I spent half an hour talking Sarah through integration techniques, then, while I waited for her to try it out, reflected on her prodding about Zoe.
I had work to do—not least, getting my finances back into shape—before I could allow myself to be pulled into a relationship. Which, I had to acknowledge, was what had been happening, at least on my part.
‘Minus x cos x plus sin x. Plus c,’ said Sarah in Sheffield. ‘Looking it up now. Corrrrect! You’re a legend.’
‘Glad someone thinks so.’ It was out before I had a chance to suppress it.
‘You broke up.’
‘Nothing to break up.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Sounds like the voice of experience.’
‘A bit. I’m trying to focus on my exams. Not get messed up.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘I better finish these examples.’
She hung up, then sent me a message. Thanks Dad. Love you. I typed back: xxx. Text me if you get stuck.
Figeac, the following day, was a different story: a big and pretty town on the river Célé. As I sat in a bar, enjoying my post-walk beer, I watched a curious drama unfold at the hotel opposite. A taxi arrived and unloaded half a dozen backpacks. And three women—Paola, Margarida and Fabiana. But rather than follow the packs into the hotel, they crossed the street to the bar. They saw me straight away.
‘Marteen. Where is Zoe?’
‘She stayed in Conques.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know.’
The barman came over.
‘Mojitos?’ asked Paola.
‘Oui, madame.’
Three fingers went up.
‘Bar no good at your hotel?’ I asked.
The exchange of glances confirmed my suspicions.
‘We don’t go in right away, or they know we come by taxi and don’t give us the stamps,’ Paola said. ‘We have a sore knee.’
All three of them pointed to a knee. I wished I could share the moment
with Zoe.
‘Yesterday,’ said Paola, ‘was a long walk. We took the short cut to avoid Decazeville and stayed at Livinhac le Haut. Which was haut.’
‘Renata?’ I asked.
‘Renata walks,’ said Margarida. ‘She—’
Paola cut in. ‘I have been walking the Camino for twelve years. Everyone walks for their own reason. We make our rules—not an old man in a hostel or some fonctionnaire from the tourism office selling credencials.’
The mojitos arrived and Paola smiled. ‘Every walker is different. Some people are too sick to walk all day. Some people want only to walk a short way.’
‘And who is having the most fun?’ said Margarida.
‘You will eat with us tonight, of course?’ said Paola. ‘There is a little restaurant—not too expensive but very good.’
The restaurant delivered on Paola’s promise. As we walked back to our hotels, I fell behind with Renata.
‘I will buy you another drink?’ she said.
‘Just one. I have to call my daughter. They won’t notice you missing?’
‘They know me. I do what I do.’
The bar was still open at my hotel.
‘So,’ said Renata, ‘you and Zoe. What is happening?’
‘We were walking together but she stopped back in Conques. That’s the way it works on the Camino.’
‘Bullshit.’ She laughed. ‘You ran away, right? Scared of women.’
‘Something like that.’
‘I don’t blame you. You are divorced, right?’
‘Right. And you told me that you are too.’
‘Effectively. I am impossible to live with. But I need a man.’ It wasn’t clear if this was a general statement or one that related to the present moment. I suspected both.
‘You’re not afraid to say what you want.’
‘It is difficult to get what you want. More difficult if you don’t ask for it. Which way are you walking after Figeac?’
‘I’m following the Chemin.’
‘There is an alternative. It is in the Dodo.’ She was referring to the food and accommodation guide, the Miam Miam Dodo, the title of which translates roughly as Yum Yum, Goodnight. ‘From Figeac I am taking the Variante du Célé. I will meet the others in Cahors.’
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