‘Depends what you’re celebrating.’
‘Finishing your walk. Eleven hundred kilometres.’
‘I’m not much of a champagne drinker.’
I ordered a bottle of rosé, a wine I would not normally touch, and it seemed just right. We shared a big bowl of mussels—‘I’m having to tell myself they’re not fish,’ she said—and though she was almost gushing with joie de vivre, I did not feel that she had mentally finished the walk. I was increasingly leaning towards trying to persuade her to continue with me, plane ticket be damned.
‘So, where’s this hotel?’ she said.
‘Patience, patience.’
‘I’m just hanging out for a proper shower.’ She finished her glass. ‘And now that you’ve filled me with wine…’ She looked straight at me and smiled, and I waved for the bill.
Zoe had to wait a bit for her shower. It seemed that she had been hanging out more for the second item on the agenda and we passed a very enjoyable half hour before she bounced towards the shower, inviting me to join her. All her inhibitions and what Julia would call ‘issues’ seemed to have fallen away, and I was seized by a desire to do something, to give something to this woman who seemed to have transformed herself.
‘I need to get a guidebook for the next section before the shops close,’ I said to her through the frosted shower glass. This was not exactly true. I was not going to walk out on a naked woman to buy a guidebook.
‘Can I use your computer? I should skype Lauren,’ she called from the shower. I set it up for her and headed out.
The young woman who served me was certain that the blue dress would fit, and was happy to take it back if it did not. She made a show of gift-wrapping it. My intuition is not brilliant, but I had little doubt Zoe would appreciate the present.
As soon as I opened the hotel-room door, I knew something was wrong. Zoe was gone, as was her pack. There was a note on the bed, on hotel notepaper. One word: Sorry.
39
ZOE
I got out of the hotel as fast as I could. I was acting on instinct, in no state to ask myself if it was the wisest thing to do. Does anyone, in the moment when their world falls apart?
But before I could process any of what I’d just learned, I had practicalities to deal with. Having arrived a day earlier than planned, I’d need somewhere to stay until Camille arrived. Fortunately, there was no shortage of hostels in St Jean Pied de Port. I went for the municipal gîte, where, for the first time in seven weeks, I encountered my countrymen and women en masse.
‘Where are we eating? I don’t want French food two days running.’
‘What the heck is a Miam Miam Dodo? Some kinda bird?’
‘Do they use pesos in Spain?’
It hit me how loud we—and maybe Brazilians—are, compared to Europeans. They had taken up the entire entrance hall, not because they were larger than the French, though that was true too, but because the locals would have been standing closer together.
Part of me wanted to run a mile, but another part of me recognised that they were offering me what I wanted more than anything else—home. I had the rest of my life to process the news that Lauren had given me.
I walked over to a curly-haired woman in her forties and introduced myself. Her handwritten name badge announced that her name was Donna and she was a guest of Americans on the Camino.
‘You walking to Roncesvalles tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘No—I’ve been walking seven weeks and I’m done.’
‘Seven weeks! Mike, you hear that?’ Donna and Mike dragged me over to join the group.
There were about a dozen of them, all name-badged for the getting-to-know-you drinks.
‘Have you seen where we’re supposed to sleep?’ Barbara was still standing—she didn’t look like she thought it was safe to sit. I remembered my first night sharing with Bernhard and the first time I’d slept with a bunch of other walkers, five weeks ago in Le Puy. I’d come a long way since then.
‘It’s only one night, honey,’ Larry said. ‘After this, it’s all hotels.’
‘They wanted us to experience one of these,’ Donna told me. ‘Get it done early. Some people stay in places like this every night.’
‘Why are you walking?’ I asked.
‘Same reason everyone does, I guess,’ said Larry. ‘Saw the Martin Sheen movie.’
‘What movie?’
‘The Way…You’re saying you haven’t seen it? So, you heard about the Camino…how?’
I gave them a summary. With questions, it took about a quarter of an hour, and I found myself as staggered as they were when I reviewed what I’d done—and for reasons no more substantial than theirs. And wondered: why had I bothered?
‘Where’s your bags?’ asked a skinny redheaded guy without a name badge, the youngest of the group by at least twenty years. He was checking out my backpack.
‘This is it.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘If you can live without it, don’t haul it. This is all you need, believe me.’ His pack looked like he had emptied a camping store into it.
‘I’m not with these guys. I’m walking by myself. My name’s Todd. So—’
‘So, you want as little as possible. I’m walking alone too. Was walking.’
‘Seven weeks,’ said Donna. ‘All by yourself. Did it change your life? What did you learn?’
If she had asked me yesterday I would have told her I had resolved all my life issues. Now, I only knew I was an idiot. I didn’t want to disillusion her: she might do better than me.
‘I’ve learned…’ What had I learned? I thought of how their Americanness had assaulted me minutes before, just as the Frenchness of France had disoriented me at the start.
‘I’ve learned,’ I said, ‘that there’s more than one way of doing things, I guess—and not just the right way and the wrong way.’
‘Sure, I get that, but for example?’
‘Entrée means starter. So, don’t complain if it’s too small.’
‘You’re kidding. I mean, not just a different word, but a word that means something else. It’s like they’re being confusing on purpose.’
‘You’ll be out of France tomorrow. But everything seems to be closed when you need it open. No service culture as we know it. Drives you crazy at first. But, you know, maybe it’s about putting a value on stuff besides commerce.’
‘What about the walking?’
‘I’ve learned to listen to my body and to trust it, to live in the moment, and that food and wine taste better if you’ve walked hard and are hungry, even if it’s not something you would ever have thought about eating. And that a bed in a dorm—like this—even with snorers, not enough heating and shared restrooms, is pretty good if you’re wet and cold.’ I could have added, ‘And if you have someone to hold you,’ but I was already blinking back tears.
I looked at Todd and his huge pack. ‘And I’m learning about what to hold on to and what to let go of.’
When Martin left me in the hotel room, I had sat down to face the music with my daughters. It had been more than two weeks since I’d touched base with them. If I had taken a moment to think about my reluctance to connect with my life—my real life, back home—maybe what came would not have been so much of a shock. But the walk had lulled me into a sense of calm and competence, and I had pushed away any thought that threatened to take me out of that space.
It was morning in New York: Lauren would be at work. I clicked on the Skype link and she answered right away. She was relieved to hear from me. I waited for the next bit, about how irresponsible I was and how worried they were, but the universe had sent me something else and, as my world crashed around me, I realised that I had known all along. This was what I had been running from and refusing to face.
After I clicked the end call button I stared at the screen, knowing I didn’t have much time. I felt an enormous wave of sorrow that I was going to let Martin down, because I had chosen to ignore the signs. I had just
wanted to fall in love and make things right again. I had blamed the church and gotten myself tied up with my mother’s death—old problems—rather than confronting the bigger issue. Even when Martin had suggested something was blocking me, I hadn’t looked to see what. Now he was going to be collateral damage. Would he ever trust a woman again?
Keith had died in a car accident. He had been driving alone, during the day, sober; he was a careful driver, a responsible stepfather, a loving husband. He had hit a tree. I had decided he must have had a heart attack. Except the report now said his heart had been fine, the cause of death head trauma. There were no other cars on a road he had no reason to be on. Nothing mechanical had gone wrong with the car.
‘Mom,’ Lauren had told me, while I was still taking in the autopsy report, ‘he took out an insurance policy. A million dollars. Two years ago. They’re saying they won’t pay.’
My husband had killed himself.
40
MARTIN
Sorry. That was Julia’s word. She must have said it a hundred times, as though it would somehow make things right. My reaction to Zoe’s note was different. I felt sorry for her. I could guess what had happened. A Skype call to her daughters would have brought back all the grief she was running away from. ‘Where are you staying, Mom?’ ‘In a hotel about to have sex with a Brit I met on the road. Yes, I’m over your dad. Only took two months.’ Hardly.
My immediate thought was to find her. She would have likely fled to one of the hostels, and I could reassure her that I would be happy to just buy her dinner, to talk…But my computer was on the desk, still turned on, and I logged into my own Skype account, after noting that Zoe had indeed called Lauren. I also had a daughter who I had not been in touch with for a while, thanks to three successive evenings dancing around Zoe.
Hey there.
Sarah’s reply came straight back. I thought you must have died.
No wife.
Huh?
Wifi, I typed more carefully, glad Sarah wasn’t studying psychoanalysis.
Seen Zoe?
Seen the engineering student?
He’s being pathetic.
… (My best impression of a therapist’s ‘mmm’.)
I told him I didn’t want to see him. Not forever, just while I swotted for this test. And he went pathetic.
Meaning?
You know what I mean. Calling all the time, texting, just being pathetic.
Guys can be like that. How did the test go?
Tomorrow. Studying now. Zoe?
What about her?
Have u seen her?
She’s finished her walk.
When?
Today.
So you’re celebrating.
Yep. Maybe see her at dinner. There’ll be a lot of people celebrating the end of the French section.
Have fun. Gotta study.
xxx
Love you, Dad.
xxx
Scouring the hostels for Zoe might have been a bit pathetic, so I decided it would be better to run into her in a bar or restaurant. If not, I could be pathetic in the morning.
There were perhaps a dozen bars in St Jean Pied de Port, many of them with outside seating. It took me just a few minutes to establish that she wasn’t in any of them. No surprise. She wasn’t much of a bar person and I’d seen what a couple of drinks could do to her. She probably wasn’t going to risk it.
Back in my room, I did a little research. The tourist office’s website listed several hostels, and it wasn’t going to be practical to cruise their kitchens at breakfast looking for Zoe. But there was an interesting announcement: a seminar on the Camino the following evening, taking advantage of the presence in town of a distinguished expert on its history, Dr P. de la Cruz, who would be joined by one J. Chevalier, from Cluny. As I was noting details of the presentation, which I thought Zoe would have a good chance of attending, my email window popped up.
It was the German hiking-gear distributor. They had a business meeting in San Sebastián in nine days. Would I consider taking the coastal version of the Camino, which passed through that city? If so, they would be delighted to inspect the cart in advance of the trade show, with the possibility of making a pre-emptive offer. Accommodation would be provided at the Hotel Maria Cristina, and they would contribute two hundred euros to compensate for the change of plans.
I hit the internet again and found the alternative route. I would have to take a train to the coast to pick it up. Alternatively, I could negotiate the GR10 walking path—along the line of the Pyrenees and the French–Spanish border. Either way, I would join the Ruta de la Costa, also known as the Camino del Norte—the Northern Camino—at Hendaye, on the Atlantic seaboard.
Both options were feasible, but I would be using almost all my contingency time. I could make San Sebastián in a week—less if I took the train—but I would have to wait for the Germans. The journey overall would be about a hundred and forty kilometres longer. In its favour was the opportunity to develop the relationship with my potential investors, a chance to prove the cart on a mountain trail that might well attract a different type of walker, and a handy two hundred euros. It would also enable me to escape the rolling party and unruly scramble for rooms that I had been anticipating on the Camino Francés. I was not in the mood for either.
I emailed to accept the offer.
I spent a good part of my anticipated two hundred euros at the hotel restaurant. Good luck came in threes: Sarah’s suggestion that she might be offloading the married boyfriend, the German offer, and a mix-up with the wine that had me drinking a fine Bordeaux for the price of the more modest one I’d ordered. Our mistake, sir. Enjoy.
I decided I would stay another day in St Jean Pied de Port and catch Monsieur Chevalier’s lecture.
41
ZOE
I was in the tourist office, emailing Camille to let her know I’d arrived, when the Brazilians and Bernhard came in.
‘You will have dinner with us before we go to Madrid,’ said Margarida, linking her arm in mine.
Paola looked at me. ‘Someone is looking for you. I think you should talk to him.’
‘No. Martin and I—’
‘Not Martin—Monsieur Chevalier, from Cluny.’
‘He’s here?’
‘Come to breakfast at our hostel—he will be there.’
I went back to their hostel, where they had a room for four, worked on Margarida and Fabiana’s shoulders, then scored three more takers. Camille wouldn’t make it until tomorrow night, and I’d need the money for my bed and something to eat.
Back at my hostel all the walkers were just starting out, so there were no takers for a massage. It had been a long day but if I went to bed I would lie there turning the same thing over and over in my mind. I got out my sketchpad. There were only a half dozen sheets left.
Todd was talking to his fellow walkers but caught me glancing at him a few times. He came over to check out what I was doing and whistled. An obvious Todd—big smile, teeth and ears, with a schoolboy grin—was dwarfed by a pack that had his knees wobbling.
‘Awesome! Can I buy it off of you? My folks would love it. Is twenty euros enough? Make it twenty-five?’
‘It’s okay. You can have it.’
‘No way.’ He peeled off the notes and handed them to me.
‘Can you do one of Mike and me too?’ asked Donna. She already had a fifty-euro note out.
It seemed that fate had not given up on me entirely. Two hours later I curled up in my bunk, a hundred and twenty-five euros in front. American deal-making would pay for the gas on my ride to Paris.
The next morning, Todd had his stuff, most of it new-looking, spread across the dorm. He’d taken my advice—or my sketch—seriously. I went back to the Brazilians’ hostel, where Monsieur Chevalier was sitting in the back courtyard with a mug of coffee, wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
‘Chérie!’ he cried, kissing both cheeks. There was something comforting about his presence. A guardian ange
l, maybe. His eyes went to the place where my scallop-shell charm had hung. I saved him from asking the question.
‘I’m done,’ I said.
He insisted on buying me a coffee, which came with an observation. ‘You are still troubled.’
If he had said this twenty-four hours earlier he would have been right, but I wouldn’t have known it.
‘Tell me about your Chemin,’ he said. ‘What have you learned?’
The same question twice in twenty-four hours. I didn’t think Monsieur Chevalier was after my take on French culture.
‘That I can walk,’ I said.
Monsieur Chevalier nodded as if I had said something profound. ‘Then keep walking,’ he said.
It was my turn to shake my head. ‘I’ve walked seven hundred miles and I just found out I’d been running all the time, refusing to face the truth.’
‘But,’ said Monsieur Chevalier, ‘what do you expect when you are only halfway?’
I stared at him. Was I about to run away again?
He patted my hand and spoke with quiet certainty. ‘What you seek will be on the road to Santiago. You must not give up too soon.’
I had chosen St Jean Pied de Port as a destination on nothing more than the parochialism of the woman in the Cluny tourist agency—and because I thought I could walk it in a month. The shell had sent me toward Santiago. Monsieur Chevalier had said I wouldn’t find what I was looking for until the end. Walking into the town with Martin, part of me had wanted to continue.
Crossing the Pyrenees. The autoroute of pilgrims. Sharing my experience with the newbies. I had nothing else to do with my time, and the grief would be with me wherever I went. Lauren and Tessa were more worried about me than about Keith’s death. They didn’t need my help.
It still didn’t feel right. I shook my head. ‘I’ve been able to avoid seeing the truth by enjoying everything else about the walk. The Camino Francés feels wrong.’
‘The Camino Francés is the…king, the peak of the Caminos. This is the perfect time to walk it; even the Meseta, which some find boring, is green with crops. There is much support and company, well-marked paths, bars every few kilometres and albergues for all pilgrims. The first day is hard for new walkers, but not for you. And after that…easier than what you have done already.’
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