Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  And nothing about sarcasm. Margarida and Renata had joined us. I’d have been happy to let it go, but Bernhard wouldn’t. ‘Two wheels provides superior balance. The Dutch cart is stable but the English cart wobbles when he walks.’ He demonstrated a wobbly English walk. ‘Buggy Man disagrees.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then we should do a scientific experiment. I will race you.’

  ‘Jesus—you don’t know what science is.’

  Margarida was hot-footing it towards the hostel. I had no doubt she would return with her companions. Or how it would play out after that.

  ‘If you want,’ I said.

  Margarida returned not only with the Brazilians, but the Spanish Men’s Club. All it needed was Zoe, but she was apparently a few kilometres back in O Cávado.

  I guessed Bernhard would have the edge in a sprint, but I was a former marathon runner. Longer would suit me. Regardless of the relative merits of the carts, I had one huge advantage—familiarity. If I couldn’t beat Bernhard with a cart I’d pulled behind me six or more hours a day for almost three months, I might as well give the game away. And I really wanted to put the little shit in his place.

  Marco, the smooth haematologist, appointed himself course steward and judge. The Camino ran right past the hostel, and we walked back about half a kilometre. The return route gave us a climb followed by a downhill run. It was wide enough for both carts all the way—a good thing, as I didn’t fancy playing chicken into a chicane.

  Marco allowed me to remove a bag to equalise the weights. I had my sticks; Bernhard needed one hand to hold the golf-trolley handle. He had taken his shirt off, and I followed suit.

  With the Brazilians, Maarten, the Spanish Men’s Club and a few other pilgrims in clumps along the track, Marco blew a whistle and we were off. It only took me a few paces to see what the problem was going to be: I’d never run with the cart, and the longer strides and higher kicks had my heels touching the bag, threatening to trip me up. I had to limit my extension. The sticks helped up the hill, but not as much as at the usual pace.

  Bernhard was right beside me. I didn’t know if he was holding something in reserve or was flat out, as I was, muscles and joints protesting at being called on again after a day’s walking. Marco, unencumbered, was jogging on my side.

  Approaching the crest of the hill, I was panting hard, but so was Bernhard and I sensed he was only just keeping up. If I could open a gap as we went over, it would turn into a longer, discouraging lead when I hit the downhill run first. I gave it a big effort and pulled ahead. And then, just as my cart’s wheel must have been passing Bernhard, I felt it lock up. I knew immediately what had happened—Bernhard had flipped the parking brake. I was at a standstill as he went past.

  My response was driven more by instinct than anger—a desire to stop him from getting clear. I pushed my stick into the spokes of his left wheel, letting go as the torque grabbed my wrist and turned my whole body around. Bernhard spun, tripped and tried to hang on, and he and Maarten’s trolley went over into the ditch beside the path. I stopped and waited. Bernhard was screaming but only at me. Marco raised his hand—race over—and went to check on Bernhard. He was followed by Margarida and Tina—Paola’s daughter—who reached him together, dropped down to attend to him, then stopped and looked at each other. Their expressions said it all: I thought he was my boyfriend.

  Bernhard was okay, but once he had righted himself Marco added insult to his injured pride by declaring me the winner. Bernhard had been cunning enough to sabotage my cart while Marco was blindsided, but he had reckoned without the video umpire. Renata had been filming the race, and had been placed perfectly to catch the action.

  I stood where I was as Maarten’s trolley was righted. It was undamaged, though my stick had taken some punishment. Then I waited until all but Renata had headed back.

  ‘What happened to Torben?’ I asked.

  ‘He continued on the Camino Francés. We are not in communication.’ She laughed. ‘I told you, I’m not good at relationships. Sex, yes, I am very good at. Relationships, not so much.’

  ‘One–nil to you. I’m not doing too well at either.’

  We returned slowly: as my body had twisted with the force of my stick in Bernhard’s wheel, I’d felt my knee go.

  61

  ZOE

  Renata was at an outside café in Castroverde when I walked in after making an early start. An empty plate was all that remained of her tortilla and she was digging into a slice of Santiago cake, a Galician specialty, moist, lightly citrusflavoured and probably flourless.

  ‘Big night,’ she said.

  For the Brazilians, that was saying something. I had purposely avoided the party the previous evening. But meeting new people and telling the same stories had its downside too. I had gotten over how amazed people were at how far I had walked.

  ‘Oh.’ I saw her expression and remembered the tension around Bernhard. ‘Man trouble?’

  Renata nodded. ‘Martin and Bernhard.’

  I put my coffee down. ‘A fight?’

  Renata shook her head. ‘They had a cart race.’

  My vision of Gregory Peck and Charlton Heston duking it out at midnight in The Big Country was replaced by the latter in Ben Hur.

  ‘Centaur versus golfer,’ she added. ‘Martin won. I have video, if you want to see.’

  ‘It’s okay, thanks. But it’s good that they dealt with all that negative energy.’ I was a little ashamed, remembering my behaviour with the blueberry beer. Martin and Bernhard had found a way to resolve their hostility in a civilised way, without harm to anyone.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Renata, ‘but I am not sure how Martin will be this morning.’

  Exhausted—stuffed—from the race, or from celebrating afterward? I didn’t pursue it.

  ‘But there is more,’ said Renata. ‘Bernhard’s secret is revealed. Two lovers. Two Brazilian lovers.’

  ‘Margarida and…Fabiana?’

  She laughed. ‘Not me and Paola? But you are still wrong. Margarida and Tina. Paola may murder all of them. Tina is young: she will deal with it. Margarida…’ She shrugged.

  ‘Was he…’

  ‘He was bedding both of them. All men like young girls, but Bernhard, he also likes older women. Although I think I would be too much for him. Unfortunately.’

  I replayed all the times he had ‘slept with’ women in France. I may only have escaped his attentions the night we shared a gîte because he had a better option. But…

  ‘In a dormitory?’

  ‘They attempted it in the bunk above me—back in France. Fortunately I was able to capture Bernhard’s foot on the ladder. He was carrying his sleeping mask—and I would have liked to know what he was planning. But I don’t wish to be crushed to death.’

  ‘So how do you know that they actually…’

  ‘If people want to have sex, they find a way. In the dorm, they start quietly, then they don’t care. Not Tina, obviously. Her mother is there. But the laundry is empty at night; maybe they did it on the washing machine. Or…’

  ‘Okay, okay, I believe you.’

  ‘Now,’ said Renata, ‘I walk on alone. I am over this soap opera.’

  She ordered another coffee and I took the opportunity to move on first.

  Tina caught up with me—carrying nothing but a bottle of water, almost jogging.

  ‘No one is talking to me.’

  ‘Ah. Bernhard?’

  ‘Right. But the problem is Margarida. She needs to get over herself.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I am on vacation. Unfortunately, with my mother.’

  Bernhard was the next to catch me. Up until today it had been rare for anyone to pass me; this was not going to be an average day.

  ‘Have you seen Tina?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to talk to her.’

  ‘She’s way ahead,’ I said.

  He strode off. I was half-expecting Martin to show up next, but I s
hould have known it would be Margarida.

  ‘Have you seen Bernhard? You heard?’

  ‘I heard.’

  After we had walked a little way I asked, ‘Margarida, why are you doing this pilgrimage?’

  She looked like a deer in the headlights. ‘I think it might be good, to think. Where my life goes, yes?’

  ‘Great idea,’ I said. ‘There’s still time to do it.’

  This time, I was the one who strode ahead.

  By Lugo I had put the whole Bernhard–Brazilian mess out of my mind. The beauty of walking alone on the Camino, when you are fit, is that you feel one with nature: time is suspended and everything else fades away. The wind was fresh, the panorama of heather-clad mountains topped with wind turbines awe-inspiring, and I was determined to enjoy every minute of these last days.

  The town itself was imposing. High on a hill surrounded by Roman walls, it conjured up pictures not just of pilgrims but El Cid and his army. Or maybe I’d just got stuck on Charlton Heston—which was a bit awkward, given his role in the NRA.

  I was brought back to reality by a shout from Marco, who was sitting in the bar in the old town and insisted I join him for a drink. ‘Tonight,’ he said to me, ‘I’m asking you to have dinner with me. I’m hoping the answer will be yes.’

  This was not Martin, nor the peace I had been looking for. I thought of the awkward evening with Henri in Pommiers. But I didn’t feel I would be taking advantage of Marco. He was divorced—I guessed for some years—and I had the sense that he was enjoying life, and would take the flow of wins and setbacks. His almost childlike enthusiasm would have bugged me long-term, but there was no chance of that happening.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  Before dinner, Marco loaned me his computer. I had emailed the girls several times recently but we hadn’t skyped since St Jean Pied de Port. It was Lauren’s birthday, and Tessa had flown in to celebrate with her. I texted them to let them know I would call and checked my emails; Albie told me the realtor had found a possible buyer for the house.

  Lauren was delighted—or at least relieved—to hear from me.

  ‘I have my ticket booked on the last flight from Santiago on May 13, so I’m going to be home on the 14th.’

  ‘Santiago?’ said Tessa.

  ‘You’re in Chile?’ said Lauren.

  I realised I had never told them about my walk, only that I was travelling in France and Spain. They and the walk were so much a part of my life, it was hard to understand how I could have separated the two. They were quiet long enough for me to explain.

  ‘What? How far did you say, Mom?’

  ‘What do you mean, you walked?’

  ‘I thought you hated religion.’

  Most of this was going to have to wait. I gave them the abbreviated version.

  ‘Can you stop over in New York on the way home? I’m missing you,’ said Lauren.

  Lauren, missing me? I could see she was trying to hold something back, but she couldn’t contain herself. ‘I didn’t want to tell you before, with Keith and everything. But you’re going to be a grandma. I’m due in July.’

  62

  MARTIN

  Eighteen miles into the London Marathon, I had known I was in trouble.

  I kept going, conscious that I was exacerbating the damage to my knee. By the twenty-mile mark I was walking, hoping only to finish. Two miles from the end I pulled out, finally acknowledging that pressing on against the pain would put me in surgery.

  I had left it too late and got the worst of both worlds: a knee reconstruction, with several months of rehabilitation, and no finisher medal.

  Now, in Spain, less than a week’s walk from Santiago, after nineteen hundred kilometres—almost twelve hundred miles of pulling the cart up and down hills, through fields, along paths and tracks and highways, through snow and mud and sand, heaving it over stiles and rocks and fences—it seemed that history was in danger of repeating itself.

  In my room, I rested the knee for an hour, covered it with a wet cloth, then stretched it out and tried some weight. Not so bad. In marathon training, my other knee had given me problems but been manageable. I still had a day up my sleeve. I’d see how it felt in the morning.

  It felt fair in the morning. I made an early start and decided to try for Lugo, my original destination, taking it carefully.

  Taking it carefully was not so easy. The terrain remained hilly. Uphill was not too bad, but on the downhill stretches I had to plant my sticks and right leg to take the weight, then drop the injured left leg into place.

  I took every opportunity for a break. Renata caught up with me as I cooled my leg in a stream and offered me more sympathy than I deserved.

  ‘Of course you accepted his challenge.’

  ‘You’re being remarkably understanding. Most women would be telling me what an idiot I was.’

  ‘I’m not most women. I’m in a better position to understand men. As you may have guessed.’

  She looked at me, smiling, and I looked at her strong jaw and thought: fair enough.

  ‘Sorry—I hadn’t guessed. I hope that’s a good thing. Was it long ago?’

  ‘Not so long. It’s one reason why I’m walking. With people who are meeting me for the first time.’

  ‘You seem to be doing pretty well.’

  ‘That’s my intention.’

  We continued for a while in silence before I had to take another break and she walked on.

  By the time I reached the hostel, my knee was giving me a fair bit of grief and I decided that I would rest up for a day. I had a private room on the first floor, with a view. The hostels in Spain had moved with the times—and an older, more well-heeled clientele—and many offered double rooms as well as the usual dormitories.

  The owner found me some ice and a filled roll, and I propped in my room, calculating time and distances. If I took the next day off, I would be on wood—no margin—at least, if my plan was to take the train to Paris. But a plane could get me there late on the same day and was probably cheaper than the train, anyway. Into Santiago on the 13th and a late flight out. That was Zoe’s departure date. I might see her at the airport.

  I fired up the computer to make the booking and found a short email from Sarah—she was doing okay, getting on with Julia, and would be ready to talk to me when I returned to the UK, which she was guessing was at least a fortnight away. I read it as the least painful way of buying herself two weeks without me bothering her. I’d posted nothing about Zoe on my blog since the overdose.

  There was bad news from Jonathan.

  Basically, as history would suggest, the rucksack remains the best low-cost option for carrying light loads in the mountains. For bigger loads: donkeys, horses and mules. The cart performed better than any wheeled option we’ve seen before, but at the end of the day feet beat wheels. Sorry it couldn’t be better news, but I thought you should know before the trade fair.

  The Germans and the Chinese might well reach a similar conclusion, even without a prototype to test. The German buyout option was starting to look like the best deal I could get.

  It was after 10 p.m. when the sound of laughter prompted me to look out the open window. Below me, a couple was walking towards the hostel. I assumed they were not pilgrims, unless the woman was Margarida. She was wearing a short dress and high heels, and had the best pins I had seen for a while.

  As she stepped into the light, the first thing that hit me was the colour of the dress. The man holding Zoe’s hand, and about to kiss her, was Marco.

  63

  ZOE

  Dinner had been a bigger deal than I’d expected. ‘We are cooking here,’ said Paola before I left the hostel. ‘You can tell us about it when you return.’ The tension in the hostel was an even better argument for eating with Marco than the food or company. Margarida had gone to the dorm. Tina was plugged into her phone in the shared space and didn’t look up. Bernhard had the sense to stay elsewhere.

  Fabiana was getting ready to go out.
‘Margarida needs to go to a bar,’ she said. She was wearing a black dress and looked good, though I wanted to tell her to add a bright scarf. But it was she who gave me the dress advice. ‘Do you not have something to wear?’

  I did look…like a walker. Fabiana followed me into the dorm, where Margarida was huddled under a blanket, and I pulled the blue dress Martin had left for me out of my pack.

  ‘How about this? I can’t imagine it will fit.’

  Fabiana smiled. ‘You are not seeing in the mirror.’

  I took off the walking gear that had been my uniform and wiggled into Martin’s gift. Fabiana borrowed a pair of heels from Margarida. They fit, and when I looked in the mirror I was shocked. For eleven weeks, I had worn walking pants and sweaters every night.

  I barely recognised myself, a slim woman whose skin had a healthy glow and whose calves were shaped in a way they had never been: not exactly what a model would want, but toned. The blue of the dress accentuated my eyes. Martin had been right. It suited me, at least physically, though looking at this person I wasn’t sure who she was. I didn’t look like anyone’s grandmother.

  I felt sorry it wasn’t Martin who was taking me out in it. I could have talked to him about how shaken Lauren’s news had left me. I was pleased for her: being a mother was obviously what she wanted. But she was still so young, and having children early had stopped me following my dreams. Or had it? My new self-awareness wasn’t going to accept that story. I’d had children partly to escape my fear of failing as an artist. I didn’t want to think about whether it had anything to do with what had happened with Camille.

  ‘Oh wow!’ said Fabiana. Margarida sat up in her bunk and added, ‘Very sexy, gringa.’

  Okay. Being a grandmother didn’t mean I had to take up knitting.

  Paola did my hair, and by the time I went out I had the full Cinderella makeover. It took Marco a moment to recognise me.

  ‘Eres muy hermosa,’ he said, kissing my cheek. Very beautiful.