Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  ‘So, tell me what you said to him.’

  ‘No.’ He smiled, just for a moment, then led us into the hotel.

  I was suddenly nervous. I hadn’t seen Martin since Bilbao, and our last communication had been the return of the scallop shell. How would he feel about me coming back? Flanked by the Spanish Six, I looked like I’d brought a team of reinforcements that wouldn’t take no for an answer. I certainly didn’t intend to.

  He was in the hotel bar.

  I was going to need the reinforcements.

  68

  MARTIN

  There was no point wallowing in misery. I dragged myself downstairs with my computer and ordered a coffee. I took the opportunity to check my blog, and was overwhelmed. There were dozens of messages of support, condolences and advice. I’d acquired a swag of new followers, because Zoe’s cartoon in the American newspaper had included my URL. They had no interest in the cart, only in Buggy Man’s wellbeing. In fact, nobody referred to the commercial impact of the cart not reaching Santiago; it was all about me.

  There were three personal emails. Jonathan, not knowing about the German–Chinese debacle, said that two days should make no difference to a hard-headed commercial decision: Melide was as good as Santiago, so long as the cart had not broken. Sarah had sent me a long email of general reassurance and ‘proud of you, Dad’ sentiments. And Julia had written:

  I realise this was supposedly about proving your cart, which you have obviously done whether you finish or not. Pardon my cynicism, but I think there might have been more to it than that. Well, if you set out to find some answers, you seem to have done so, and that is a good thing for us all.

  I hope the knee recovers without the need for you to spend weeks being waited on by someone. ;-)

  I was letting all this settle in when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Zoe. And behind her, the Spanish Men’s Club.

  The last thing I wanted was to share my defeat with them. And the second-last was to be cajoled into walking again.

  Zoe must have seen it. She took a different tack. ‘Marco has to see your knee. And then we’re going to get something to eat. I know a good pulpo restaurant.’ It was easier not to argue.

  Marco and I went to a bench in the foyer and I pulled up my walking trousers. It took him about one minute to diagnose a torn cartilage and only a few seconds to tell me not to walk.

  I looked at Zoe waiting at the other side of the bar and reconsidered. She’d come this far—I guessed she must have come back—to try to get me to Santiago. ‘I just need some better antiinflamms and painkillers,’ I said to Marco.

  ‘You need rest and probably an operation. I guarantee you’ll need one if you walk on it.’

  ‘Just give me some morphine or codeine or whatever you can prescribe.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It will only mask the pain. It would be… irresponsible.’

  I let him sit on that word for a while, then pointed towards Zoe, sitting with his mates.

  ‘Does she know you’re married?’

  He spent a few moments looking not at Zoe, but at Felipe, then spread his hands like the Italian he was and shrugged.

  ‘I will find you something. You are a man: make your decisions and take the consequences.’

  The good pulpo restaurant was a walkers’ haunt. Zoe wanted to find a way for me to complete the Camino, and avoided questions about her own deadline. I recalled she had two days—which would have been exactly enough if I could have managed my normal daily distance.

  ‘I won’t make it.’

  Zoe put down her fork. ‘Get this clear. I will not let you sabotage this. You’re going to Santiago, even if I have to carry you.’

  After we had shared a bottle of rosé and a huge wooden platter of octopus of similar colour, I was inclined to be persuaded. The knee was probably screwed anyway, and if I could pull a final fifty-six kilometres out of it, I could have a tick on my bucket list and two days walking with Zoe.

  ‘By the way, you were right about me and my daughter,’ I said. ‘And my ex.’

  ‘Right about what?’

  ‘Forgiving her.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to do that. I’m not exactly a shining example.’

  ‘Well, what you said helped, even if it’s not what you think you said. I patched it up with Julia. Forgave her for screwing my boss.’ I had to add the last bit. Just to confirm that my anger hadn’t been totally unreasonable. Only selfish. It got a suitably shocked and sympathetic reaction.

  But she did seem a lot more centred. The bubbliness after Ostabat looked, on reflection, a bit forced.

  ‘How are you feeling about things back in the States?’ I asked.

  ‘Ready to tackle life again. And my daughter’s having a baby.’

  ‘First?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Don’t say it.’

  Even pumped with painkillers, and with Zoe insisting on carrying some of the gear I didn’t leave behind at the hotel, the next morning was brutal. We started just after dawn, and the terrain was reasonably flat: we were out of the mountains. But I knew I was destroying what was left of the cartilage in my left knee. All because I couldn’t bring myself to tell Zoe that there was no point, that the cart project was dead.

  Less than a kilometre out, I had to stop. I unhitched the cart and swallowed a few more of the pills I’d got from Marco, figuring that I was big enough to handle a bit extra for a couple of days. Zoe peeled me a mandarin. She had brought fruit, nuts and chocolate.

  As I pushed myself to my feet to continue, an awkward manoeuvre with a stiff leg, Zoe grabbed the cart and danced off with it. I was hardly going to chase her, and, after a few token protests, I gave up and let her pull.

  ‘Hey, this is pretty easy,’ she said.

  ‘That was the idea. Wait till we get to a hill.’

  ‘You can have it back then.’

  She had left me the sticks, and I leant on them. I managed about a kilometre, very slowly, with breaks.

  ‘Give me a minute to see if I can bend my leg,’ I said. I took hold of my ankle and slowly folded the knee. ‘There’s a bandage in the outside pocket of the little bag.’

  Zoe found the bandage and strapped up the leg. I needed crutches and, after some experimentation, shortened the sticks so I could put my palms over them, straight-armed.

  ‘Five hundred metres,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s see you do a hundred first.’

  Zoe’s estimate was closer to the mark. It took twenty-three hundred-step sections and two fifty-step sections to get us to the door of the albergue in Boente, the next village. We had travelled a grand total of five kilometres. In the bar, Zoe undid the bandage, immediately relieving a considerable amount of pain. I collapsed on a chair, fished my passport out and gave it to her. She returned, smiling.

  ‘I got us a room on the first floor.’

  ‘I hope you mean ground floor.’

  ‘What I said. There was nobody in it last night, so we can have it when we want.’ She turned away, no doubt self-conscious about the ‘us’ and ‘we’.

  The pain of the knee was receding now that the stress was off, but I knew that no quantity of painkillers or jollying from Zoe would get me through another day.

  ‘I’m stopping here,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You couldn’t do it on crutches?’

  I shook my head.

  Zoe paused. ‘Okay then, we take a cab to Santiago tomorrow. One ride in—what—ninety days?’

  That was the problem. I had come this far without cheating. As had Zoe. The official rule for this last section was our rule too.

  ‘You can make it if you keep going today,’ I said. ‘I’ll get a cab in the morning and beat you there.’

  ‘We’re going to finish together.’

  ‘With the cart in the boot.’ As I spoke, I realised the problem, and the stupidity of it all. The bloody cart. After Zoe had indicated that she was prepared to sacrifice her own Camino. For what? She walked away to the bar to give
me time to answer that question.

  By the time she returned with two coffees, I had reached the conclusion that my relationship with Zoe might just be more important than my relationship with a worthless cart.

  We sat in the bar, finishing our drinks and comparing notes on the Brazilians, delaying the short walk to our shared room. We had plenty of time on our hands.

  ‘The cart was pretty easy to pull,’ she said.

  ‘That was the idea. But I’ve thrown away half my stuff.’

  ‘Would it take your weight?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you could sit on it, I could pull you.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘No. Putting aside the fact that you’re not going to pull me to Santiago, if I sat on it, it would collapse inwards. It’s designed for the side struts to take the weight.’

  ‘Couldn’t you modify it?’

  ‘I can’t see the point. First of all, I’d be too heavy for you to pull—’

  ‘I’m stronger than you think.’

  ‘Not strong enough to pull seventy-five kilograms. Not uphill.’

  ‘I’d take small steps. Like I did on the hills in France, when I wasn’t as fit as I am now. Anyway, it’s flat into Santiago.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s in the guidebook,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway, a, I couldn’t modify it, not without a welding torch and steel tubing, which I’m guessing are a bit thin on the ground in downtown Boente; b, it might not be possible anyway; and c, I can’t see the difference between me sitting in a cart or sitting in a taxi. Except you half-killing yourself.’

  I was sounding peeved. I was peeved, getting this close to Santiago, and with her now making inane suggestions rather than just letting it go.

  She gave it back to me in spades. ‘So much for the great engineer. “It might not be possible.” And if you can’t tell the difference between riding in a taxi and sharing the load with your partner, accepting help and actually finishing something you started rather than sabotaging yourself again…Do I have to go and get a real drink so you can process that?’

  ‘Probably. I’m pretty slow. I suppose I hadn’t been thinking of you as my partner.’

  ‘Walking partner. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m going to get more coffee. You can decide whether you’re going to tell me what kind of tubing you need or pay for another room for me.’

  Since she put it like that, I had little choice. She was right, of course, this woman who I had criticised for refusing my offers of meals and accommodation. But I needed the time she spent in the bar to push aside, barely, the ignominy of riding in my cart, pulled by—yes, it did make a difference—a woman. I thought the Camino had taught me all the lessons it had in store for me, but it had saved a hard one for the end.

  She came back with coffee for herself—and a scotch for me. It was 10 a.m.

  ‘Three-quarter-inch. So, eighteen millimetres, minimum. And I’ll need about six metres to be safe. It won’t be expensive. Maybe in Melide. We’ll get a taxi there in the morning.’

  ‘Not if you want to catch your plane.’ She gave me the room key. ‘When I come back, you better have a design that works. So I’m not wasting my time. She took a sketchpad and pencils from her pack, put them on the table, then walked towards the door.

  ‘Stop,’ I said. ‘You need to know something. The investors pulled out. I’m not going to the trade fair. There’s no plane to catch. Really, not even any reason to go to Santiago.’

  Zoe looked at me for a while with what I guessed was frustration at my final attempt to sabotage myself.

  ‘Right. No reason.’

  ‘We’ll need a welding kit,’ I said.

  ‘I figured.’

  I didn’t fancy her chances.

  In the room, I started on the redesign. I had to make do with the components of the existing cart, plus what I’d ordered from Zoe, assuming she managed to find steel tubing and a welder. I wished I had asked her to get a pack of assorted bolts, duct tape and, as the design developed on the page, hinges. And tools. Obviously, tools. I’d have to find some locally.

  The logical place to put my weight was over the wheel. I could bunch myself into a seating position, but would still need to increase the length of the cart. Given I had to do that anyway, I decided to spread the weight with a longer extension that would enable my leg to stretch out.

  A configuration in which I lay flat with my bum over the wheel and my head and shoulders trailing behind would not be workable—my head would be an unprotected protuberance, crashing into trees and walls as we rounded corners. But it would be better on straight stretches. I designed a simple extension that could swing up to provide a seat back or down to form a bed, in the manner of a reclining car seat. Hence the hinges. I’d have to fashion something from the tubing.

  I put the plans on the desk, soaked in the bath for half an hour, took a couple of painkillers and fell asleep.

  69

  ZOE

  A welding torch and steel tubing. Right. I hoped what he’d written would make sense to a Spaniard.

  Without even thinking of alternate transportation, I turned around and walked back to Melide. I took my pack, automatically. Swung it up on one shoulder, nudged it with my elbow, put the other arm in. It was so much a part of me now that I forgot it was on my back until a mile or two had passed, along with many pilgrims walking in the opposite direction.

  About a mile from Melide, I saw Bernhard walking toward me, looking hungover—and surprised, I guess because I was walking the wrong way.

  He was friendly—more than that, contrite. Felipe must have gotten to him big time.

  I explained where I had come from and why.

  ‘You can’t pull Martin in the cart.’

  ‘Because I’m a woman? I’ve walked—’

  ‘Because you are maybe fifty kilograms and Martin is eighty. And the cart is designed for weight at the sides…’

  ‘I know that. He’s redesigning it.’

  I showed him the list.

  ‘Can you explain what he is trying to make? Exactly?’

  ‘I don’t have time.’

  ‘Tell me while we are walking.’

  He followed me back to Melide.

  It was Bernhard who found the auto-repair business after unsuccessful attempts at a bicycle shop and an appliance store.

  I tried to explain in Spanish what we were after.

  Bernhard, who had been casing the workshop, picked up a piece of metal. ‘Ask him if he has something like this but longer.’

  Over the next thirty minutes, I established that I had no future as an interpreter and that I never wanted to see the inside of a workshop ever again. It was like being lost in a Walmart where every employee sent you back to aisle ten, even though you’d looked for the item there a hundred times already. In the end, everyone, including the owner’s wife, bought in. Tubes arrived and were rejected or accepted for no apparent reason, as was an assortment of metal, wire, bolts and things that apparently had no name in Spanish or English. When we were done, there was a box of junk that they were prepared to sell me.

  Now, the welder.

  They had one but did not want to loan it out. I suggested that the operator come with me and I would pay for his time.

  No. They were busy, it was too close to lunch, maybe they could come later. Like next week. Maybe I could bring the cart to them. If I did that, how much would it cost for four hours, then? Okay, I’ll pay that and take it in a taxi and bring it back. I’ll leave my passport. Please?

  ‘Enough,’ said the owner’s wife. ‘Your husband is experienced with the soldador? He will not damage it?’

  I nodded and she delivered a bit of body language to her own husband.

  Bernhard had waited for his moment. ‘Tools,’ he said. ‘Hacksaw, screwdrivers…’

  Señora understood and nodded again.

  Bernhard said to me, quietly, ‘
This will not be easy. Tell him good luck. Now, I am walking.’

  He was out the door before I realised there was no way I could afford all this stuff.

  I thought of my words to Martin, how I had yelled at him that he wasn’t a lesser person if he asked for help. It was coming back to bite me.

  I could ask Martin for the money. If I wanted to walk back to Boente. After all this time, I didn’t have his cell number. It didn’t seem to be something that belonged on the Camino and of course I didn’t have a cell of my own.

  I could call Lauren, but my children needed to see me as independent. And how to explain Martin, the cart…and that I was going to miss my plane?

  From my passport folder, I retrieved the piece of paper that had travelled with me from Cluny, then waited outside, watching the pilgrim parade. On my first attempt, I found a middle-aged American couple who were prepared—delighted—to let me use their cell. ‘I’m Marcie and this is Ken and we’re both from Delaware and every day on the Camino we try to do one good thing for someone. Karma. So we’re thanking you for helping us get it done right at the beginning of the day.’

  The phone seemed to ring forever.

  ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Camille. I need help. I…there’s…I need to get someone to Santiago. I met him. He’s from Cluny—Martin? I mentioned him in the email? Anyway, he’s got to get to Santiago. For his daughter. If he gives up it’ll be just another failure and he’ll… He has to get his buggy—’

  ‘Stop, stop.’ Camille was laughing. ‘You’re in love. And you are asking for advice? From me? If so, you will need to speak slower.’

  ‘No, I’m asking for money.’

  ‘How much?’

  I told her.

  ‘They accept carte bancaire?’

  I ducked back inside and, with me as interpreter, Camille gave them her credit-card details.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough. I’ll pay you back…’

  ‘You are not paying me back. This is a gift.’ There was an edge in Camille’s voice that said: do not argue with me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It is me who is thanking you. At last. Finally, you let me thank you.’ My God, she was crying. I was, too. It had never occurred to me to blame her for me being estranged from my mother—but she had blamed herself. And over twenty-five years of invitations to visit her in France and then my walking out on her in Cluny, I had never let her pay me back.