Two Steps Forward by Graeme Simsion & Anne Buist

Author:Graeme Simsion & Anne Buist
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2017-08-22T04:00:00+00:00

38

MARTIN

I woke with a numb arm. I disentangled myself and tried to enjoy the moment, but instead found myself wondering how to persuade Zoe to continue to Santiago with me.

Around dawn, I felt her stir and unzip the sleeping bag and, by the time the masses had begun to rise in the makeshift sleeping outfits they had donned against the cold, she was bouncing around the kitchen trying to light the stove.

The gas cylinder was empty and there was no electric kettle, so we set off without breakfast. In lieu of a shower I sluiced myself from the kitchen tap, then used my phone to book a hotel room in St Jean Pied de Port.

The day’s walk began with a steep hill, and we found a pub and an adequate breakfast at the top of it.

The rules of etiquette surely don’t cover appropriate topics of conversation for a day’s walk in the country when both parties have agreed it will finish with the consummation of their relationship. But there seemed to be an unspoken agreement to talk about anything except the elephant in the hotel room in St Jean Pied de Port, as we ambled our twenty-three kilometres.

I was happy with the way the previous night had turned out. I had shown what I hoped was an admirable level of restraint, and now there was a degree of tension in the air. A few kilometres along the road we stopped to shed our outer layers, and I helped Zoe off with her fleece. Before she put her pack back on, I kissed her, out in the open spring air, with nobody around.

This was Zoe’s last day of walking, and my last day of walking with her. She seemed to be celebrating, almost dancing along.

‘So, after today, it’s back to LA?’ I asked.

‘I guess. Camille’s coming to give me a ride to Paris. I haven’t really thought beyond that.’

‘You wouldn’t consider pressing on a bit? If not to Santiago, at least into Spain?’

‘I can’t change my ticket. I changed it once and it was a big deal…My travel agent will go nuts if I ask again.’

The last few kilometres of the walk, as we approached the periphery of the town, were less attractive than the early part. But in mid-afternoon we arrived in a picture-postcard town, through the Porte St Jacques by the citadel and down an ancient stone street. The queue for information at the tourist office extended out the door. We were unusual. This was a departure point, not an arrival point, theories about walking only the French section notwithstanding.

There was a long list of registrants in the visitors’ book, almost all just setting out. Most popular country of origin: USA. I’d seen just two Americans—Zoe and Ed Walker—in eleven hundred kilometres, but they were here in force. Then the Irish (Catholics), Australians and New Zealanders (ubiquitous), a mix from other European nations and a sprinkling from largely Catholic countries around the world. We had stayed ahead of Torben and the Brazilians, and there were no familiar names.

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