27

ZOE

The following day, under another clear sky, with the snow-covered Alps behind us, we alternated between small roads winding through fields of corn and beans, and untidy highways with busy intersections where we hoped that Camille’s god was looking over us.

We heard a few calls of Buon Cammino and in one village a fruit vendor gave us a generous bunch of grapes. Later that day, there was a disturbing moment when we passed two women by the roadside, far from any town, seated on folding chairs: heavy makeup, very short dresses. Both were women of colour—refugees? They nodded in acknowledgment as we passed, but, with none of us comfortable in Italian, we pushed on.

We caught up with Gilbert and Camille as we navigated the traffic into Carmagnola. Gilbert, as always, was happy to talk about food.

‘Italian cuisine…There is truth in the clichés.’

‘Hey, the food’s been great. What about the upscale restaurant with the wine lady? And the seafood in Sant’Antonino di Susa?’

‘All in the Italian fashion. Olive oil, tomatoes, pasta…’

‘You ate Sarah’s croissant this morning,’ said Camille.

‘One is tasting the jam, not the croissant.’

‘Perfect breakfast for walking,’ said Martin. ‘Caffeine for the quick hit, sugar in the jam for the next stage, fat in the croissant for the long haul.’ I hoped he was kidding. In Sheffield, would he want sausages for breakfast? Was there a Whole Foods near his apartment? Did they even have Whole Foods in England? I needed to know more about the neighbourhood where he lived. And figure out what I’d be doing there. But right now, I was focused in the moment, on the Chemin; real life and the future seemed unreal.

I had resigned myself to hearing Grietje’s story second-hand and got right to the point as soon as I was walking with Camille. Turned out to be a mistake.

‘I cannot share what I was told in confidence. This is why we moved to another table. So her trials would not be in a cartoon for Americans to laugh at.’

‘Camille…no one would know it was her. I mean…cartoons are not just for jokes. Sometimes they’re the best way of saying something truly important. Perhaps her story can help someone else…’ I wasn’t getting through and, wary after the previous night’s screw-up about her being the absent-minded cook in an imaginary gîte, I gave up. ‘Sorry, Camille—we’re not in the same place right now.’

Camille walked a little, letting the road give us both space. ‘It’s not your fault. I did not know how you would come to this chemin, what…attitude…you would bring, but now I see that for you, it is an adventure. A romantic adventure. For Martin and Sarah and Bernhard too. I am grateful to you, but you must see that for me it is different. It is my only hope.’

What did I do with that? ‘You’re talking about the Pope? Something you need to confess?’

There was a long pause. Then she nodded. ‘I told Grietje last night.’

I had known that there was something. But why had Camille shared it with Grietje and not me? Had I let her down because I’d allowed Martin to get between us?

‘Are you able to tell me?’

Camille shrugged. ‘It is…a lie. I told a terrible lie.’

Clearly she didn’t want to tell me what she had lied about. Was she afraid I’d judge her? ‘Did telling Grietje help?’

‘Yes. I think I helped her also. This is the spirit of the Chemin that I have been looking for.’