35

ZOE

Acqui Terme turned out to be a case of don’t judge a town by its road in—which was through the suburbs. As well as the usual stunning churches, there were ancient baths and hot sulphur springs right in the central square. As we exited through vibrant streets the next day, I pictured Caesar lounging on the wall—competing with pigeons for space—being fed grapes. We were in the shade, so I was a little more relaxed about Camille.

The first ascent was on asphalt and something was bugging Gilbert. He was walking alone and struggling—we were used to that—but today he seemed frustrated, angry about it.

We hit a car park and he stopped by a trash can. He leaned on it for a few moments, looked at the hill in front of us, a narrow path winding steeply upward between dense trees, and dropped his pack. All of us—Camille included—stood, watching.

Out came an oversized cosmetics bag and a hair dryer. He dumped both in the trash, picked up his pack and started walking.

Nobody said anything. I wasn’t sure if Gilbert had been a saint or a fool. Or what it made the rest of us: I’d checked Camille’s pack at the beginning but hadn’t said anything to Gilbert about his, which we all knew was overweight.

I’d expected an outburst from Camille but she just shrugged, then walked back to the trash can. She left the dryer but rescued two items from the cosmetics bag.

As if to bring home to us what Gilbert was still carrying, an hour later in a dark, moist section of the forest, swarms of insects surrounded us. Gilbert whipped out a can of repellent and sprayed us all. He seemed in a better mood. And he stopped to rest and take in the view when the foliage thinned.

The climb, as usual, made for inspiring scenery—almost enough for me to want a selection of watercolours in my backpack.

The woods were busy with largely elderly men filling baskets, and Gilbert engaged a couple of them in sign-language conversation.

‘Porcini,’ said Camille. ‘Italian for cèpes…mushrooms.’

As we walked through Grognardo, a small town with barely more than a gelati store, Camille stopped at the first chapel. It was locked.

‘Where we are staying tonight is small—maybe no church,’ she said.

I looked ahead: a steeple. ‘Seems there’s another one here.’

There was another chapel—and two churches, one of which was open. Camille deposited her euro and picked up a candle but then seemed frozen before the Virgin Mary, where other candles were flickering or expired. Several minutes passed. Was she okay? I finally went up to her. We were alone, but I felt obliged to whisper anyway.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘I have a problem,’ said Camille.

Heat stroke? Dehydration? White bits in her brain running wild?

‘Do you know how many days we have? Before Rome?’

‘Why? Fifty? Maybe sixty?’

‘I am running out sooner than I thought. Maybe it is my memory.’

‘Running out?’

‘Of sins,’ said Camille.

I laughed. ‘Maybe you haven’t sinned enough.’ That didn’t land, so I added, ‘Or because some days you go into two or three churches.’

‘Possibly that is the problem. Perhaps you can you think up one for me? From college?’

‘Umm…smoking dope?’

‘Did that hurt anyone?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said—and this time Camille joined in when I laughed. Marijuana had been an aphrodisiac for her.

‘Maybe I can light one for your mother.’

I had lit one for my mother in Conques, on my first camino, and had forgiven her and myself—but that had been about us, not what she’d done to Camille. ‘My mother? If she was alive, she should be apologising to you. She had no right—’

‘Your mother spoke her beliefs, even though it meant losing the love of her daughter. You. Can I light a candle for her?’

When I lit my own candle my mother, for the second time, I felt an echo of her accusation: murderer. Her truth had not been mine. But nor was Camille’s.

The B&B was owned by a retired couple who had renovated an old home specifically for pilgrims—pellegrini. The care showed in the details: for once, someone had got most stuff right, plus fun things like moisturiser in the bathrooms. They offered to put our clothes through the washing machine and dryer. Bernhard accepted right away, and I ran with M. Chevalier’s advice to take what was offered.

The proprietors opened a bottle of sweet white wine, talked about their dream that was now reality, and gave me permission for their story to go into the Pilgrim’s Progress series that the Chronicle had agreed to consider. I had thought it would be full of pilgrims—like my Camino de Santiago cartoons—but clearly I was going to have to rethink this. My Californian readers might relate to older people finding a lifestyle that worked for them.

I figured that making dinner for guests would be the biggest hassle.

‘We don’t do it,’ said our host.

‘There’s a restaurant nearby?’

‘There are no restaurants or shops. We have the kitchen for guests to use.’

Which would be great if we’d brought groceries.