Petra's Ghost, page 20
Ginny glares at him. “Have you ever known a person who is battling an addiction? Mental illness?”
Daniel had a cousin who suffered from an overwhelming desire to eat chalk, but he doesn’t think that counts. “No,” he says.
“Then you wouldn’t know.”
He lets that fair comment settle for a while. Eventually, she continues, less defensive.
“I wanted to help, but sometimes it could be so hard.” She lowers her voice. “She could get really difficult.”
Daniel nods. If her friend really was the one following them, then he knows how feckin’ difficult she can be.
“I started to find reasons to avoid her,” Ginny continues, her voice betraying a small tremble. “I told myself she needed to learn to stand on her own, you know, to get stronger. That’s what the Al-Anon people tell you. No enabling. But the truth is, I guess, I wanted to distance myself for my own protection. I was doing the right thing for the wrong reason.”
“Sometimes that’s the best a person can do,” Daniel says, looking away. For the second time this evening he feels the conversation take a turn down a road he doesn’t want to travel.
“I just wonder if I could have done something, you know, to change things.” Ginny digs a couple of fingers into her thigh, as if to remove something stuck to her hiking pants. The nails make a little shriek as they drag along the fabric.
“Her overdose is on her, Ginny.”
“That’s a bit cold.”
“A person can’t be laying their offences on anyone else’s doorstep,” Daniel says.
“How can you say that?” Ginny grabs tightly onto the chains, stops twisting in the seat to address him steadily. “Sometimes people can’t help themselves. Sometimes things get out of hand.”
“And you think that’s why she’s following you on the Camino? Because you were after causing her death?” Daniel doesn’t appreciate any line of thinking that will make the dead woman any more real. “C’mon, Ginny,” he says, discounting her. Never a good plan with women or anyone else.
“I didn’t say that!” Ginny twists away from him, pinching her finger in the chain. Jumping up, she thrusts the sore digit into her mouth to suck on it. The swing bounces back and forth empty as if she were still in it.
“I was only after saying …”
“You were only saying I should get over it. And in that, you’d be a hypocrite, Daniel Kennedy,” she says, taking the finger from her mouth. She stoops over, picks up her discarded wine tumbler from the ground. “I’m not the only one who’s followed on this Camino,” she says to him before she turns to leave. “The only difference is I don’t carry my ghost in my backpack.”
She’s up the yard and back in the albergue’s front door before he has a chance to call after her, probably a good thing. He’s not sure what he’d say. After all, she’s right. Nothing leaves a man more speechless than being faced with the truth about himself. But he won’t go in after her. He has enough wounded ego for that. He knows he’s been harsh, even sullen. He blames it on lack of sleep, the stress he’s been under. Despite his talk earlier of culpability and doorsteps.
The young American woman’s laughter drifts out the window of the albergue, followed by a loud bang and her mother hushing her. Ten to one the girl throws up in her bunk bed. He hopes Ginny called the top one.
After awhile he starts to feel childish sitting out on the swings all alone. He stands up to go inside. When he bends down to retrieve his plastic cup, he sees a pair of army boots planted in the grass off in a darkened corner of the yard. The old woman in the nightdress comes out of the shadows. She’s got a cigarette now. By the cloying perfume of the smoke, he guesses it’s Turkish.
“Sé lo que hiciste, peregrino,” she snaps at him, her rheumatic eyes focused in accusation.
“Ah, Jaysus,” he says, in no mood for this. “No entiendo.”
The woman moves with incredible agility for her age and is up in front of him before he has a chance to react. Then she speaks to him in perfect English, so close she gets old lady spittle on his jacket.
“I know what you did, pilgrim.”
She steps back and takes another hit of the heavily scented cigarette. Behind her he sees another figure standing at the playground gate, like a mother waiting for a child who will never come. The old woman goes to join her, and their heads touch as they exchange whispers. Laughter breaks out between the two of them, one hacking and rattled, the other hollow and mewling, a sound made less than human by illusion or design.
He backs away to the porch of the old schoolhouse, never taking his eyes off either of the women that cackle into the night. He locks the old school door firmly behind him, hoping to God it will keep both of them out.
CHAPTER 12
Población de Campos to Calzadilla de la Cueza
THERE ARE TWO WAYS to Calzadilla de la Cueza on the Camino. One is by a shaded path that runs beside the soulless N-120 autopista; the other is along the two-thousand-year-old Via Aquitania, the Roman road.
“It’s a ten-mile walk with no water or toilets,” Daniel tells Ginny over lunch in Carrión de los Condes. There he has managed to find his favourite adopted-country cuisine, the American hamburger.
“If it was good enough for Caesar, it’s good enough for me,” Ginny says, picking across the table at the salad that came with his meal. They sit outside at a patio table in shorts. A blast of summer has returned for one last kick at the weather can before the tempered chill of northern Spain’s winter starts to set in. Neither she nor Daniel has mentioned their argument on the swing set. The unresolved conflict draws a curtain between them that they hide behind with weak attempts at good humour.
“Arguably, Caesar had an entourage to carry him,” Daniel says, holding the guidebook map open with his elbow as he grabs on to the greasy bun of the burger with both hands. “We won’t be so lucky.”
They had already travelled almost ten miles that morning, having made a brief stop to find and visit the church dedicated to Mary Magdalene in Población. It had been closed. The only trace of the Saint was a sad little battle-grey statue covered in bird droppings, propped high in an alcove above the doorway. La Magdalena held her raised hands together, as if pleading for release from her be-shitted pedestal prison. Ginny took a picture for her collection.
“I’m okay to go alone,” she says as she polishes off the last limp leaf of the salad. “If you want to go the other way.”
“Okay,” Daniel says, still chewing on his burger.
They both know he’s coming with her and that she’ll let him, despite their exchange of words last night. Daniel would say he feels a sense of responsibility to their partnership, though, in truth, that sense swims through a strong current of all the other complicated feelings he has for her.
If it hadn’t been so hot, it might have been all right. If the weather had been more seasonable. If the afternoon sun hadn’t started to cut them down like a sweltering lumberjack with an axe to grind. They might have warmed up to each other again with a cooler day. But it didn’t turn out that way.
The top of Daniel’s head roasts under his hat, and the shade is non-existent as they make their way on the raised gravel road, elevated by one hundred tons of rock substrata, thanks to Roman slaves. Daniel hasn’t seen a tree since they passed some stunted broom bushes in the monastery ruins just outside town. Both their water bottles and the bladder in Ginny’s backpack are empty. Ginny had forgotten to refill it at the restaurant. They had taken a break earlier and Daniel had rooted through his own pack, hoping for a forgotten apple or orange with juice that might help to slake his thirst, but all he found was a saliva-sucking honey granola bar. Ginny told him he was lucky to have that. He told her she should have refilled her water at the restaurant — where, it turns out, he has also left his sunglasses behind.
Deep in the distance, the cool shadow of mountains hovers on the borders of his sight, teasing with their snow-topped peaks. Other than those far-off frosty tips, the terrain is painfully flat and unblemished. This great interior plateau region of central Spain is called, simply, the Meseta, the largest plain of them all.
“It extends over eighty-one thousand miles,” Daniel tells Ginny.
“Certainly feels like it.”
“Of course, the Tibetan Plateau in Asia is far bigger.”
“I see.”
“Almost a million square miles. It contains the third largest store of ice in the world. The monsoons —”
“Give it a rest, Irish.”
He does.
By late afternoon it is close to ninety Fahrenheit, a temperature swing of over twenty degrees from the day before. The Meseta can be like that. Its wide-open spaces are filled, unimpeded, by whatever wind blows in. Ginny’s voice is starting to show cracks like the baked mud in the fields that surround them.
“How much farther do you think it is?”
“Two miles,” Daniel says, his response measured with irritation as well as distance. He’s been trying to calculate their position by the amount of time they’ve been walking, but because there are no landmarks to gauge their progress, he can’t be sure. He’s been convinced they are only two miles away from Calzadilla for at least the last two hours. During that time, Ginny has asked him four times how much farther it is.
“Maybe we should go back,” she says.
“Are you serious?” Daniel asks, so forcefully it causes him to cough up a not-entirely-swallowed grain of granola.
“Or maybe turn off the Roman road,” she says. “See if we can find the autopista again.”
“Take a look at where we are now, Ginny.” Daniel gestures to the expanse of nothingness on either side of them. “A man could sit on his porch and watch his dog run away for a week for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m just saying. You don’t have to get so goddamn touchy.”
“I’m not touchy,” he says, kicking a piece of gravel with the defiant toe of his boot.
She ignores him, shields her eyes against the sun, and scans the trail up ahead as they follow a curve to the left. “Wait, what’s that up there?” she says.
In a small depression in the landscape, a one-lane paved road bisects the Camino. The view is distorted by bent air that waves up from the hot tarmac. They can both just make it out, off to the side, a blot of colour and two or three rough leaning structures. As they walk, the hazy images sharpen into recognition.
“My God,” Daniel says. “Are those …”
“Teepees,” Ginny says, shading her eyes from the sun. It cannot entirely eclipse a sliver of her delight.
The proprietor of the roadside rest stop not only has teepees, but also hammocks and, frustratingly, a broken water pump. He stands shirtless behind a makeshift bar made from a surfboard and two orange crates, all draped beneath the roof of a large Indian rug. A neon sign with no electricity to light it is tied precariously to an imitation palm tree. It reads with dimmed but hopeful hospitality, “Welcome to the El Mocambo.”
“Sorry, man, I’m usually only open in the summer,” he says in perfect English when they inquire after cold beverages. “I came out today to take down the teepees.” He turns around and starts rifling through an old-style stainless steel cooler behind him. When he bends over, his loosely tied loincloth forces Ginny to avert her eyes until he stands up again. “I’ve got this, though,” he says, holding up an opaque black bottle with a white triangular label. Bold calligraphy spells out the brand: Hendrick’s.
“Sorry, no tonic,” he apologizes, as he pulls out two shot glasses and places them on the surfboard.
Ginny sighs. “Great. Only rest stop in miles, and it’s run by a hippy exhibitionist selling moonshine.”
Daniel steps away from her potshot and up to the bar. “I think I’ll take some of that moonshine if you’re pouring.” The tension of last night and today have been simmering within him alongside the elements. He needs cooling off inside and out. A cold beer would suit better, but he’ll take one of the best gins in the world instead, if that’s what’s on offer. He sits down on a crooked three-legged stool and drops his backpack to the dusty ground to fetch his wallet. “How much?”
“Donativo, my friend, only donativo.” The hippy indicates a large Mason jar on the broad end of the surfboard as he serves. Daniel drops in a couple of euros. They join a business card and a large ball of tape.
“A man can’t afford too many bottles of Hendrick’s on donativos, I’m thinking,” Daniel says as he throws back the gin all at once. It races down the parched horizon of his throat like liquid lightning.
“The Camino provides,” the hippy says, tossing back his own shot. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a little bit of saliva behind in his beard. “And I must provide for the pilgrims,” he says. “It’s my duty.”
“A frightful disability is duty,” Daniel says with uncharacteristic cynicism as the hippy pours them both another shot. The hippy is like the woman volunteering in the albergue back in Grañón: once a pilgrim, now a penitent who serves others. “I gather you walked the Camino before, so.”
“The first time was in 1974. Walked it five times since then. The Camino gave to me. Now I give to the Camino. It’s payback.”
Jesus, how old is this guy? Daniel thinks. Then looks a bit closer at the crow’s feet around his eyes, the patches of grey sprouting in the unkempt garden of a beard. He puts back another shot of the premium liquor. It doesn’t quench his thirst exactly, but it is starting to help him forget about it. “Sure, your English is very good,” he says, fighting back a belch.
“I’m from Boston,” the man tells him, going to pour a third, but Daniel holds his hand over top of his glass. “I met someone here during university. Never left.” He puts the bottle of Hendrick’s down without pouring himself another, lights up a hand-rolled cigarette instead. “You know how it is.”
“I know,” Daniel says, then turns around to see if Ginny is listening, but she’s gone to check out one of the teepees. He watches her cautiously opening a flap of canvas to peer inside. The hippy barman follows his gaze as she bends over to get a better look. “Oh, we’re not together,” Daniel finds himself explaining for the second time in twenty-four hours. He cocks his head in Ginny’s direction after turning back to the bar. “She’s just a friend.”
“She is?” asks the hippy, scratching his beard. An act that Daniel notices with relief removes the speck of saliva. It had been a visual distraction, much like the guy’s loincloth. “A woman like that can be hard to stay friends with,” he says with a smile. “And how long have you and your friend been walking together?” he asks, leaning on the bar.
“A week, maybe more.” Daniel can’t seem to remember how long it’s been now. Time can be tricky on the Camino. Then again, he can’t remember being poured a third drink either, but there it is in front of him. He picks it up and rolls the cool glass between his fingers without bringing it to his lips.
The man nods and uses a surprisingly clean rag tucked at his waist to wipe down the surfboard. “This is a tough part of the Way,” he says. “The Meseta.”
“They’re all tough, surely?” Daniel says. As hard and hot as today’s walk has been, Daniel knows the Pyrenees were no picnic either. Straight up for miles and then a femur-jarring descent on loose rocks after you finally made it over the pass. His shattered kneecaps felt like a box of cornflakes afterward. Some people didn’t even make it over the mountain range. There had been deaths, heart attacks from the effort, or people who got caught out on the peaks after dark or in storms. Daniel was in decent enough shape, but it had still taken him eight hours to hike the pass.
“Each of the three stages is challenging in its own way,” the hippy says, still polishing the bar.
The faded denim irises of his eyes are surprisingly clear as he lifts them up to Daniel. They mesmerize Daniel slightly.
“And what are the three stages?” Daniel asks, putting his glass back down unemptied. He is still unable to look away.
“Well, the first part of the Camino is for the body,” the hippy says, dropping his gaze and the polishing rag to fetch the burning cigarette. It’s been resting perilously until now, the lit end jutting from its perch on the board. “You either get strong or end up in the hospital in the first part.”
Daniel remembers his cereal-box knees and nods in agreement.
“The second part is for the mind,” the bartender continues, pulling the smoke of his hand-rolled deep into his lungs. Daniel can see the rib cage of his skinny, hairless chest expand. “The same meseta landscape for days,” he tells Daniel. “Nothing to feed the brain but an endless pancake of open ground. A pilgrim’s thoughts turn inward. You can start to lose your grip with the monotony in the second part.”
Daniel nods again. This is the phase they are in now and, despite everything, he’s glad to have someone with him. He doesn’t know what his mind might do with that monotony if he had only himself and his darker thoughts to break up the scenery.
“What’s the last part for?” he asks, lifting the drink to his lips. This time the gin tastes sour. He grimaces.
“The soul.”
“Aye, Santiago,” Daniel says. “The cathedral.”
“Not just the cathedral, my friend. Everything that leads up to the cathedral. Everything you were hoping to find there.”
“Like the bones of Saint James?” Daniel says, his cynicism returning.
“Is that why you’re walking five hundred miles, for some two-thousand-year-old bones?”
“Surely the Catholic Church has more impressive skeletons in the closet,” Daniel says, trying to lighten the conversation with a whiff of sacrilege.
The hippy lets it drift away before he goes on. “No matter what you think you’ll find in Santiago, it all comes down to faith, my friend. Faith that there is something you are walking toward. Something that will alter you as a person.” He leans his elbows on the surfboard bar and blows two smoke rings up and to the right, one inside the other. They float past the fake palm tree then disappear. “Not all have a life-changing experience when they finish the Camino,” he says, turning his attention back to Daniel. “Oh, some say they do, but it is like the story of the Emperor and his new clothes. The naked truth is they walked all that way and found nothing at the end of it.”
