No Comfort on a Chilly Night: Can an old flame be rekindled?

By Noel Braun

Felix Schmidt is backpacking on the Camino de Santiago when he meets the love of his life, the beautiful French Pascaline. He brings her back to Australia where he joins a new firm of management consultants. Deeply engrossed in the company's growth, he neglects Pascaline. She believes his addiction has reduced him as a person, wearies of his obs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sid Harta Publishers
• Release date: Apr 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9780975663158

Noel Braun

Noel Braun commenced his working life as a country schoolteacher then moved into a corporate career, which took him from Melbourne to Perth and Sydney. He has had a lifelong passion for writing and wrote the first words of his novels fifty years ago. After a busy career and raising a family of four, he has found the time in retirement to fulfill his long-held ambition to see his work in print.Noel has published two previous novels: Friend and Philosopher and Whistler Street. He has published a memoir, No Way to Behave at a Funeral, which describes his grief journey following the death by suicide of his wife Maris, and three explorations of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela: The Day was Made for Walking, I Guess I'll Just Keep on Walking and Keep Pressing On, Brother.Noel has taken his time with his third novel, No Comfort on a Chilly Night. He commenced the first draft twenty years ago and wrote four other books in the meantime. He is working on other manuscripts. He lives in the Snowy Mountains where he is involved with the community. He is a keen walker and enjoys getting out in the national parks surrounding his home.

Book preview

PART ONE

DAYS OF PROMISE

Chapter 1

The Camino passed through an arid stony land interspersed with olive groves and vineyards. A rough pebbly track climbed around the hills, descended the valleys and followed a dry rocky riverbed. No breeze offered respite in the heavy atmosphere. The songs of the cicadas, sharp and strong, could have been the voice of departed spirits who had walked this track before they succumbed to the deadly heat, which hung over the land like a dense, suffocating fog. The sun shone down fiercely, intense heat radiated from the earth and the light reflected off the chalky ground was just as lethal. The occasional tree struggling for existence along the track provided scant shade in this oven-like world.

He had begun walking early, two hours before dawn, to take advantage of the cool morning, but the heat, like a beast of prey, was waiting for the sun to rise and make its fiery assault. In the bar where he stopped for breakfast, the weather forecast on the television predicted a string of forty-degreeplus days across Spain. Apart from the weary bartender and a faded customer sipping coffee, he saw no one that morning except for an old lady with a sharp beak for a nose dressed in black. Just as he passed her house, she shuffled out with a pan of water to pour on potted geraniums on either side of her door, their red flowers a contrasting touch of beauty against stark whitewashed walls. She greeted him with a Buenos Dias, but then scurried back like a frightened rodent into the cool, darkened interior, wondering why this red-haired sunburned youth was out in such heat.

He was following the shell symbols of the ancient pilgrimage, Camino, which wound its way through France and Spain and converged on the city of Santiago in the northwest of Spain. Not that he regarded himself as a pilgrim. No way. He just knew that this was a cheap way for a backpacker to get around, see the country and meet the people. Following graduation, he travelled to France to bum around before he committed himself to the serious business of finding a career. Big cities like Paris were no place for an Aussie with next to no money, so he abandoned the din and unaffordable prices and took to the country. He walked along the network of trails called Grandes Randonnées, which crisscrossed the country. The French countryside was beautiful. He walked along mountain tracks with views over a patchwork of farmlands and forest, where the air was clear and the only sounds were the rustling of the breeze in the trees, the songs of the birds or the tinkling of cow bells or distant church bells. He walked by canals built in the days of Louis XIV along paths shaded by mature plane trees. Those waterways were designed to transport grain but were now the domain of tourist boats from which passengers sipping their cool drinks stared at this lone walker.

He came upon lovely, restored villages and groups of houses clustered around the church where life continued servicing the tourists from Germany and Britain. Yet, he passed by abandoned hamlets where the old had died out and the young had deserted for the attractions of the town.

He enjoyed the freedom (la liberté) and feeling of going nowhere in particular, with no special destination and just taking each day as it came. By day he preferred to walk on his own, allowing his mind to drift, occasionally getting it into gear to admire a wayside flower or greet a cud-chewing cow in an adjoining paddock. At night he enjoyed company. He passed most evenings with other walkers, sometimes with one or two, sometimes with a crowd. He relished the opportunity to speak French over a meal and copious glasses of wine in conversation with ordinary people. He asked his fellow walkers questions – how long they were walking and where they were heading, where they had come from, where did they live and what sort of place that was. They were curious that he spoke the lingo and came from Australia, so far away. Most of the walkers were French but many were from Germany, Holland and Norway.

The conversation turned to French politics of which he knew little. The topic was fresh because France had just emerged from an election campaign that produced the first left wing president of the Fifth Republic, François Mitterrand, to the dismay of supporters of his predecessor. Valéry Giscard d’Estaing believed he lost only because of disunity among the right-wing parties.

‘I cannot believe the passion and ferocity with which the French discuss their politics,’ Felix wrote in a letter to his sister. ‘Although I’ve witnessed no fisticuffs, I can appreciate the place of violence and revolution in French history.’

One night, he shared a decanter of scruffy red wine with Marcel, a skinny Frenchman with one arm. His extreme thinness made him appear nearly two-dimensional, like a character out of a comic book. He looked as if he had been walking all his life and, along the way, had shed his baggage.

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked the young Aussie with red hair.

‘Nowhere in particular.’

‘You should have a destination.’ He spoke with passion like a zealot. ‘You should cross the Pyrenees into Spain and follow the route to Santiago. Accommodation is plentiful, much cheaper than France and a bar every few kilometres. The Camino is a sacred way which pilgrims have been following since medieval times. Walkers make their pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James at Santiago.’

‘Good idea,’ Felix replied, as he took a mouthful of wine. ‘Why not?’

‘It will do your soul good.’ Marcel was pleased to be giving a young man a life direction. ‘You might discover something about yourself.’

The young man looked down at his plate of duck confit, moved a leg in an anticlockwise direction and helped himself to more wine from the stone decanter. He lifted his glass to his companion.

‘I’ll give it a go.’

A week later, he found himself south of the border in the Spanish heat. He knew more about Spanish politics through his reading on the Spanish Civil War. The reign of General Francisco Franco was replaced by King Juan Carlo. Earlier in the year, Felix read a newspaper account of an attempted bizarre coup when a contingent of the civil guard occupied parliament. It sounded like a page from a comic opera libretto.

That blistering day, he was on his own. Even the walkers who had stayed the previous night in the same albergue had vanished. No surprise, no one was dill or imprudent enough to be walking in this stinker, the cicadas his company on his blighted road. Long distance walkers tell you it is an addiction. Once you commit yourself, you must keep going whatever the conditions. He was carrying two litres of water and had already drunk over a litre.

Usually tolerant of heat, used to the Australian summer, Felix found this day intense and oppressive and wondered how long he could last. The only thing he needed to add to the day’s unpleasantness was the sirocco, the Mediterranean wind from the Sahara that blows across Southern Europe, sometimes up to hurricane speeds. His sweat evaporated and left him with dry salty skin. He should have given himself a day off. He was desperate for decent shade where he could take a breather, remove his boots and backpack and rest. As he came around a hill, the path descended into a deeper valley, and at the bottom, trees provided much-needed shelter from the scorching heat. In the cooler rainy seasons, the water rushed down these tracks and gullies and collected in these valleys, providing the moisture that enabled the trees to thrive. There might even be grass, unlikely to be perfectly cut, moist or lush, like in the middle of a manicured garden, but just enough to stretch out on. He quickened his pace to reach an oasis.

He found the shade and, sure enough, the green grass invited him to remove his pack and boots and stretch out. He drank from his water bottle. One was already empty. This was one of those days when the veterans’ advice was to drink four litres, so he was hoping there might even be a small refreshing stream. He lay down on his back, feeling like a grease spot, with his pack as a pillow and looked up through the leaves to the cloudless sky, thankful for the brief relief from the torture of the road.

‘I will go looking for water as soon as I rest,’ he muttered to himself. He was about to close his eyes when he heard a small sigh.

He looked around. Someone was sharing his oasis. A girl was stretched out on the grass about ten metres away. Her eyes were closed. She was slim and dressed in shorts. She had removed her T-shirt and used it as a pillow. Her hair was bouncy black and, in another world, could have been licked into shape to model for hair conditioners. Her skin was pale. She seemed vulnerable and needing help. Beside her lay her backpack. A water bottle was lying about a metre away, discarded as if empty. His first thought: There is no waterpoint here. His second: That girl has run out of water and succumbed to the heat. She is in trouble. He got up and walked across. He recognised her as one of the walkers who had stayed at the same albergue the previous night but had not had a chance to speak to her. A slight tingle like electricity ran through his body and he could feel internal organs he hadn’t given much thought to as he admired her beautiful slim body and bare breasts. In her nakedness, she seemed so weak and fragile.

‘Hola! Bonjour! Hello!’ He usually greeted people in several languages and then continued in the language they responded in. She opened her eyes – they were dark and soft – and looked at him as if she wasn’t seeing, then whispered,

‘Bonjour!’

‘Voulez-vous de l’eau?’ (Would you like some water?)

‘Merci.’

By now, she was focussed enough to recognise her angel. He stayed in the same albergue, but they did not speak to one another as he was in the midst of a rowdy group. Walkers around him had plenty to say, curious to know why he, an Australian, was walking in Spain. Weren’t there places in Australia to walk? they joked. She was curious and would have enjoyed talking to him. She would have her chance. He walked back to his backpack and grabbed his water bottle. By the time he returned she had sat up, placed her T-shirt across her breasts and propped herself on her left elbow. He leaned over her and offered the bottle. The smell of his sweat was pungent but not unpleasant. Such unselfconscious masculinity so close to her; she could have grabbed him and held his vibrant body close. She accepted the bottle and took a long drink.

‘J’ai manqué d’eau. C’est une journée si chaude.’ (I ran out of water. It’s such a hot day.)

She sat up and returned the bottle. Her face was drawn, and she felt exhausted, but the water restored some life, and she could feel a vibrancy, subdued at the moment, ready to bubble forth at the right time. As he accepted the bottle and screwed on its top, he felt a strong connection with her. She had trusted him and accepted his help. He felt a yearning for her, more tender than carnal although he held the bottle in front of his body to hide his arousal. He wanted to protect her, to see her recover from dehydration and regain her strength.

‘Comment ça va?’ (How are you feeling?)

She lay back and placed her hand on her forehead. She was lovely and beautiful in her weakness.

‘J’ai mal à la tête.’ (I have a bad headache.)

‘C’est parce que tu es déshydratée. Laisse-moi te trouver quelque chose.’ (That’s because you’re dehydrated. Let me find you something.)

He returned to his pack and from the top removed a small first-aid kit. He took out an aspirin and returned.

‘Ici! Prends ça. Tu te sentiras mieux.’ (Here, take this. It’ll make you feel better.)

One of the unwritten laws of long-distance walking is to offer help to someone in distress and for the other to accept aid when offered. They were doing no more than what any would do, but he felt her acceptance was different. She trusted him. In this remote and isolated place, he could have allowed the flesh to take control. No doubt about it. She was desirable, but to take advantage of her would be an immense breach of her trust. He wanted to protect her.

She needed to lie down and close her eyes. She was content when he sat down beside her and leaned against a tree. She needed someone to be nearby. The air was warm and stifling and, although ridiculously hot in the shade, the heat would have been unbearable on the unprotected path. Even the cicadas found the heat too much for they had taken a rest from their song. Both closed their eyes too and mused, thinking about nothing in particular, just content to be with each other. He took a deep breath and allowed his mind to meander through the field of possible outcomes of their encounter. The only thing she knew about him was that he was Australian, spoke French and was gallant. He seemed different to other boys, French and Spanish boys, who only thought of what stirred below. Australian boys were probably no different but this one was courteous and respectful. She had heard that redheads (les rousses) can be very passionate, but she felt she could trust him. In turn, he knew little about her. She spoke French and was lovely. At university he had slept with girls who had offered themselves. He was happy to oblige but such relationships never lasted, if they could be called relationships; they were so ephemeral. He had met girls in France. They were interested in him because he was different, an Australian who spoke French. A German girl whose name was Sybille he would have willingly slept with, but such liaisons were difficult to organise in dormitory-style accommodation. This girl beside him was unlike any he had met. She connected with something deep inside him. He wanted to get to know her.

He was not sure how long he sat there when he heard her stirring beside him. He opened his eyes, and she was looking at him.

‘Comment ça va?’ he asked.

‘Mieux. Je me sentais terrible. Je pensais que j’allais mourir. Je me suis embrouillée. Et je ne pouvais pas savoir où je me trouve. J’aurais dû transporter plus d’eau. J’avais une autre bouteille mais je l’ai perdue hier.’ (Better. I was feeling terrible. I thought I might die. I got confused and couldn’t work out where I was. I should have carried more water. I had another bottle but I mislaid it somewhere yesterday.)

As she spoke, she was gazing nowhere in particular. Then she turned and looked at him with eyes that stirred his heart.

‘Tu m’as sauvé la vie. Merci.’ (You have saved my life. Thank you.)

She was being dramatic, but he did not mind her gratitude one little bit. She turned her eyes, looked at the ground and spoke quietly.

‘Tu ne veux pas continuer à marcher?’ (Don’t you want to continue walking?)

Despite the distraction of a palpitating heart, he managed to reply.

‘Je resterai avec toi pour m’assurer que tout va bien.’ (I’ll stay with you to make sure you are okay.)

He tried to sound nonchalant, as if it were the normal action. One should help a fellow human being in distress and make sure they are okay before continuing on their way. Underneath, his heart and stomach were stirring. The last thing he wanted was to depart. The last thing he wanted was to let her go. If he were to leave her now, he would never see her again.

‘Merci. Ce serait bien.’ (Thank you. That would be good.)

The first thing she wanted was to see him stay. She needed someone to protect her until she was confident enough to walk on her own. She liked the way he paid attention to her, how he looked at her. She wished she could explain his eyes and how the sound of his voice gave her butterflies and how his smile made her heart skip a beat. Together, they rested in silence. The afternoon passed. The sun made its descent, the shadows lengthened, the crickets resumed their song, birds returned to the trees and on the ground squirrels scampered looking for food. Nothing was out of the ordinary, yet everything had changed. Eventually, she spoke.

‘Je m’appelle Pascaline. Comme t’appelle-tu?’

‘Felix.’

Chapter 2

They stayed in the shade until late afternoon when it was cool enough to continue. A passing pilgrim stopped for a rest and told them in halting English a village not far ahead had three refuges.

‘Es-tu assez forte pour marcher?’ (Are you strong enough to walk?) Felix asked Pascaline.

‘Oui, je pense que oui,’ (Yes, I think so) she replied.

He helped her with her backpack and they walked in silence the few kilometres. She conserved her energy for the physical movement while he was happy to be her silent companion. Thankful for the long twilight, they did not arrive until about 9 pm. The houses were ancient, built of solid stone with overhanging wooden verandahs and external steps almost black with age. The first refuge displayed the full sign (completo) and so did the second. Around a corner, the third had two bunks available on opposite ends of the dormitory. They sought the showers and, in adjacent cubicles, cleansed themselves under the tepid water. They surfaced. Pascaline wrapped her towel around herself while Felix held his in front. They turned their backs to each other but not before Pascaline noted that Felix looked good without too many clothes on. They ran their towels over their refreshed bodies.

‘Comment ça va?’ (How are you feeling?) he asked.

‘Mieux, merci.’ (Better, thank you.)

‘Tu dois manger.’ (You should have something to eat.)

‘Oui.’

They returned to their bunks, dressed, emerged back outside and just down the street saw the lights of a bar/restaurant. Inside, pilgrims were drinking, recovering from the extremes of a hot day. Although approaching 10 pm, a young girl welcomed them and showed them a table outside under the overhanging verandah. They saw the pilgrim’s menu on the blackboard (Menú del Peregrino) – three courses with a choice of salad or soup, burgers or chicken, ice-cream or fruit, and two jugs: one of water, the other of red wine (vino tinto).

They did not have much to say during the day, but, relaxing over a glass of red wine, they found the energy for conversation.

‘Thank you for staying with me today. I’m not sure where I would be without you. Now, tell me something about yourself, my gallant rescuer.’

‘You’re speaking English,’ Felix replied.

She nodded.

‘You speak English as well as I speak French.’

She lifted her glass and smiled.

‘Thank you. Now tell me about yourself.’

‘Okay. I’m Australian and I live in Melbourne.’

‘You’re far away from home.’

The girl returned with their salad and a candle, which she placed on the table. Its light shone in their eyes and lit up their souls.

‘I finished my studies and I’m travelling before finding a job and starting a career.’

‘And what did you study?’

A burst of laughter from inside almost drowned her voice. He sipped his wine and waited until the noise subsided.

‘Psychology was my major focus, but I also studied French. That’s why I’m here, speaking to you in your maternal language.’

‘You must like learning languages?’

‘Yes. While I’m in Spain, I’m learning Spanish. I’d like to be at least bilingual and possibly multilingual. I admire the way Europeans slip from one language to another.’

People were leaving the restaurant and as they passed, the candlelight stirred and danced over their faces.

‘You must also like walking. Have you always been a hiker in your own country?’

‘Not particularly. I enjoy walking because it’s a cheap way of getting around and seeing the country. I was walking in France first and decided on the Camino for no reason other than I was told there was always good company and cheap places to stay.’

‘You should walk the Camino for a reason,’ Pascaline replied.

‘I’m always asking people about their walking. Why are you walking?’

‘I’m walking the Camino because I want to find myself, to see if I can handle the challenge.’

The girl appeared with their chicken.

‘How come you speak English so well? I love your accent.’

‘My mother is a language teacher. She teaches both French and English and through her I learned English because we spoke both French and English at home. It was just as important for my mother as for us children, my brother and me.’

‘My father was a teacher, too. He’s retired now. He taught in primary schools, and we moved around the country. He had various appointments. He was the principal. We moved from place to place. Just as I was getting used to a town, we moved, and we had to make new friends, me and my sister. In the last place, I made good friends. We went to university together. We shared a house, but we studied different courses. The others got jobs, but I wanted to travel first.’

‘What about your sister?’

‘She stayed at home. She had a boyfriend and I’m sure they’ll marry soon.’

‘I’ve always lived in the place where I was born.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I live with my mother in Chambéry.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘In the Auvergne Rhône-Alpes region. It’s near the frontier with Italy and Switzerland.’

They finished their ice-cream and were the last to leave. He did not want to let Pascaline slip away and, as they strolled back to the refuge, he suggested:

‘We should walk together tomorrow.’

She looked at him, and, in lighthearted fashion, replied, ‘Okay,’ as if it could be an adventure. He sighed. He should take the next step.

‘Perhaps we could walk together the day after that and after that.’

She looked at him again and, as she returned her gaze to the path, replied, ‘That would be good,’ but this time with a faint smile. They returned to the refuge just in time before curfew. The dormitory was in darkness. Pilgrims were asleep and snoring, and they stumbled around finding their beds, trying to make as little noise as possible. Felix took his torch and helped Pascaline find her bunk and belongings, made sure she was settled and that she had found her own torch before he crept back to his own bunk and settled in for the night. He was tired, too, but he dozed off with images of Pascaline. What lively company she would make and how he looked forward to their days together.

The refuge stirred about 5 am. The forecast was for another sweltering day. The early birds were on the move, trying to make little noise but managing to make a racket, dropping boots, rustling plastic, zipping bags and whispering loudly. He rose at about 7.30 just as the light was showing through the window. Pascaline was still asleep, and he woke her gently. She opened her eyes and smiled at him as he leaned over her, the light shining off his red hair. He was tempted to kiss her.

‘We should have breakfast at the same place.’

They were the last to leave, passing the sign requesting everyone should depart by 8 am. Cleaners were already on the job in the showers.

The day was already hot. They walked together mostly in silence, content with their own thoughts. They passed through vineyards, the vines heavy with fruit, and in places the machines were busy harvesting. By early afternoon, they arrived at a small village with a beautiful, restored refuge by a stream. According to the notice, the refuge was used in medieval times and was a favourite because the stream gave the grimy pilgrims an opportunity to wash. It was a favourite, too, with the modern pilgrims as they were already splashing about or lounging in the shade on the grass. The refuge was not yet full, and they were able to take the same bunk. Pascaline chose the top bed, and he was more than happy to sleep under her.

They joined the others by the stream, Pascaline in her bikini and Felix in his briefs. They delighted in splashing around after the heat and exertion of the morning. Pascaline scooped down into the water and splashed him. He leaped after her and she made a halfhearted attempt to escape. He picked her up, waded to a deeper part in the middle of the stream and demanded,

‘Dis que tu es désolée.’ (Say you’re sorry.)

She shrieked, and he dumped her in the water. They played a game, clowning around, chasing each other, laughing like little children – a game of seduction. The spectators lying on the grass laughed, too, and urged him to give her a good dunking. The young