The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

Clair debated with herself. Her compulsion to stay on her path, following the yellow arrows was strong, but her curiosity about Raphael’s instructions and also, a sense of apprehension of not following them, made her mind up for her. She set off across the roundabout, into the park, looking for a chapel. Imagining a small structure, with perhaps a hidden door, tucked away into a narrow street, she stood awestruck before the massive and ornate Igreja de São Francisco. Easing inside, past a group of tourists being lectured by a guide, she made her way to the front of the church. Clair pulled the scarf up over her head as instructed, although she saw many women with bare heads. Kneeling before the devotional area, where over one hundred votive candles sat, some left burning by a previous penitent, she thought about whom to light a candle for. To release her ghosts, as Raphael had said. A feeling of great sadness overwhelmed her so that rational thought was impossible. Her heart felt like it would explode, so strong was the feeling.

Death at that moment was no longer a thing in the distant future but a realization of now. She was saying goodbye. Raphael had mentioned the feeling of overwhelming melancholy, or saudade, that the Portuguese describe as a loss of love, missing someone, and being without. It hit her all at once, this feeling. She crumpled on the red carpeted step, her head falling to her knees. Tears flowed, without resistance. She wanted to wail but knew it wasn’t the place. This restrained remorse seemed to her more appropriate and then she began laughing at herself. Who gives a good damn, she thought? I can wail if I damn well please. But, concern for the others in the church, fear that the security guards might take her to the American Embassy, held her steady. Later, she thought, once I’m in the woods or on a beach. Then I’ll wail.

Slowly, slowly she rose, her head coming up last. Taking a few deep breaths, she dared to look at her phone. The lines of messages were endless. Scrolling through, she saw the majority were from Adam, but also, even her parents had both texted. She lit the first candle for her mother.

After, eleven candles lit, flaming in small ways, their tender tendrils reaching up into the vastness of the cathedral, Clair stood.

Chapter 30

Adam

The flight to Biarritz was brutal, sitting in a cramped seat, for over thirteen hours, with long waits in New York and Paris. Too agitated to read or enjoy people watching as he normally would during travel, he could only pace while waiting for departures, and sit and stare during flight. Sleep came in spurts. He would jolt awake, finding his neck twisted, his head aching, mouth dry.

The taxi ride from Biarritz to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port was a blur, the stunning views offering no solace to his tired eyes. He had driven to Portland after meeting with Jet. The next flight out of Harbor wasn’t until the next day. He couldn’t wait. He caught a flight from Portland to Seattle, and from there to Biarritz. At least when moving he felt like he was doing something. And now, he was here, where it begins. In his hasty research of the Camino de Santiago, he learned that the medieval pilgrimage historically began in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. This must be where Clair is, or was, and not long ago, he concluded. He felt this in his bones.

* * *

‘Have you seen this woman, my wife, Clair?’ Adam asked at every opportunity, beginning from his first stop at the pilgrim’s office in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where he obtained his passport. He had told the office manager that he didn’t need the passport, he wasn’t walking for religious or spiritual reasons, he was only looking for his wife.

‘Everyone walks for a different reason,’ she had calmly told him. ‘You will need your passport for accommodations, food and drink, friendship along the way. Here, your first stamp.’

And she stamped a small, folded booklet, with the characteristic scallop shell on the front. Adam held the photo of Clair in front of the booklet.

‘Please, look. Do you remember this woman coming in and obtaining her own passport? It would have been about three days ago?’

Adam had rushed about, packing an old college backpack with what he considered essentials. He had googled enough information to learn he would need good smart wool socks, hiking boots, and a poncho. A warm fleece jacket, and windbreaker. Anything else would make the pack too heavy to carry across the mountains towards Santiago, in the late fall, early winter passage. A fool’s game, Ben had told him over the phone, when they had finally got a chance to talk. Neither Ben nor Jodie had heard from Clair. They were as shocked, saddened, and distraught as Adam at Clair’s decision to flee to Spain.

‘I can catch up with her, I know,’ Adam had insisted. I will walk far faster than she is able, and I won’t rest until I do.’

The woman in the pilgrim’s office looked at the photo. Her eyes smiled at him but her words didn’t offer comfort.

‘No, I have not seen this woman.’

‘But, are you sure? You must see so many; how can you be sure? Is there anyone else we can ask, another person here who might have met her?’

‘I am here every day and I would remember. Each face that arrives here at my door is like a work of art, holding the past in every line and shadow, and the eyes shine bright with future sights yet unseen. This woman, your wife, I heard you say? She is so lovely. I wish I had met her. I am sorry.’

It was late, the sky darkening. He was tired, hungry, disheartened. Hefting his backpack up onto his shoulders, he looked around. He was the only one left in the office, besides the manager. He