Tabula Rasa

The man had arrived six months ago, riding on the train that goes from the sea to the mountains, carrying sea water for the royal beaches at Palermas (it was a sight to see apparently, the beaches in the mountains). The train rarely stops in our town of Espartinas, but you knew when it did because the smell of the sea would waft through the town and the strange cry of seagulls would pierce the air. He had arrived with a single suitcase and rented a modest room above the small bar in the main square and did so without uttering a word. In the six months since he had arrived, no one had heard him speak. His features were Spanish, but more exotic, as though he had Moorish blood in his veins, and he always wore the same simple suit, even though it was now the summer months. She had seen him that morning having coffee at the bar, which he did every day. He had coffee at the bar, then he had lunch sent to his room, then he had dinner at the bar — that was his routine. No-one knew what he did for an occupation, he did not seem to have one. She was taking a break from tending to the olive grove to have some lunch. It was a windless day and the heat resided thick amongst the trees, content and wallowing. She saw him walking up the dirt path running between the terraced rows of the gnarled old trunks, the crunching of his footsteps the only sound aside the background hum on insects. She had never seen him outside of the main square before. He continued up the path a little way, then took a right onto one of the terraces and settled on one of the short stone walls. He then lay back with his legs over the wall and stared at the sky with his arms crossed across his chest. She watched for a few more minutes from her position across the grove, but he remained motionless, so she carried on with her work. That evening, the man from the train did not appear for dinner. Nor was he there for breakfast, or any meal that weekend. The dishes piled up on the bar top as the barkeep, so used to bringing them out, did not know what to do now they were not being eaten. On the Monday she returned to work, and saw the man again, still lying there with his arms crossed across his chest. There was a slight film of dust over him and it appeared that he had not moved. She went over and saw that he still had his eyes open, staring at the sky. They flicked to her face as she got near. “I am dead.” He said, his eyes flicking back to the sky. It was the first thing she had ever heard him say. His voice was poetic and soft, a slight arabic accent lilting his speech. The dead tend not to enunciate their position, so this was highly unusual she thought. She fetched the local doctor, who fetched the priest, who fetched the barkeep who’s customers overheard and fetched their lovers and friends. The whole town walked slowly up the hill into the olive terraces in the baking midday sun. The heat slid down the hill towards them and they clashed halfway, breaking out in a sweat. The priest and the doctor stood either side of the man as the town gathered around. The man from the train continued to stare at the sky. “I,” he said, “am dead.” The crowd rustled. They had never heard the man speak. Furthermore, they had never been in the presence of a man who had announced his own death. The doctor looked concerned, that was usually his job. He leant down by the man and felt for his pulse, pausing briefly before nodding his head gravely. “He is dead.” The doctor said. The man from the train nodded in confirmation. Arrangements were made and the man had a funeral on the Wednesday. He lay in his open coffin at the doctors house as the town passed by to pay their respects. Though no-one in the town really knew the man, they felt he was a good man and deserved a proper service. As the final person passed the towns carpenter, who had made the coffin, placed the lid on top and lined up the first nail. Before he struck with his hammer, there was a small knock from inside so he slid back the lid. The man from the train took a letter out from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to the carpenter who took it and passed it to the doctor. The man from the train nodded again and the carpenter slid the lid back in place and pounded in the nails. He was buried in the small graveyard behind the church. Afterwards there was a small wake held at the bar at the centre of town. The letter had not been sealed so the doctor slipped it out and read it. Soon the whole town had passed it round. She was one of the last ones to read it. It was written in beautiful, but functional script. Dear Maria, I have waited six months like you asked, but you have not arrived. I know by now you must have chosen him over me, and by this knowledge I have died. Yours, Aslam She passed on the letter and thought about love as the smell of the sea wafted through the open window.