Tabula Rasa

It was late and the restaurant carriage was dimly lit. Snow whorled past the windows. Each flake briefly illuminated by the light from the carriage, tumbling with intense fury, before disappearing into the night. She wished Jorge was here. He would have something profound to say about it she was sure. He always had something profound to say. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was 1:47am. She wanted these men to go to bed, but they seemed to be talking intently with no sign of stopping. Everyone else on this train must be asleep, she thought. Jorge had once said that sleep was like practicing being dead. You practice your whole life until you are ready to do it for good. She thought about that a lot. They gestured her over to order another bottle. She knew they must know a lot about wine as they were ordering the second best vintage on the list. Maria had told her that if you know about wine you don’t order the best vintage, it’s marked up too much and it isn’t much better. You only order the best vintage if you have too much money and a point to prove. She also told her that you don’t order anything more than 10 years old on a train. The vibrations mean the sediment doesn’t settle and you end up spitting it out all night. Maria grew up in a vineyard in the south so she knew a lot about wine. She fetched their wine and filled their glasses. They ignored her and carried on speaking in French. She couldn’t understand them but she could tell by their accents they were well educated. She thought they were probably diplomats, no-one else really travels across the border any more. She resumed her spot, behind the small bar tucked up against the wall. Her feet hurt. She stifled a yawn and idly polished the same glass she had been polishing all night. She wondered where Jorge was now. She had last seen him in Lisbon before he set sail, looking incongruous in his smart uniform with his wild hair. Her chest tightened as she pictured him on the dock and she thought she might cry. One of them men got up to go to the bathroom and ordered coffee as he went past. She slipped out the door to her right and through to the kitchen. She was glad the chef had finished hours ago. When it was late he always tried to put his hand on her bottom. She loathed the chef. The smell of the coffee brewing always reminded her of sitting at the table after dinner at her grandmothers house and she felt homesick. She arranged the cafetière on the tray with three cups and headed back out to the corridor. A man with a balaclava stood to the entrance of the carriage and held his finger to his lips. The revolution had started.