Spanish Train
Side 1, Track 1
This is the first in a series of stories drawn from the 1975 Chris de Burgh album, Spanish Train And other Stories. I have endeavoured to be faithful to the spirit of the stories and in some cases include lyrics relevant to tell the tale. As with any fiction, there will also be cases where some license is taken in order to create and complete a story line.
The Conductor would not have been sitting across from me if it hadn’t been for the lucky draw of a card. But as I would eventually begin to wonder, had it really been a matter of luck?
He seemed old yet still with lots of life in him. His face etched by the years but without the dried and pallid look of old age I recalled in my father. His voice thin, but unlike so many of the people I had met since arriving here, was not strained and there was no hint of a crackle. His hands were steady. Whenever he leaned in closer to talk, he had the slow and deliberate movement that comes with old age but his was unimpeded by stiffness. His hands were steady. His eyes showed no signs of cloudiness and though faded with age the olive-green stare was alive and often darted around the room, tracking who came in and who went out. No sound seemed to escape his attention.
As The Conductor stood up, he looked straight into me and said,
“I will take you to the train, but you must do exactly as I tell you. If I escort you on board and you fail to follow my instructions you will likely never see this town again.”
'This town' was the old town of Casco Antiguo – Seville’s Ancient District. It lay on the banks of the Guadalquivir River and legend told that it was almost as old as the river itself. I knew it had been here since at least 712 and I had come to Seville to visit the Archivo General de Indias for a paper I was writing on the ancient port city of Tartessus. A city seemingly gone but that should have prospered because it had become rich from the metals trade. Its sudden disappearance from history was the stuff of legends.
A short walk through the narrow streets from the B&B where I was staying was Cerveceria Rodrigo, which turned out to be a traditional Spanish old man bar. It didn’t look like it had seen any renovations in decades and many of the patrons appeared as if they had been frequenting the bar since it first opened its doors. The menu was written out by hand on a chalkboard. Fresh writing every day, but always the same menu. They tolerated me as an outsider. Called me ‘usted periodista’ - you journalist, but my bocadillo baguette was always piled high with meat and vegetables and the one kind of beer they had on hand was always cold.
That is where I first met The Conductor.
I had arrived in Seville a few weeks earlier, spent a few days doing some research at the Archives, made my way to the old town and found a pensión I could afford. The cerveceria was nearby and I had been coming here for just over 2 weeks now. Always it seemed, under the careful watch of The Conductor.
He seemed to rule the bar. If you were to be accepted, you needed his stamp of approval. He wasted little time in sizing up who you were. Or maybe who you were not.
He had been watching me for a while on this particular evening as I was catching up on my notes and having a light dinner. It was getting late when he picked up his beer and sat at my table.
“So, you are The Journalist?” was his opening line. His English was broken but surprisingly good for an old man in this part of the Seville.
“What are you doing in Casco Antiguo?” He did not waste his words and came straight to the point but not sharp in his tone. There was little doubt however that I would be allowed to dismiss the question or ask to be left to my meal and to continue writing.
“I’m not exactly a journalist. I’m an historian. I write articles and papers about lost cities and towns throughout the centuries. Some make it into scholarly magazines, some into newspapers, some never seem to make it anywhere.”
“The archives here are helping me write about Tartessus, the lost city,” I added.
"Yes. Tartessus. I know it well. It is at the end of the railway line that starts here in old Seville. And I am The Conductor. It is an important place."
"You mean 'was' of course,” I smiled and added, "I am here to follow the stories of where it went."
I reached out to shake his hand and started to tell him my name, but he interrupted and said, "You are The Periodista. I am known as The Conductor. And no, I mean 'is'."
So started my journey on the old Spanish Train.
After his admonishment to do as he said, I gathered up my bag and papers, gulped down the last of my beer, dropped some money on the table, and followed him out and into the late evening.
We turned down a narrow cobblestone street with the whitewashed walls of the residences on either side, their entrances and doorways framed in yellow.
Our destination seemed to be the Plaza da Armas railway station which had been around for a hundred years. With the modernization of Spain's rail lines, a new station was open and soon there would be no more trains coming through the old town, but The Conductor assured me his train would still be running.
"My train,” he said, "will never stop running."
It took us about half an hour to get to the station along the meandering streets. The Conductor kept a steady pace, and I sometimes fell behind as I looked around a part of the city I had not been through before. It looked like it had seen better days and The Conductor told me that it was now home to brothels, bars frequented by gamblers, and run down apartments where those with nowhere else to go ended up. He stopped in front of one of those old buildings, pulled his wide brimmed, black felt cordobes hat down, buttoned his wool jacket and told me to follow him. We passed through the open entrance into a small courtyard. Signs of age and wear and tear were everywhere, but it was tidy, and the ever-present whitewashed walls were clean. He put a finger to his lips so that I would not speak, knocked on the door of an apartment on the ground floor, and went in not waiting to be invited. In the centre of the room an old man lay on his bed surrounded by family. Someone was quietly humming the mourning song — the saeta — haunting and inspiring. The patriarch was alive but his heavy breathing suggested that was about to come to an end. The Spanish take death in its stride. It is merely the climax of life and for the end of this one he had been dressed in the smart uniform of a Porter. I guessed that was how The Conductor knew him. An even older woman — probably The Porter's wife — looked at The Conductor. She was wearing the black lace peineta reserved for special occasions — including mourning.
Her voice was strained. "We were expecting you. Please take care of him tonight."
The Conductor touched the foot of the death bed.
"I will see he makes the journey."
He immediately turned around, motioned me to the door and we left. It was a puzzling exchange. No condolences, nothing said to the other members of the family, and I had no sense of what he would be doing for the old man's journey. Even as we passed back through the courtyard, I could still hear the saeta, louder now, more urgent, and mixed with crying.
Once back out into the streets The Conductor raised his hat a bit, undid his jacket, and we started on the last few blocks toward the station. It was quiet everywhere. No people on the street. Windows were shuttered. It was the dead of night and suddenly the rumbling of a locomotive and the wail of a train whistle. The drawn-out eerie blast that signals its approach, followed by several short blasts which warns anyone near the tracks to move.
Past more of the poorer part of the quarter we walked but as we approached the station the past grandeur of the Plaza da Armas was plain to see, even now with only street lights to see by. It rose above the surrounding plaza. It was clearly in charge of the district and was ready for the approaching train.
The front of the station had the vaulted iron and glass look of many stations built at the turn of the 20th century, but its long dead architect was clearly influenced by more monumental works like the historic Mosque of Tangier which had its own distinctive entrance portal. Below the vast arch were at least a dozen tall horseshoe entrances and stained-glass windows that dwarfed the passengers who for decades had come through the station to head for destinations around Spain and onto Europe. Fewer and fewer passengers every year but even those dwindling numbers could not fail to be impressed and perhaps intimidated by the immense station as they started their journey. More horseshoe windows were visible on the second level of each corner. Once inside, the iron ceiling towered more than 20 metres overhead. Ahead of us stretched another 100 or so metres of the main chamber which in its prime sheltered the platforms where dozens of trains and their passengers waited every day. Many of those passengers would have been jobless young men, headed for France to find work in the grape harvest. I had read how that temporary migration had kept whole towns alive. Even King Alfonso would have passed through here before the start of the First World War.
With no trains either arriving or departing so late in the day, the main part of the building was empty though it was easy to imagine what it must have been like fifty years earlier as a travel hub for the country. Indeed, out of the corner of my eye I saw people wandering about as if they were trying to find their train but when I turned in their direction there would be no one. I put it down to the shadows, the immense chamber, and my imagination getting the better of me as I wandered through this historic old building. An occupational hazard of being an historian.
The Conductor's voice echoed in the station as he pointed to one of the chambers running parallel on either side of main hall where we were.
"My train is this way and it will be arriving to take us to Tartessus."
Coming for us? The grandeur of the station and the chance to learn more about Tartessus had me excited as we left the bar but now, I was simply confused. Why would the old Conductor say it was coming for us? And he still referred to Tartessus in the present - not as the ancient city it was.
We turned towards the side chamber where there was another platform, and I couldn’t decide where to look. Behind me where the empty platforms made sense in this dying station, or ahead where nothing made sense. There were people. Dozens upon dozens of them. Some were those I thought I had seen earlier. Or maybe I really had seen earlier. And waiting on the platform was The Porter we had just left. More shadow than man but he was there. Waiting.
“We wait for the Spanish Train,” said The Conductor and once again he looked at me. “You must do exactly as I say,” but this time he added, “or you will leave the train in Tartessus and never return.”
Another long whistle blast and the train pulled into the station. That whistle heightened my feeling that I should forget Tartessus, leave the platform, leave Casco Antiguo, leave Spain, and never return.
The Conductor saw my distress but made no attempt to reassure me.
“I am The Conductor of the Spanish Train. I am the Compañas. I escort the dying and the dead."
The Spanish Train ran from the dying quarter of old Seville to the dead city of the Tartessians, and I was about to climb aboard that train.
There was the hiss of brakes as the train slowed and I looked at The Engineer. A scarf covered his mouth and nose and what I could see of his face was no more than a veneer of yellow skin pulled tight to his skull. Boney hands gripped the brake lever. Once the train came to a stop The Conductor opened the doors of several of the cars to allow the people to board. Were they people, I thought, or was I looking at the dead? The Porter's presence left no doubt this was no ordinary train and the mix of pale-looking passengers silently stepping from the platform and onto the train really were there. But they were not people. They were shadows that had overtaken them and were now accompanied by what had been a person.
No one spoke. There were the young and the old. Men and women. Some smartly dressed like The Porter, others in their ropa de dormir or nightclothes.
The Conductor motioned for me to follow him to one of the empty cars. As we walked by the windows of the other cars it was an eerie sight. None of the activity you would expect from travellers. The only sound was the idling engine of the train, the occasional whoosh as the pressure was released from the air system. There were no compartments, just open cars with bench seats. Some upholstered, some wooden benches that reminded me of old movie depictions of steam train travel. Looking down the platform I could not see the end of the train as it snaked outside the station.
We climbed aboard an empty car and The Conductor sat down and pointed to a seat across from him.
"This train has been running for as long as anyone can remember. It travels only at night and those who can hear it know to stay quiet in the darkness and to never answer a nighttime knock at their door lest the Compañas take them out into the blackness to begin the walk of the dying. They can escape that walk, but someone will eventually take their place. The passenger list for the train must be filled."
I was still in the realm of disbelief despite what I had seen. "Where does the passenger list come from?"
The Conductor shrugged. "It is always waiting for me when I arrive. It is an unseen ticket agent that delivers it."
I had been working up the nerve to ask my next question. "Am I on the list? Am I dead or dying?"
"You are both somewhere and nowhere Journalist. You are here with me on this train because I invited you so you could learn the truth about Tartessus. You are nowhere because you are not on the passenger list and I cannot add you nor can I remove you should your name appear."
He rose, took out an ordinary looking railway ticket punch and spoke in the official tone you would expect from any Spanish train conductor.
"We will go to punch the tickets for the final destinations of our passengers."
"Tartessus?" I said.
"And from there to Heaven or Hell, or to stay on the Spanish Train a while longer. Depending on my passenger list." He replied.
“Do not speak.”
We started in the direction of the next car. The first passenger was The Porter but just as The Conductor was about to punch the traveller's ticket, he was distracted by someone walking down the aisle. It was the only movement I had seen in the car and for the first time on this whole, strange evening The Conductor appeared surprised. And worried.
The man coming towards us was wearing the cloth cloak of well-to-do Spaniards. It was black, with a red velvet lining, and a leather capelet at the shoulders. The cape was drawn around him but his hand came from underneath and with one grand swipe opened it to reveal a pair of brooches that were used to fasten the cape. Gold with blood red sapphires. His left hand twirled the cape over his arm and he bowed slightly in our direction.
The Conductor stopped and said, "Why are you here? No one on my list is bound to go with you when we reach the ancient city!"
The man looked at me coldly and said, "And he is not on the list at all." He once again affixed his gaze on The Porter and calmly said, "Besides, God's not around and look what I've found", and then still looking at the poor Porter, raised his voice so that it carried the length of carriage and beyond, "This one's mine!"
But behind us came another voice which shouted, "Get thee hence to endless night!"
I turned to see who had spoken, but I knew the answer.
Organized religion was not me so under the surreal circumstances I was in, wrapping my head around The Lord dressed in a white shirt with a multicoloured sash and a modern short-sleeved doublet was a challenge. But this is where I was. Given the nature of the train and its passengers where else could we be? Certainly not back at my Cerveceria, which I should never have left only a few hours ago.
And this is where The Devil was as well.
The Conductor and I were stuck between the two entities. The Porter remained on a bench seat, also in between the two.
The Lord had a walking stick and as he spoke, pointed it at The Devil who certainly was not intimidated by the presence. They were I supposed, eternal foes who had faced each other in many places and in many times through the ages.
The Devil smiled and told him to put away that silly stick and with what I could only describe as an air of reason and civility said, "We have one with us who is not meant to be part of this trip so we must settle this soon and without your usual fire and brimstone."
And then his voice rose so that it could be heard throughout the length of the train, "Joker is the name, Poker is the game, and we'll play right here. And then we'll bet for the biggest stakes yet. The souls of the dead!"
The entire carriage shook as he slapped a pack of cards onto the table that sat in between the bench seats. He pointed at The Conductor and the civility left his voice. "YOU will deal".
There was a lurch as the train started up. The cards were on the table, and The Devil, The Lord, and The Conductor took their seats. I steadied myself as the train gained speed but remained standing where I could see all three. The Porter remained in his seat and I only had to turn slightly to see him. The shadow that was now part of the dying man was as terrified as anything I had ever seen. He had probably led a good life but now his eternal fate rested on a card game.
The Conductor reached for the cards and though he appeared unmoved, The Devil must have realized quickly that the man he had chosen to deal was not going to offer any glimpse of the cards. He had obviously played this role before. Many times, in fact in those gambling houses and bars he had pointed out to as we had approached Plaza da Armas earlier. He began his riffle shuffle on the table instead of the more showy riffle in his hands. That meant less chance of the two players catching a glimpse of any of the cards. This was his train and he was not going to be intimidated.
He separated the deck in two, moved the top half to the right, picked up the two halves and with practiced hands moved the corners of the halves together and snapped them against each other, leaving one edge on the table so that the players could not see any part of the card faces. He repeated this six times and finished simply by pushing the halves together. No dazzling waterfall finish. This was not the place to show off.
There were no chips to play with so like any good railway conductor, The Conductor produced a small notebook and a worn pencil to track the bets.
"The train is on time and there are many souls on the line, so we will only play one hand. Agreed?"
Both players nodded.
The Conductor started to deal. The Conductor pinched the deck in his right hand. His wrist never moved and all it took was a flick of his middle finger to pitch the first card to The Lord who was sitting on his left. Next card to The Devil. Each card landing squarely in front of the players until each of them had their five cards.
I did not have to move to catch a brief glimpse of each hand. The Conductor saw the look on my face and with the slightest shake of his head was once again admonishing me not to show any emotion.
The Devil had three Aces, a King, and a 2. The Lord was holding the Queen, Knave, 9 and 10 of Spades, and a Diamond Trey.
There would only be two betting rounds in this game for the train was still dead-on time.
The Devil gave the opening bet.
"Ten thousand".
The Conductor penciled the bet into his open notebook.
The Lord saw the ten and raised another ten. The Devil saw the ten and with no hesitation, raised the stakes again with another fifteen thousand.
The Conductor's pencil added more lines to the notebook.
Soon the notebook showed they were up to fifty-nine thousand when The Devil called and it was time for the players to draw more cards.
I couldn't stop working the math. For a country the size of Spain there would be roughly 450,000 people dying every year. I did not know how long the Spanish Train was or how often it ran, but I had no doubt the winner of this macabre game would take all onboard and many more for some time to come.
The Lord called for one card and discarded what I guessed would be his Diamond Trey. The Conductor flicked the next card in the deck and I could now see The Lord had indeed pitched the Trey and in its place drew the 8 of Diamonds. His straight flush was not going to happen. There was a voice in my head tearing at me, "Look out Lord, he's going to win!" but a sharp look from The Conductor told me to fight back what was screaming inside me.
The Devil was eager to get more than his share of those beyond the grasp of this earth and he looked at The Lord and egged him on.
"I believe you've got a straight,” then he turned to The Conductor. "So deal me one, for the time has come so see who will be the king of this place".
The Devil discarded one card and The Conductor pitched him the next card in the deck.
What happened next left me frozen. The voice in my head still threatened to expose my fear for as we rode the Spanish Train through the night. The Devil let the new card slip under the sleeves of his cloak and he palmed a card which found a home with the other four cards he was holding. "Look out Lord, he's going to win!" The voice inside me was more frantic.
The Lord was intent on praying for what The Devil had drawn and did not see or even sense the deception. He was holding a simple straight and said, "that suits me fine, I'll raise you high to a hundred and five and forever put an end to your sins."
The voice was still pushing against me, looking for a way out. This time to exclaim, "Lord, o Lord, you let him win.” With another Ace in The Devil's hand The Lord was now left with a Hand of Dead Souls.
The Devil called, and with a mighty shout turned up his cards, "My hand wins!"
The Train continued its run against the darkness, for what seemed to me to be a night without end, but it could not have been more than a few hours. Its whistle still blowing, warning people to stay away.
The Devil and The Lord had retreated. The Devil to prepare to collect his souls. The Lord to find another game that he might win to retrieve some of those he had lost.
But before they left The Devil said, "We must decide what to do with these two.”
"You", he said directly to The Conductor, "should never have let someone on board who was not on the list.” His eyes were black as he stared at me. "You. You are not to be here. Yet you are indeed here with no ticket.”
The Lord spoke up, "Let The Conductor cut the cards. He dealt fairly for us tonight." He closed his eyes and took command of the moment. "Let the cards deal fairly with them."
The Devil nodded and The Conductor shuffled the deck and with one expert hand, cut it in two. He turned over the top card from one half. The 6 of Diamonds. The Devil reached for the top card on the other and the carriage turned to ice as he turned it over. The 5 of Clubs. The same card he had let slip from out his hand that had sealed the fate of so many of the shadows on the train.
The Conductor and I would make the return trip.
We were soon in the lost city of Tartessus and as the train slowed to a stop The Conductor prepared to open the doors of the carriages. There had been no need punch the final destinations for the passengers this night. The shadows vanished onto the platform and into the city of the dead. Shadows no longer accompanied by people.
The Spanish Train still runs between Old Seville and Tartessus. Its whistle still blows. The Conductor still tries to take care of his passengers. And I still board the train with The Conductor to learn more about that lost city of the dead.
