I think I read something once

The smiling salesman with his empty briefcase came knocking at my door. Said, "I'm not selling anything, won't you just listen to me for a while." I said, "Why not and while you're at it, could you save my soul." He looked sceptical, but he came in anyway, stepped over the pile of unopened mail that made the door so hard to open and installed himself in the living room.


"I admire your honesty," I told him before he could say anything. "It's a brave man who admits he's selling nothing. You must be good at your job, or very bad." He nodded at this, eyes all asparkle, and popped open his briefcase.

It was empty like I said already, but his opening of it signalled the start of something. So I sat there because I'd invited him in and because there was really nothing else I should have been doing. The day had loomed large ahead of me, oppressive like a thunderhead that refused to break. But now here was something plapably different from yesterday and all the days before that, and tomorrow and all the days after it. It was like a cool breeze that blew through me and I realised I was quite excited by the prospect. I started bouncing up and down on the sofa.

"Calm down," said the man as though he were used to this kind of behaviour and would have nothing to do with it. I stopped bouncing, but my leg kept vibrating up and down like the needle on a sewing machine. He let this pass.

"Mr Tallis," he said. I nodded. "Let me tell you a story." This sounded promising. I smiled and made the international 'go on' gesture with my head and body, but he looked at me. "You'll need a pencil, or pen, preferably a pen, and some paper," he said. I sprang up. I was doing this all wrong. It had been a while since I'd had guests.

"Can I get you a cup of tea," I said while I searched for a pen and some spare paper. The man shook his head then sat and waited with perfect patience. Eventually, I had the brainwave of looking through the himalayan pile of mail behind the front door. I collected a number of the larger paper envelopes and found a complimentary biro in a letter from a bank with whom I had had rocky dealings in the past. After some frantic spiralling, the biro came to life.

"Mr Tallis!" I had forgotten quite how long I'd been spiralling.

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you want a cup of tea."

"No thank you Mr Tallis." He went back into the living room and I followed him with a thick wad of envelopes under one arm and an assortment of gels, shampoos, perfumes and soaps in small sachets that I would add to my hoard but never use.

I sat down in the living room with my pen and paper. An upturned dinner tray made a handy desk. The man began speaking. I wrote. The story was simple and complex, sweet, sad and happy and wonderful, and it was over before my hand got tired writing it.

"Thank you for your time Mr Tallis." said the man.

I looked out of the window. The street was dark. "Don't go" I said. The man looked at me, sweet sorrow on his face. "Remember the story," he said. I looked at the scattered notes, on the envelopes and the backs of photocopied fliers. That fine beautiful story seems to be coming apart as I looked. Entropy was pulling it to pieces. The man closed his briefcase.

"Goodbye Mr Tallis."

"Goodbye," I said, "Don't go." He did indeed seem reluctant.

"The first is free," he said, "but you can't have another for any price." He was by the front door. It opened easily. Outside the night was cold, starlight the only light. "There's many a mile to go this night," said the man. I watched him go. He vanished into the darkness.

Back in the living room,  I looked at the assembled scraps of paper, envelopes, fliers, menus. There were words scribbled on each one, but I no longer knew where it all began, or where it ended. I picked up a fragment and read it, then another. Each part echoed the beauty of the whole, but an echo is an empty thing. I read compulsively, a scrap here, a scrap there. Now each day, I read over and over, trying to recapture the magic of that story as it was told. But I never will. I know. I never will.