A Bright Moon for Fools (14 page)

Judith was still at her wheel. “
Amore
!” she trilled as she saw him approach. “Oh,
amore
! What a wonderful day!” She stood up and gave him a kiss. He felt
her hand clasp his crotch. “And how’s Mr Willykins this morning?” Christmas looked out to the ocean. He needed a cocktail.

T
he days passed and life at Judith’s settled into a steady routine: Christmas drank. He read the available books. He avoided the sun. He kept
his passport hidden behind the wardrobe and the book of Montejo’s poetry always in his inside jacket pocket, hung up beside Digby’s old clothes that he was encouraged to borrow –
short-sleeved shirts, espadrilles, baggy Moroccan trousers.

With Judith in full song and his head being rattled off its shoulders neither he nor Mr Willykins were sure how much more they could take, but during the days she was either busy in the garden
or at the wheel. She refused to let him borrow the car, citing the drink in his hand, but despite being confined to the premises he could, for the first time in years, relax. No one knew where he
was, no bailiffs, no debtors, no Slade. He was safe here. His bruises were turning green.

Yet he had to get to Guiria, and for that he needed money. He tried to concentrate, to come up with a plan, but he just couldn’t get his mind straight. He felt tired in some deep, distant
way. His thoughts drifted from Emily to Lola Rosa, then Judith would appear smiling, asking if he was all right and he couldn’t help agreeing that he was. As long as the gin was going down he
could convince himself that she wasn’t another Diana, that he wasn’t preying on her affections, that pretending to be someone else was just a game, just a pause on reality while he
gathered his strength.

It was sunset, the moment when yellow turns to gold. Christmas sat on the viewing bench, hidden by a clump of
noni
trees at the edge of the lawn, reading Montejo.

“
Amore! Amore
!” Christmas let out a sigh. He hid the book under his leg. “Where are you?”

“Over here ...” Judith appeared. Christmas bared his teeth in a smile.

“There you are! And how’s my handsome writer this evening?”

“He is ... splendiferous.”

“Splendiferous!” she clapped her hands in delight. “And the writer’s block? Still a bit ... blocky?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Oh, don’t worry,
amore
. I am sure it’s all going to start flooding out any minute.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I’m going to make fish and mango curry tonight with some
picante
from the garden. Perhaps that will turn the old switch on.”

“
Ojala
...”

“Here,
amore
, I just read this article in Cosmo. And did you know—” she said, marvelling at the front cover, “—that apparently the latest fashion is to have
an ugly girlfriend?”

“What is it?”

“It’s the competition. Interview with Ethan Stone – the one that’s invented a new way of writing.”

“Really? Where does he stick the pen?”

“No, silly, a form – it’s called – it says here – ‘the disinterested narrator.’” Judith passed Christmas the opened magazine. A profound contempt
for the man and his entire generation swept over him.

“Ha!” laughed Christmas, “I really should shoot myself.”

“So the man just rang up about the internet.” Christmas stopped laughing. “Should be here in a few days, isn’t that wonderful? I can read all your interviews! Have you
done many?”

“Oh, you know ...”

“With some of those dashing author photos, the ones where they’re looking over their shoulders a bit, as if the photographer has just interrupted them while they were saying
something terribly important. Have you got some of those on the internet?”

“I don’t know if—”

“Oh, the internet! How
vital
! And all your reviews! I’m going to ferret away at you, Harry Strong!” she said, pinching her fingers together and raining ferret heads all
over him. “I’m going to find out all about you ...” She slowed down her attack, sat on his lap and began to kiss him.

The internet. Christmas had strong opinions on the internet predicated on hating all the people he had ever met who were enthusiastic about it. The internet was an electric Gulag, a network of
lonely children indulging in communities of self-surveillance. Particularly loathsome were the people of his generation who made out that it had changed their lives when all they were expressing
was the fear of being left out. If you want anonymous sex with strangers, join the navy. Everything else was available at the library. And in some libraries you could get that too. He refused to
welcome its terminology into the lexicon. ‘Going online’ was a suicide attempt; a ‘blog’ surely some kind of woodcutter’s privy. On top of it all here it was, the
robot supergrass, about to parachute into the jungle and blow his cover.

“
Amore
?” she said, stroking his hair, and nuzzling his ear.

“Yes, darling?”

“
Amore
, if I asked you to do something, a little favour, something that required you to do literally nothing, you wouldn’t refuse me, would you, darling?”

“I
s it really necessary to do this naked?” The following morning Christmas found himself without clothes, sitting on an uncomfortable
arrangement of stones and ordered into the pose of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’. He was in front of Judith’s pottery tent where she was working at reducing his sizeable bulk to a
foot-high figurine. She wore special half-moon glasses for this type of detailed work, her flowery dress protected by a clay-splattered apron.

“I said—”

“Sssh,
amore
, please. I’m trying to concentrate. I told you, I can’t do clothes yet. You’d come out looking like a Mr Man. Juan Carlos in Caracas insists I send
him figurines. ‘Figurines!’ he says, ‘Figurines!’”

At first he thought she wanted to model his penis. He was so relieved when she said his whole figure he immediately gave his assent.

“Any chance of letting the blood back into my legs?”

“Patience,
amore
, patience is a virtue.”

“Patience is a virtue I haven’t got time for. Oh God!”

“What is it
amore
– oh ...”

“The devil take you, woman! You said it was their day off!” The two gardeners were watching from a distance, swigging from a bottle of rum and laughing. Judith started to giggle.

“Hang on,
amore
, I’ll go and see what they want.”

“Well, Mona Lisa here wants a bloody drink. A bloody stiff bloody drink!”

Christmas extracted himself from his pedestal and put on a dressing gown. He flicked a V-sign at the gardeners. They waved back. He went over to look at what she’d done. He was horrified.
It looked just like him.
Am I really that fat
? he thought. He was frowning so much his face looked oriental; in fact the whole thing looked like a sumo wrestler with a Wild West moustache
failing to touch his own toes.

Christmas let out a deep huff of despair. He looked down to the cove below, down to where he had stood alone before dinner the previous night and witnessed carnage in the evening sky, a battle
of swarming souls, the heavens tormented with colour. When it had all turned into night, he had climbed the path back to the house, able only to pick out the shapes of the mountains – a
caravan of misshapen beasts – his hands feeling his way along tree bark with Emily somewhere beside him. He had entered the kitchen as if from another world. The sensation was still with
him.

“They just wanted to borrow some tools,
amore
. OK, you have a break. I’ll go and get you a drink. Can you hear—? Oh it’s the phone!” Judith hurried off. When
she came back she had nothing in her hand. She was sobbing.

“Oh my God, darling!” said Christmas as he stood up, “Have we run out?” Judith stood before him, her hands covering her mouth.

“It’s so awful ...”

“But there’s a little scotch, isn’t there? I’m sure I saw two bottles of scotch.”

“It’s not the ... it’s the – the—”

“What’s the matter? Judith, what is it?”

“My friend Fiona.”

“Fiona?”

“Fi’s had a stroke!”

A great wave of relief rushed through his system. “Your friend has had a stroke.”

“She’s going to be paralysed for life! Oh God!” Judith threw her hands around his neck.

“Poor thing,” said Christmas, “Makes you wonder where the phrase ‘stroke of luck’ comes from, doesn’t it? Perhaps if you get away with just a wonky
face.”

“What?”

“Come on, let’s sit you down.” He walked her along the edge of the lawn and over to the viewing bench.

“And the worst thing is her bloody daughter was only home for a couple of days and has buggered off to some party! The friend that rang is going over there right now. I mean can you
imagine it! A party! What an absolute bitch! Oh Harry, it’s too awful, it’s too awful!” Judith began to sob. Christmas wasn’t quite sure what to do. So he patted her
head.

“There, there ...”

“That poor woman, such a tough life ... and that bloody daughter ... I can’t believe it ...”

“Well, look, it is understandable, running off to some party to drown your sorrows.” Christmas noticed the increase in noise coming from Judith and decided to leave it there. He
adjusted his dressing gown and was about to suggest a restorative when the faint noise of the telephone started up from the house again.

“Fi!” cried Judith as she tore off to answer it. When she returned she seemed somewhat recovered.

“False alarm?”

“No, oh, Harry, that was my daughter Bridget. Great news,
amore
, she’s coming tomorrow!”

For the rest of the day, Judith chattered excitedly about Bridget. Even though it quickly began to annoy him, Christmas tried to keep her on that subject and away from the
unfortunate friend or any attempt to get him back on the stones. Bridget was modern. Bridget was
vital
. Bridget had done that, Bridget had won this – Christmas was full of loathing for
the achiever. He had a profound distrust of people who enjoyed honours from institutions as fake and as dedicated to anti-learning as schools. All he had ever won at school was a bet.

“Oh, I do hope Bridget meets a nice man,” she sighed. “All her boyfriends have been a bit ... drippy. They don’t stand up to her and she ends up pushing them around and
then she gets bored. That’s the main thing, don’t you think? Looks and everything have their place but the main thing is to find someone that doesn’t bore you.”

“Quite,” said Christmas, thinking about the time Emily got so cross with him she took the handbrake off and let his car roll into a river. “Quite,” he said again,
laughing down at his feet.

T
he following afternoon Christmas was drinking on the viewing bench, savouring the smell of jasmine, when voices reached him from the other side of
the
noni
trees.

“What is it, mummy?”

“My surprise, darling, my wonderful surprise!”

“Do you mind if I sit down for half a minute before you show me your latest clay penis?”

“It’s not ceramics, darling.”

“Orchid from the South Pole?”

“It’s not a flower ...”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s ...” The two women rounded the trees. Christmas stood up, gin in hand. “... a lover!” Bridget and Christmas took each other in. Bridget had a piercing little
face. She had crystal eyes, slender arms, almost no breasts and a beauty spot above her lips. She was extremely pretty, in a fierce, starved kind of way. Bridget’s conclusions about Christmas
were rather less favourable.

“And he’s famous!”

“How do you do,” she said flatly. They shook hands. His were sweaty.

“Harry, Bridget, Bridget, Harry. Oh this is exciting. Who wants a cup of tea?”

“I’ve just been in Brazil visiting a friend so I thought I’d drop up to see mummy.” All three were sat round a table in the shade of the house.

“How is Amy, darling?”

“I don’t know. She’s still in such a mess. It’s her birthday in a couple of weeks. I’ve got to send her a good present to cheer her up. What do you
think?”

“Something smelly? All girls like that.”

“I know, I know, but it’s not very original is it? Not very surprising.”

“Surprising ... smelly ...” offered Christmas, “Stink bombs?”

“Thanks, Harry. Very useful. Anyway you can’t buy stink bombs any more. Not in England anyway.”

“What?”

“Most borough councils have banned them.”

“Banned them?”

“Because they stink. Itching powder, stink bombs, the lot.” Christmas sank back in his chair, absorbing yet another jab-cross combination from The Rot.

“Itching powder ...?”

“It’s abusive.” Christmas looked to the sky.

“Anyway,” Bridget continued, “she’s doing far too much yoga. She’s starting to look like a boy.”

“I knew a woman once,” said Christmas, coming back to earth, “who did so much yoga she could put her trousers on with her feet.”

“But darling, is she really not feeling any better?”

“A bit. I mean I think she’s got to the stage where she’s treating the whole thing like some horrible dream.”

“Terrible story. Why don’t you fill Harry in while I get the ginger cake?” Judith went into the house.

“It’s nothing really,” started Bridget, feeling uneasy in Christmas’ company. “Just my friend Amy got married and the whole thing was a disaster. Turned out he was
a nasty piece of work so she divorced him after five months and ran away to Brazil. I think she just can’t quite believe she made such a bad judgement of character.”

“And is she pretty?”

“Amy?”