A Bright Moon for Fools (21 page)

“Now where is he?” said Slade

“Look, dickhead, can’t you see she’s upset?” snapped Bridget. “Fuck’s sake!” Bridget pulled her mother to her feet. “Come on, Mummy, let’s
get you upstairs, let’s lie down, come on, shush, it’s going to be OK, shhh ...”

He watched Bridget guide her mother up the stairs. He could see her ribs moving beneath her skin. They went into Judith’s bedroom and shut the door. After a moment, Bridget reappeared at
the top of the stairs. She hovered, swore, and then trotted down.

“So he’s like a professional? A professional conman? This is, like, what he does? All the time?”

“When did you see him last?”

“This afternoon, in Rio Caribe. He just ... disappeared.”

“He hasn’t been back?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“Do I know where he was planning to go once he’d conned us, ruined my mother’s life and stolen my wallet? No, funnily enough, I do not – excuse me ...” She went
past him into the kitchen. “How did you know he was here?” Slade didn’t reply. “Jesus ...” Bridget was rifling through kitchen drawers. “Where are those pills? I
mean what a – a bastard ... God, I feel sick—” She stopped. Slade was examining her.

“What are you—” Slade moved towards her.

She backed up against the cupboards.

“Hey, what—” Slade grabbed her face with one hand, squeezing her cheeks together, trapping the noise. With his other hand he grabbed her hair, yanking back her neck, and pushed
her against the sink.

“Call me a
dickhead
?” He took her throat, choking her. “Friend of yours, is he?” Bridget could only see over his shoulder. She would never forget what she saw
there: a dark window filled with insects.

“Bridget?” Judith called from upstairs, “Where are you?” He spun her round and pushed her head down into the sink, crushing it against the metal, gripping her neck. With
his other hand he searched between her legs and ripped down her bikini bottoms. She was struggling, bucking, trying to scream, but when he got his penis out and forced it into her she froze.

He raped her, squeezing at her body, smothering her face, while her mother called out her name and The General stared in through the window.

When he’d come in her, he threw her onto the floor. He thought she looked like a fish, eyes wide, gaping for breath.

He pulled up his jeans and went into the courtyard.

He left the house. The crickets were loud. The forest was vibrating.

He got into his car and was about to start the engine when a jeep came up the drive. He pulled the knife out of the headrest. He stayed in the dark until the new arrivals had got out, chatting
and clutching bottles of rum. When he was sure Christmas wasn’t among them he put the knife down. He switched on his headlights. They turned round. Slade drove away.

C
hristmas’ elation at having escaped Slade was short-lived. As the old couple drove him through the night, he lapsed into confusion and
regret. Nothing made sense. How had that maniac found him? Was he some kind of expert? A tracker? A detective? No, he was a thug. What was it then? Luck? Just plain old rotten luck? Now that
Christmas could believe in. Sod’s law. The exact opposite of what you wanted materialising in front of your face every bloody time. His quarry having disappeared, Slade decides to go to the
beach –
What’s the nicest bit of beach?
he asks someone –
Sucre
, they say,
the Paria Peninsula, Rio Caribe, it’s where Columbus went blah blah blah
and
– bingo – there’s old Christmas, right bang slap in the middle of the street. Yes, that was the kind of luck he was used to.

And what of Judith? It was the old girl’s birthday party, for God’s sake. He’d ruined that for her. She’d be worried sick until she realised he’d legged it and then
she’d be devastated. Well, it was better than leading William Slade to their door. And Bridget? She’d always think he nicked her wallet on purpose. Christmas let out a profound sigh.
There was no helping it. He couldn’t go back now. They’d figure out he wasn’t Harry Strong sooner or later and then they’d both hate him anyway, so what difference did it
make? He deserved to be hated. He was breaking Judith’s heart. Yes, she was a bit bats, but she was a game old bird really, a game old thing when all was said and done ...

They drove through Rio Caribe, then took the road south towards Yaguaraparo and Guiria. Christmas tried to reassure himself. If it was luck then – just a case of one-in-a-million, bad
bloody luck – then surely it could not happen again. This random car, taking him somewhere only he and Emily knew about – how could Slade possibly follow him there?

A mile before Chacaracuar, the old couple let him out at a posada. Breathing against his pains, he eased himself out of the car, thanking them over and over. Holding his ribs and shoulder, he
watched their car disappear and walked up a short drive of rhododendrons and into Hacienda Macuro. The man at the reception desk asked for his passport. Christmas gripped his trouser pockets, then
his jacket. His passport. It was hidden behind the wardrobe in Judith’s bedroom.

Biting down on a curse, Christmas recited his passport number. The man seemed satisfied, logging it in his guest book while Christmas stood there, furious. His passport was still at
Judith’s. The man asked for payment, 150 bolívares. Christmas opened the wallet. There were Judith and Bridget, their arms round each other.

Christmas was led up green wooden stairs that he took one step at a time, the man offering help. Christmas waved him on, the pain in his ribs and shoulder jabbing at his temper. They went along
a green wooden balustrade to one of the green wooden doors, overlooking a courtyard and a pool ringed with plants. The man opened the door and turned on the light. Christmas turned off the light
and shut it again. He had more pressing business.

Next to reception, the green wooden bar was full of murmuring people and the plucking of a four-stringed
quarto
on the radio. A woman behind the bar wiped down the cutlery, dropping it
into a tray. It was a tall room with lights covered in ribbons hanging from the roof. Painted driftwood, ceramic animals, flags and rattan baskets all climbed the walls. Christmas stood in the
doorway and eyed the rows of spirits. Beethoven’s head kept watch above them; electric lights in his eyes simulating fiery talent. He ordered a bottle of Cacique and inspected the
patrons.

There was a table of shaggy-haired Germans. They ate at a table while consigning their Venezuelan guide to eat at the bar. This man and Christmas exchanged a nod – in agreement, Christmas
assumed, about the turpitude of his party. In another corner there was a family from Caracas, Spanish-looking and fashionable, while next to him an American couple in their thirties were fondling
each other’s noses. The man was squarely-built, the woman blonde.

Christmas sat down. He took out the wallet. He looked at the photograph of Judith and Bridget. He put the wallet away. The American woman caught his eye.

“Hi there!” she said, “Just got into town?”

“Correct,” he said.

“British?”

“That’s two out of two so far.”

“On your own?” Christmas was outraged by the question.
Yes, I am on my own, the devil take you! What of it
?

“You can come and join us if you want to,” she nodded to her boyfriend, who also began to nod, though rather more slowly. Christmas was flabbergasted. Was there no limit to their
effrontery?

“You are inviting me to join you at your table.”

“That’s right.” Christmas didn’t move. Strange moments passed as he assembled his poisoned, angry energies. Then, barking an impatient “Rum!” towards the bar,
he rose, straining and grunting and grating the table against the floor as he launched himself into their world.

“Chris,” he smiled, “Akabusi.”

“Linda Craven, and this is Steven.”

“Steven Da—”

“I said ‘rum’!” Christmas interrupted, sending the order sideways through his face without turning round.

“Hey,” laughed the man awkwardly, “take it easy, buddy.” Christmas widened an eye.

“Are you a doctor of medicine?”

“Me?”

Christmas didn’t reply. He was noting the man’s T-shirt. It said ‘Bethesda, Maryland’.

“Soooo,” said the woman brightly, trying to reclaim the moment, “you here on vacation?”

“No.”

“You work here?”

“No.”

“You live—?”

“No. I am an inventor,” he said bitterly. He couldn’t even be bothered to lie well. “I have come here ...” A bottle of rum and three glasses arrived on the table
“... to invent.” He opened the bottle. “You?”

“No thanks, not for—”

“Splendid.”

“So – I’m sorry – you’re here to invent something?”

Christmas paid no attention. He splashed his glass full and took a long draw on it, squeezing his eyes closed as all of his senses left their posts to join hands and dance in the sweet golden
ford that now brooked his tongue. “The humidity,” he gasped, “helps me think. Keeps the mind sticky; the synapses, you understand, more ... adhesive.”

“Really? Well, isn’t that interesting.”

“What have you invented?” said the man, who was finding the whole situation rather less interesting than his girlfriend.

“I dunno. The self-cleaning teeth? Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard about those – and the chair that acts like a table.”

“You invented stools?”

“Condoms for dogs!” Christmas toasted himself. “That was the big one, but I suffered terrible reprisals at the hands of the animal liberation front, Catholic wing. They hounded
me out of the country,” Christmas held up the moment with his eyebrows.

“Hounded,” said the man.

“So I moved to Ruritania where I became famous for – shall we say – my psychic speed-reading events.”

“Speed-reading?”

“I’m at a table, they’re in a queue: ‘Teacher – sock fetish – mother died of boredom. Next!’ It was so successful they gave me my own television
programme, from which I had a string of hits culminating in the ratings-buster ‘Is Your Daughter A Virgin?’ where parents stood to earn ten thousand Ruritanian yen if they guessed
correctly. Extra bonuses depending on how accurately they guessed the sexual acts she had accomplished. Lie detectors. Crying. All the usual humiliation. Great success. Unfortunately some parents
took the avalanche of information rather badly and one poor girl was shot. End of commission. But what do you do? You move on. Then I became head of the Texas Communist Party. I know what
you’re thinking: you’re thinking, but he’s British, and that shows just how bad things are down there. Then I became a dentist, just like my father, only rather better than him as
I was only drunk in the afternoons.” Christmas stopped abruptly. There was an uncomfortable silence. “I say,” he said, pouring another rum, “would you permit me a modicum of
unwarranted levity?”

“I’m sorry?”

Christmas laughed in their faces. It was a coarse, false laugh, of the kind one might make on learning that one’s worst enemy has contracted a venereal disease. They were stunned.
“Do you know,” he said, “the thing I’ve noticed about you Americans is that you’re rather young in the eye. It’s as if the reincarnation department had to
release a whole raft of first generation souls just to fulfil your rapacious expansion. What’s it like living over there? I mean, really? Sleepwalking through hell?”

“OK, buddy, now you wait there just a minute—” Christmas eyed the man’s T-shirt while draining his glass.

“You know, I think I’ve just realised what the real difference is between our two nations.”

“I think you’d better stop right there—”

“English idiots wear T-shirts of where they’ve been. American idiots wear T-shirts of where they’re from.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?”

Christmas poured another drink while the man came to his own conclusion. “Now here’s an important question,” Christmas looked straight at the woman: “Would you like to
have sex?” The man grabbed Christmas by the lapels.

“I meant with each other—”

“You watch your goddamn mouth!”

“It’s a little bit too close to the nose for that.”

“Asshole!”

“The word,” he said, “is
arse-
hole.”

“You’re goddamned lucky I’m on vacation,” snarled the man, leaning further into Christmas’ face, “or I would rip your fucking neck off, you hear me,
asshole?”

“
Arse
-hole! I’m an arsehole, the devil take you!”

The man released Christmas in disgust.

“Come on, honey,” said the woman, standing up. “Let’s go.”

“Is he honey?” smiled Christmas, “looks more like a bit of a jam to me.”

“You’ve been warned, pal!” spat the man, stabbing the air with his finger. Christmas watched them storm out of the bar and upstairs to their room. At the top of the stairs, the
woman turned round to give him a look. This convinced Christmas she was secretly attracted to him. He toasted their backs. Then he turned to the rest of the room, silenced and agape, and toasted
them too.

“We closed,” announced the woman behind the bar, looking straight at him.

Christmas went to his room with the rest of the bottle. He sat on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down. Then he sat up again. He opened the wallet and looked at the
photograph. He turned on the television. Numbers whizzed and flew, financial data ticker-taping at different speeds.
Why were they always showing this rubbish
? he thought, sliding once more
down the flume of rum into the comfortable baths of complaint: The Rot. Those digits were meaningless code, unless you were a professional financier, in which case it was available on your computer
screen at work. Why all these channels of the stuff? Why the updates after every news programme, the insistence, the ubiquity? Christmas was certain that the answer lay in its unintelligibility: it
was something people didn’t understand, something else to make them feel there was a vast world of inscrutable mystery run by people cleverer than they, so it was best just to shut up and toe
the line.