A Bright Moon for Fools (29 page)

“Always corruption!” said Lola picking her T-shirt off her belly. “Now we’re teaching the children something different, but my generation is used to another mentality:
you want something done, you pay for it. They criticize Chávez for wanting to stay longer as president, but these problems take a generation to solve. Maybe two.”

“So,” ventured Christmas, passing the old man a lighter for his cigarette, “everyone in San Cristóbal supports Chávez?”

“She loves Chávez,” he replied. “She is one hundred per cent
chávista
.”

“Chávez is a great man! For one hundred years Venezuela was ruled by thieves who cared nothing for the people, who robbed the people, so the people were poor. Now, with
Chávez, poverty is twenty per cent less.” She bent back the points on her fingers. “Now, with Chávez, we have education. He built our school here in San Cristóbal.
He built the
infocentro
so we have computers and we can educate ourselves about the world. He started
Misión Ribas
to teach reading and writing, especially to the indigenous
people who did not have the schools before. He started
Misión Robinson
for the adults who never had the opportunity to get a high-school degree. He has changed what we teach to the
children. They used to teach us your history, European history, but we didn’t know about our own history. They taught us about the Christian martyrs in Rome, but we didn’t know about
the history of the indigenous people, of black people. Chávez has changed all that.

“Before Chávez almost half of the people didn’t have clean drinking water. Now almost everyone does. He start
Misión Barrio Dentro
for when the people are sick
– twenty thousand doctors in poor communities. There used to be one hospital miles away; now there are three places in this area where the people can get treatment for free. And you!”
she pouted towards the old man, “When are you going to let them take a look at you?”

“Bleurrgh.”

“Did you know that Chávez came here, to San Cristóbal?” Lola shifted to the edge of her seat, “and he came on his own! Driving a jeep, like one of us. The people
were looking and they say, ‘
Verga
! It’s Chávez!’ And everyone ran out and they see – look, it’s Chávez. Like this he came to our village. Not
hanging by his foot and covered in vomit.” Christmas bared his teeth at her with a smile. “Before Chávez all the big companies, the electricity, the petrol, the cement, the phone
– they were all were owned by foreigners and they took all the money out of Venezuela. Chávez took them back for us. He is freeing the people, like Bolívar before
him.”

“He’s not afraid of the gringos,” smiled the old man, smoke curling out from behind his gold teeth.

“Are you
chávista
too?” Christmas asked him.

“Well, I used to be, yes of course, but now I listen to him, the state must own all the companies, the state must own all the land and I think ‘Bleurrgh. He is just another man who
wants to be in charge of everything.’”

“You are a stupid old man! The state must be strong to fight against the international companies. What about you, Harry? Are you for Chávez?” Lola was glaring.

“Well ... anything that helps people out of poverty or gives them more freedom, I’m for, but I’m not
for
anyone. I don’t think its people’s job to be
for
leaders. It’s the people’s job to criticize, and—”

“Typical!” she snorted with disgust. “Latinos are for everyone. Gringos are always for themselves.”

“That’s not what—”

“Why don’t you make a movie about Chávez? So people can learn the truth.”

“Me?”

“You are a movie producer, no?” It was what he had told her when they first met. Now he could admit he was lying. Now he could admit that he’d just said it to impress her.

“Documentaries aren’t my genre.”

“What about a movie about an old crack addict? Killing himself! In front of his family!”

“All my life I worked,” exclaimed the old man, one finger raised, “now I can do what I want!
”
His nose was running. A shouting match ensued. Then a news item
appeared about Iraq – scenes of wreckage after a suicide bomber blew himself up in a queue of police recruits.

“May Christ help them,” said Aldo.

“They’re Muslims,” said Christmas, “Christ is the last person they want to see.” Aldo knelt in front of the television and began praying. “May the love of
Christ help them to stop this violence.”

“
Verga
!” shouted the old man, throwing the cigarette packet at his head. “Get out of the way, boy!”

“May the love of Christ help Grandpa,” he continued, “and the gringo.”

“What’s wrong with us?”

“You are wicked men.”

“Lucky for you,” said Christmas.

“For me?”

“Where’s Christ without the wicked men? Without us he’d be a nobody.” Tanks rolled across a wall and into someone’s front room.

“Don’t tease my son. Aldo is right,” Lola puffed, “This violence ... they will not win their war with violence. Wars are not won with violence.”

“I am afraid they are,” said Christmas. He wanted to keep quiet, but could not. “We won the Second World War with violence. Quite a lot of it, actually.”

“You won that war because the Americans helped you. You won it with friendship.”

“Yes, but they helped us win it by dropping a great big bomb on the Japanese. Which was pretty violent.”

“Men!” she cried, “
Verga!
Always you want to make everything about fighting!” Christmas looked at her father. A weary look advised silence. Then the old man
started coughing.

“We must persuade,” said Aldo, “with faith and reason, just as the Christian martyrs converted the pagan Roman emperors, with the force of good deeds and God’s
love.”

“And horse racing,” said Christmas.

“‘Horse racing’?”

“There was this early Christian saint called Hilarion, lived out in the desert, did a lot of miracles, cured a lot of illnesses – that sort of thing. Anyway, a Christian racehorse
owner in Gaza asked him to bless his horses because there was a rival pagan who was winning all the races with the help of a sorcerer. Hilarion blessed the horses and the next race they won, and
they kept on winning, and this so impressed the crowd that they all started converting.”

“You see!” the old man shouted, lifting himself onto his elbows, “I am no sinner!”

“Shut up! And you!” Lola turned to Christmas, “You would be a different person if you really were as intelligent as you think you are.” Christmas didn’t understand
what she had just said. He filed it away for postponed consideration. Lola left the room.

“Hey, don’t worry,” said the old man, “she’s like that all the time. What does she know? She’s just a woman. But we are men! Can you lend me five
dollars?”

“I don’t have any money.”

The old man took a deep drag of his cigarette and wiped his nose with his fingers.

“But your money is coming soon, right? To the bank in Guiria?” It was what he had told him when they first met. Now he could admit he was lying. Now he could admit he was just
embarrassed by his circumstances.

“Yes.”

“When do you think it will get here? Before the festival?”

“I hope so.”

The old man lowered his voice. “Then you can help me, OK? Like I helped you. Lola didn’t want you here, you know.”

“I know.”

“It was me that said, ‘Cut him down from that tree and bring him to my house. He is our friend.’”

“I know, and I am very—”

“So you can help—” Lola came back in the room and the old man stopped talking. He gave Christmas a wink and then pouted at his daughter behind her back. “Anyway today is
a special day. Today is God’s day,” he started up again in a loud voice. Aldo turned round from the television screen, scowling. “And gringo man, I need your help.”

“With church?”

“
Verga
!” cursed the old man. “Don’t be stupid! With the cockfight.”

U
nder an avuncular
saman
tree dripping with Spanish moss, the cockpit was a circular wooden fence surrounded by benches. At the weekend the
villagers brought their roosters down to square off against each other and, if the conditions were mutually agreed on, to fight. What these conditions were, Christmas never found out. Young men
wandered round shouting at each other. Eventually there was calm, two chickens were chucked in the middle and the shouting started again. Betting was done on a double-or-quits basis only.

While the old man spat, swore and haggled until he got himself a contest, Christmas held the chicken under his arm. Others swooped their birds close to test its reaction. They squawked and
fluttered and provoked an urgent memory of Slade running at him with a knife. Running down back alleys in Rio Caribe. Being trapped in that bus – Christmas tried to push those thoughts away.
What was he going to do about his passport that was still at Judith’s? And why wasn’t he busy trying to find a good place for Emily, for Montejo? Something was stopping him? What was
it?

He saw Aldo ignore him and file into the evangelical meeting room across the street.

“What’s the matter with Aldo?”

“They complain about the noise when they are trying to sing. We complain about the singing when we are trying to shout. They only built that place a few years ago. This cockpit has been
here since before I was me!”

Organ music piped up from the evangelicals as the first two cocks were dropped into the circle. Their legs and bodies were shaved. Their spurs were supported by tape wrapped around the legs. A
man with a cowboy hat and a seedy moustache spat water over each animal to cool them down. Then, as the crowd raved and hooted, they pecked each other to death.

The whole thing lasted five minutes. Eventually one was left, hopping about its opponent on the ground and jabbing it in the head with its beak. The one on the ground stopped moving. Half the
crowd erupted. The old man had won some money and he shook his cane in the air while others ran round the ring, high-fiving and embracing each other. The evangelicals sang on.

Christmas, still holding the old man’s bird under his arm and rather tired of being barged about by this rowdy mob, tried to translate the event into future profit. He needed to make some
money. Could he get his own chicken and feed it some of the old man’s crack? Or coffee – perhaps he could feed it coffee? How long did chickens take to grow in any case? Ideally he
would need one that went from egg to warrior in about a week. Betting was a way forward perhaps. But to bet, he needed money.

The old man pushed through to Christmas and took the cock, whispering encouragements as he passed it on to the man in the cowboy hat to have its spurs taped. Christmas wandered around the crowd
as they waited. He looked across at the evangelicals. Theirs was a simple room. A man with a microphone was talking to the congregation as they sang, rows of different coloured plastic chairs
facing an electric organist and an arrangement of flowers. The women covered their heads with scarves. “
Dios esta aquí
,” they sang, “
tan cierto come el aire que
respiro
”. They got to their feet, applauding, swaying, crying ‘Hallelujah’.

“Hey,” someone nudged him, “your girlfriend.” Lola was walking down the street with a group of friends. Her head was covered with a scarf. She was coming to join her son.
Could he be making a grievous
faux-pas
by being with the cockfighters? Panicked by this thought he skipped over the road and into the church, stepping next to Aldo who looked at him with
surprise and then enormous pleasure. Christmas mumbled along to the words, “
Lo puedo ver en el hermano que tengo a mi lado / lo puedo sentir en el fondo de mi corazón
...”
planning out the casualness with which he would greet Lola when their eyes met. He even started to sway. “Hallelujah!” he shouted, joining in with the throng, “
Gracias a
Dios
!” Suddenly Christmas was on his knees. There were tears in his eyes.

“Have you felt it?” said Aldo, grabbing Christmas by the shoulder. “Have you felt the love of Jesus Christ?”

“I felt the love of that woman’s elbow,” he grouched, “when she decided to embrace the Holy Ghost.” Bleary-eyed, Christmas got to his feet to see Lola outside.
Standing in the shade of the
saman
tree, she took the scarf off her head and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she went into the cockfight. What was she up to? Was she about to admonish
the old man? No, goddamit – she was placing a bet. Christmas made to leave, but some more worshippers had filled up the aisle and were in such rapture that it was impossible to get past. He
heard the shouts of the fight starting up. The congregation increased their volume in response. Then they joined hands, trapping Christmas in a fleshy chain as he strained his neck to see the
cockfight crowd cramming in around the action. Barely a minute had passed when a roar went up. Christmas was determined to see what was going on, but the congregation were now hugging each other;
at every step forward he was clutched to the breast of another Christian. When he got to the door, there was Lola.

She had been watching him pull faces at each embrace as if they were flavours of vinegar. She was laughing so hard she had to bend over and rest on her knees.

“What you doing in there, gringo?”

“I ...”

“
Verga! Eres un corrupto
! Too late for you! Here –” she said wiping her eyes and recovering, “somebody gave this to me. It’s yours, right?” She had
Bridget’s wallet. It must have fallen out when he was hanging upside down from the tree.

“Yes,” said Harry, regretting his reply as he watched her open it.

“So this is your wife?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. She was examining the photograph of Judith and Bridget.

“You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”

“That’s ... my niece. Her niece. That was my wife’s favourite niece.” Lola handed it to him.

“She was skinny, your wife,” she said. “Like a stick,” and then she walked off into the people collecting their winnings. The crowd fading away from the cockpit revealed
the old man leaning over the wall, hugging and kissing his chicken as the dead one was picked up by its neck.