A Bright Moon for Fools (32 page)

“Get off me, woman! This is a mistake, will you just let me—”

“Get out of my house!
Hijo de puta
! Out!” She shoved him through the house, sending the tortoise spinning off into a corner, out into the group of silenced friends, past the
man, to the dark edge of the
cambur
, shouting and struggling all the way.

“Go, gringo, enough!
Hijo de puta
!”

“Will you shut up and listen!”

“Go! Get away from me!”

“But—”

“Go!” She picked up an axe handle.

“Bleurrgh,” said Christmas finally, and off he maundered into the village, swearing and shaking his head.

“U
N-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!” Christmas shouted up at the night and then sat down on a tree stump in despair. Men wandered about gripping
bottles of Cacique,
Vallenato
music blaring from every house. People tried to talk to him but he waved them away. He walked down to the sea. He walked into the boatyard, lay down in the hull
of an unfinished boat and thought about his life. He got up and walked to the end of the jetty. He sat down on the jetty for a while. He got up and walked towards the village. He walked past the
library. The door was open. It was a small room being cleaned by two women. There was a hole in the roof and the books were being taken from the shelves and piled up on the floor. Some were rotten,
others curtseying from the damp.

Christmas wandered through into the
infocentro
. This room was pristine and air-conditioned, with rows of white computers. Christmas nodded at the people he recognised and sat down at an
available screen. He typed ‘Harry Strong’ into Google. Up came a list of reviews for
When the Naa Tree Sings
and
Peabody’s Boat
. He clicked on a thumbnail. The real
Harry Strong looked like a celebrity plastic surgeon. He had a long, tanned face and floppy, perfect hair. Then he typed in ‘What am I going to do?’ The search engine referred him to an
article subdivided into headings: ‘What does success mean to me?’ ‘What are my non-negotiable needs?’ and ‘What are my non-negotiable boundaries?’

Outside, Christmas sought somewhere to lie down. He found a section of quayside wall hidden behind a tree. He filled his nose with the soft vegetable smell of the sea and closed his eyes to its
lapping. The wall was only just wide enough. He crossed his ankles.
I could turn round and fall in
, he thought,
just roll off and away
.

“Gringo!” Lola Rosa was standing by his feet. She had some of the food he had bought, including the last bottle of rum, and his jacket. Christmas sat up. Lola dumped everything onto
the ground, eyes wide with anger. “This is all your things. I don’t want them in my house! Now you can leave San Cristóbal! Now you can go!” Christmas said nothing. He was
the most tired he’d ever felt. He picked up the rum and thought
fuck it
. He opened the bottle.

“Huh!” snorted Lola and off she stormed into the darkness. Christmas took a long deep swig. He gasped, wiping his mouth. “
Verga
!” he cursed. Then he ran after
her.

“Now listen here!” he said, grabbing Lola by the arm and swinging her round. She raised her hand to hit him.

“Let go of me, gringo!”

“If you listen! Jesus Christ, woman! You’ve done all the talking and all the shouting as per usual but now it’s my turn so will you just listen? I never asked to come here. It
was a mistake, OK? I just ended up here and you were here and that was a great bloody surprise and you and your father took me in and looked after me and I am very, very,
very
grateful for
that. I was sticking around just until I could make a contribution and I know you didn’t want me here and I’ve tried to do my bit while I sorted myself out – in a small way, I
know – but I’ve tried. And don’t worry, don’t you worry – you will never have to see me again, OK? And, as that’s the case, I’ll tell you this, and damn
you, woman, you better listen because it’s the last thing you will ever hear me say, but I just wanted you to know that – that—”

“That what?”

“That ...” he looked at the rum bottle “... that when I finally had one bloody bolívar in my pocket, all I wanted to do was buy something for you; all I wanted to do was
give you something,” and he shoved the bottle at her like a dare, “and the truth is, in the kitchen just then, I thought we were going to, you know – but – but I
didn’t and I don’t know why, but – OK – I’m a
coward
, that’s why – and so I went outside feeling bloody awful and I asked your father for a
cigarette because I felt so bloody stupid and he gave me one with crack in it and I had no idea, OK? No idea at all. So you’re kicking me out and that’s fine. I know I have been hanging
around like a fat old baboon and well, I deserve it, in general that is, but though you are absolutely right about me – I
am
an
hijo de puta
– you are wrong about that,
OK? You are not right about that. I didn’t know. You ask him. That’s the fucking truth!” Lola yanked free her arm. “One drink, we’ll say goodbye, that’s it.
I’m leaving.” He shoved the bottle at her again. She snatched it, took a swig and shoved it back. “I’m telling the truth. I did not know that cigarette had crack it
it,” he repeated, taking a swig, returning the rum. She drank again, thrust it back. So it went on for several exchanges.

“It’s the truth,” he said again, towards the end of the bottle.

“OK,” said Lola, gasping and wiping her chin. “I believe you.”

“And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I—” They heard shouts a little way off. Lola started walking towards them. Christmas finished the bottle, left it on the wall, picked up his jacket and followed her into a
stampede running back towards the jetty.

The sound system for the fiesta had arrived. Lola and Harry were borne along by the crowd, the boat coming out of the night as if carrying a slain giant, a great form wrapped in plastic. The
crowd leant over the quayside. Lola put a hand on his shoulder so she could see better. Once the engines were cut and the boat was pulled into position, the plastic was pulled back and men lifted
boxes of wires and speakers onto their shoulders, through the water and onto the back of a pick-up truck. By the time the boat was empty, the Cacique had taken effect: Harry and Lola were
plastered.

They meandered towards home up and then off the main streets, into the narrow pathways and the dark. Lola walked in front. He reached out and touched her fingers. She did not flinch but stopped
and turned round. They were facing each other. There were crickets and moon shadow and the spinning mischief of the earth.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Stupid,” she said, “Well. Yes.”

He kissed her. She was full in his arms. They went back to the house, stopping and kissing all the way. She led him into her room and they made fierce, sweltering love. He was astonished
throughout. They fell asleep. She started snoring.

I
t was an ugly music. Trolls in angry congress. Someone trying to drive pigs over a bridge. Christmas tried whispering, talking, shouting, rolling
her over. Nothing worked for long. He woke up with his arm on her face, his finger and thumb resting either side of her nose ready for the pinch. It was early, the disco already booming
Vallenato
across the village. Even though it was a ten-minute walk to the Plaza Bolivar from Lola’s house the music arrived loud and clear through the wall: “
Que se acabe la
plata / pero que goce yo / que se acabe el dinero/ pero mi vida no
...”

Christmas got up and walked into the kitchen. There was a man sparked out on his bed in the front room. The man woke up, looked about him, said “
Verrrrrga
...” and then
wandered out the door. The old man was asleep in a chair on the porch. Christmas inhaled. The morning burst across his soul. He released a bottle of Cacique from the old man’s fingers and
battled his hangover, fire with fire.

Harry, in the most tremendous of moods, spent the day with Lola drinking, eating and making love. The streets smelt of barbeque and marijuana. The disco never stopped. As
afternoons became evening, crowds moved onto the plaza, couples in flip-flops dancing almost motionless salsa, then soca, then
Vallenato
, then calypso.

Everyone knew what had happened between Lola and Harry. They had to field nudges, slaps on the back, winks, jiggling eyebrows and even outright applause. The ‘
Epalé
!’
count broke all previous records. The camp bed was put away. Aldo affected indifference. The old man was overjoyed.

On a trip back to the house, Christmas came across him sitting with a couple of ancient comrades underneath a
neem
tree. Both these men were without teeth. One wore a red T-shirt
‘
Con Chávez Podemos
!’ and the other a battered Arsenal top. He could tell by their deranged sparkly faces that they were also geriatric crackheads.

“
Epalé
! Here he is!
Verga
– my gringo son-in-law! Now you can call me Papa!”

“No thanks.”

“So now you are –” the old man made a circle with one hand and an obscene gesture with his finger, “– you don’t tell her about our agreement, OK? What are
they saying, your bank? You get money after the festival?”

“After the festival. Exactly.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Very good! Very good!”

The festivities rolled on. They went to another beach with a group of Lola’s friends, waking early and making love before opening their eyes. They walked down to the
jetty holding hands, pink popcorn clouds exploding in the dawn sky. They climbed into the boat full of people and supplies, the waves black beneath the sun, scudding past cliffs sunk to their brows
in jungle, cloud-cast shadow moving in slow fleet across the mountains. They found a beach fringed by palm trees and grass, unloaded their picnic and drank cold beers, splashing and pushing each
other in the water.

Christmas, lying in the shade, watched Lola in her swimming costume trot into the waves.
What a wobbly bottom
, he thought,
I love that wobbly bottom
. Yet there was something too
bright in the sunlight, a film of unreality over everything. He couldn’t accept it. He didn’t deserve it.

Then she was again beside him on the towel; wet, black, covered in sea-diamonds. One of the men came over from the icebox and handed them new beers. Lola twisted the cap off and closed her eyes
against the cold on her tongue.

“By the way,” she said, “you don’t have to use the outside toilet any more. You can come inside.”

“Oh, thank you, your majesty. Permission to—” he grabbed her as she squealed, rolling in the sand, cheers ringing out from the rest of their party, fallen beer turning to
slugs. They stayed all day, grilling fish on the fire and waiting for sunset. When it came, they sang songs. They drank Cacique and lay beneath the darkening sky. On the way back the shoreline
glittered with fireflies.

As they rounded the headland, they heard the disco resounding across the bay, a soca version of ‘Hotel California’. Christmas held Lola to his chest.

“Where do your eyes come from? Did your mother have green eyes?”

“No. Maybe the Indian side. Or maybe my great-grandfather.”

“Who was he?”

“He was French.”

“French!”

“Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“
Vive La France
!” cheered Christmas, before breaking into ‘La Marseillaise’ as the boat bounced across the waves and a triumphant ocean spat in his face.

On Friday the
Vallenato
band from Colombia arrived. The women of the village seemed very excited by the presence of its tubby young singer and, once again Lola’s
house became a beauty parlour. Aldo had finished tattooing the pig, and he brought it out of the sty to be admired. Christmas was in the front room. Lola and a friend were holding up a hand mirror
and insulting him.

“Rubbish!” he said, smoothing down his kelp. “I’ve got a fine head of hair.” It looked as if someone had dumped a child’s wig on him the wrong way round.

“Then what about we cut your moustache – chop – or your eyebrows, baby, mnnn? They look like rats. If we don’t cut them maybe they are going to shit in your
eyes.”

“Keep your blades away from my locks—” There was a crack from the other side of the room. The wall socket, overloaded with plugs, burst into flames and fizzled with electrical
charge. The women leapt back. Christmas grabbed a broom handle and attempted to knock the socket off the wall. The plugs fell but it refused to budge. The flames rose higher. He pushed past the
children who had run in when others ran out, looking outside to see where the wire left the building and looped through the trees to a small pylon. When he went back inside he saw Aldo about to
stab into the socket with a carving knife. “No!” he bellowed, lunging through the crowd and snatching at his wrist just before the blade made contact. Christmas grabbed a chair, took it
outside and stood on it, stretching for the cable first with his fingers, then, once in his hand, yanking it free of the mains supply. He could hear the crackle of electricity stop instantly. He
went back inside.

Lola was holding Aldo in one hand and the knife in the other, her face a blend of terror and relief. “You don’t stick something metal into a socket,” Christmas told the boy,
“or you will turn into a hotdog.”

“You saved his life,” Lola whispered. She had tears in her eyes. She covered Aldo in kisses. “He could have died.”

“Well,” replied Christmas, savouring his new hero status, “I have had some experience with electrics.” Lola pulled Christmas towards her, embracing him with her son,
muttering a prayer before taking off the gold chain she was wearing. She put it around Christmas’ neck.

“Wait, no – no, Lola.”

“You saved my son’s life.”

“This is ridiculous, I only—”

“You saved his life. Keep it.”

“No, Lola, this is gold—”