A Bright Moon for Fools (5 page)

He was disappointed with the coffee – far too bitter – but he drank a vaseful anyway, beckoning refill after refill until he could feel it hot-wiring his subterranean ignitions.
Christmas decided to explore the hotel. He walked its corridors and discovered restaurants. He went into the business centre. He found conference rooms being prepared and came out into a shopping
arcade. From a walkway he saw a man living under the flyover opposite fixing his roof with a new cardboard box. He re-entered the hotel. He went into the gym. He inspected the Jacuzzi.

“Feel like a work-out, sir?” said the receptionist.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed.

Once the first coffee of the morning had worn off, he’d usually had enough of being alive. Today was different. Today he was in a new city. Yes, he breathed deeply to himself, marching
along the corridor to his room, here he would triumph. He got to his door and realised he’d lost his key.

Like most logical people, when Christmas lost something he assumed it had been stolen by supernatural forces bent on sabotaging his life. After several furious seconds he found it again. Once
inside, he took a bath, dressed, and counted his money ready to go shopping. He spent several minutes getting the angle of his Panama right. Then he lost his room key again. He finally found it in
his back pocket. “It’s the mischief of the devil himself,” he muttered in bewilderment. Christmas returned to the mirror for final approval and then set off into Caracas.

Outside the hotel’s force field of wealth lay the Sabana Grande district. There was something about its shops that reminded him of Derby in the 1980s; a kind of tropical Eagle Centre, with
a similar mix of jewellery, hi-fis and bargain shoes. The air was close, clouds struggling to keep off the ground. Beggars watched old men play chess. People stood by food stands eating corn
arepas
stuffed with ham and cheese, while Chávez looked down from the billboards, his impressive face balancing on a bright red shirt:
POR NUESTRO FUTURO, POR NUESTRA
REPÚBLICA
!

Christmas sat down in a café. He drank an espresso and settled down to watch the Venezuelans. They were of every hue, from morning pink to oak black. They talked and laughed. Hands were
grabbed, cheeks kissed, backs slapped. Christmas congratulated himself. This city was full of beautiful women, and if they were not beautiful, they were sexy, and if they were not sexy they looked
like fun. “Tonight I shall take to the bars,” he declared to himself as a passing woman raised her eyebrows. Christmas tipped his hat. A man with part of his ear missing sat down next
to him. Several moments passed before Christmas realised this man was offering to shine his shoes. Christmas declined. The bill arrived. An old woman came to his table selling pens and bamboo mugs.
Then a man selling lottery tickets. Then another man selling children’s posters, lighters and packets of nuts.

Christmas left the café, wandering between the stalls and malls. He changed some money. He bought two suits, pills for gout, gastric reflux and his blood sugar levels, underwear, shirts,
socks, another pair of shoes, toothbrush, shaving equipment and finally a suitcase, making him one of the few people to have packed for a foreign country after their arrival.

Looking for somewhere to lunch, Christmas was stopped by a policeman. He was a fat-necked teenager with acne. He had been sitting alone on a plastic chair at a police check-point and stood in
front of Christmas with the usual, brutish comportment of bored authority. Christmas looked at his uniform. It said ‘
Metropolitana
’. The police officer went through his shopping.
Then he searched Christmas, paying particular attention to his genitals.

“I shall start charging in a minute, young man,” Christmas said in English.

“
Pasaporte!
”

Christmas handed it over and the adolescent flicked through it forwards and back while looking at the people walking by. Christmas understood that this was about money. They talked in
Spanish.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t got there yet.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I am looking for somewhere to eat, and I don’t know where I am going because I haven’t found it yet. Perhaps you can recommend somewhere?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a tourist.”

“Do you have any family here?”

“No.”

“Do you have friends here?”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a tourist.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is your health certificate?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Where is your health certificate?”

“I don’t have one. You have my passport right there. I’ve never heard of a health certificate.”

“You need a health certificate.”

“I asked your embassy in London,” Christmas lied, “and they told me that all I needed to be in Venezuela was a valid passport, which I have here, in your hands.”

“You need a health certificate.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you have family here?”

“No.”

“Where is your health certificate?” Christmas was dumb-founded. The officer was a simpleton.

“What is your favourite colour?” he replied in English and then started to point at random objects, enunciating like a parent. “C-ar. Shop-ping Cen-tre. Big el-ec-tric
cl-ock.” The policeyouth was dumbfounded. The tourist was a simpleton.

“Be careful,” he advised Christmas, returning his passport and deciding against extortion. “Many things happen here.”

“Do give Watson my regards,” replied Christmas.

Christmas settled on a large restaurant themed like a 1950s American diner. The waiters wore bow ties and waistcoats. A panpipe version of Hotel California floated along the
wallpaper. Christmas took a table by the window and sat his new suitcase on the seat opposite.

“What do you recommend?” he asked his waiter, whose impressive moustache evinced wisdom and good character. “Do you have any of these
em-pan-adas
?”

“I’m afraid not, but we do serve typical Venezuelan
criolla
food here,
Señor
. I can recommend a classic
criolla
dish that wonderfully reflects the mix and
tastes of the Venezuelan people. Is this your first time in Caracas?”

“Yes.”

“You speak excellent Spanish.”

“Thank you.”

“You have lived in Spain? I can tell by your accent.”

“That’s correct.”

“But you are Dutch?”

“Good God, no!” countered Christmas. Despite the moustache, the man was an idiot. “I am an Englishman.” The waiter’s face brightened.

“Manchester United!” Christmas’ face dimmed.

“London Divided.” Christmas had strong opinions on sport, predicated on never doing it. Football and golf were particular party games of The Rot, but he abhorred it all; personally,
because people always felt they had to do some before they could come to the pub, and generally because it boiled down to running after little balls. It turned men into dogs. Chess, on the other
hand, he considered the pastime of heroes, as was backgammon, Go, Canasta, bar billiards, Tac, snooker, pool, boxing, Shithead, Connect Four and darts.

“So what’s in a
criolla
dish?” he asked, wishing to change the subject.

“The beans are from the indigenous people, the cheese is from Europe, the rice is from Asia, the banana is from Africa, the fish is from the sea, the egg is from the chicken.”

“Wonderful,” acknowledged Christmas flatly. “And a cold beer, please. Large one. Biggest you’ve got.” Drink had started its daily queue-barge to the front of
Christmas’ mind. Christmas took out his wallet and inspected his dollars and his bolívares. He separated out his bolívares, counted them, folded them and put them in his trouser
pocket. His wallet he put in his inside jacket pocket.

Put it in the room safe, Pops
, he heard Emily say,
you’ll only get shitfaced and lose it like in Italy
. Christmas chuckled to himself, remembering their honeymoon in Amalfi,
staying in a hotel on the cliffs that had once been a convent. He’d lost his wallet and all their money and she’d watched him, giggling from behind her champagne glass, as he charmed
the hotel manager so much that the man ended up lending them some of his own cash so that they could enjoy the town. Once their replacement credit card had arrived, they had taken the manager out
for a gargantuan meal that ended with them all dancing in the dawn at a local policeman’s retirement party. When they got back to the hotel, Emily realised she’d lost their replacement
card and they had to do it all over again.

Christmas could remember the moon over the sea from their hotel balcony. He could remember them making love. He inhaled, trying yet again to recall Emily’s smell, but he could not. The
beer arrived and Christmas took a deep slug.

The meal was excellent, and he left such an audacious tip that the waiters cheered his departure. Outside the restaurant, he saw Pepito the taxi driver leaning on his car talking to someone.

“Hey!
Señor Christmas
!” he shouted, “
Hola
! It’s me, Pepito!” Conversation was unavoidable. “I was at your hotel but you did not
come.”

“My watch was still on English time. When I woke up I thought it was time to go to bed.”

“I wait for you many hours.” The man was a liar and a scoundrel. No doubt about it. “But don’t worry – you want that I show to you Caracas?”

“Well, actually, yes, there is something you could help me with ... Yes, I do believe there is. Pick me up from the hotel tonight at ten?”

“And you going to be there, right? I no wanna wait, you know, please.”

“Ten
a punto
,” said Christmas, “On my honour.”

“
S
eñor
Christmas!” He had just entered the lobby of the Gran Melía carrying his new
suitcase. “
Señor
Christmas!” It was the lady from reception.

“Good God,” Christmas grumbled to the ceiling, “can’t I go anywhere without being recognised?”

“I see you have recovered your luggage,
Señor
.”

“What?”

“Your luggage,
Señor.
It has arrived from the airport?”

“No.” There was an uneasy silence.

“
Señor,
there seems to be a problem with your credit card. Could I ask you for—”

“May I just go to my room? I am expecting an extremely important phone call. I’ll just go up to my room and I’ll be straight down to answer any questions you may
have.”

“Of course,
Señor
, but—”

“Too kind,” he said, and walked off.

Once in a change of clothes, Christmas returned to the ground floor and, avoiding reception, made for the piano bar. The hotel suddenly seemed very full. He found a seat next
to a nervous-looking man and ordered a Laphroaig and a beer. Striking clumsily for the plate of bar snacks, he sent some salty shrapnel spinning onto the man’s papers.

“Oh – don’t worry,” said the man, brushing them off. “Are you here for the conference?”
Worry
? thought Christmas.
What the devil is he talking
about
?

“Excuse me?”

“The youth marketing conference?”

“Someone is actually going to
sell
the little buggers? Who are they going to flog ’em to – the Chinese, is it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Russians?” Christmas considered enquiring about job opportunities then decided against it. The man’s phone rang. He looked at the number and immediately shrank.

“Sorry – excuse me – Hello, sir? ... Right ... yes ... sorry, yes,” he bobbed his head like a mandarin. “I realise that, sir ... yes, I’m very sorry ... yes
... of course, yes. Thank you, sir, thank you. Goodbye, sir.”
Up on two legs, man
, thought Christmas as loudly as he could.
Up on two legs
!

“The boss,” the man laughed weakly, putting his phone away.

“Bully, is he? If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bully.”

“Well, he does ask a lot – but you get out what you put in, right?”

“When the odds are even,” Christmas muttered darkly. “Harry Christmas,” he said, offering his hand in brotherly consolation.

“David Dubois.” Christmas immediately withdrew his hand.

“Dubois? French? You don’t sound French.”

“Quarter French, actually.”

“Mmmn ...” replied Christmas, reflecting on how garlic always overpowers the rest of the dish. “So what irks the
Dauphin
?”

“What? Oh – well, err, not irks really, just, well, I meant to – stupid, really – meant to co-ordinate with some of the other delegates—”

“You know what gets me is that you French are always grateful to the Yanks for the Second World War but you never mention the English. Why is that?”

“Um ...”

“You were saying?”

“Well, err, I work for a human rights organization here – we organise ‘reality tours’ of the barrios and ...” The man simulated the quote marks with his fingers.
Christmas’ face tightened.

Christmas had so many pet hates he had a zoo – a zoo of hate – filled with some quite ordinary creatures, such as the French, men who called people ‘guys’, the internet,
scatter cushions and so on, as well as more exotic types such as women who said the word ‘coffee’ as if they wanted a cuddle, and cold remedies that did not make you feel drowsy. Miming
quote marks with one’s fingers was in the infuriating animals section, a hairy-arsed fiend that swung hooting from its bars, flinging its four-fingered filth at the public. Why did people
emphasize their refusal to take responsibility for the words in their own mouths with a couple of bunny ears? He longed to seize those twitching fingers, to twist them. So he did.

“Ow!” cried the man. “W-w-w-what are you doing?”

“I am not a child! I do not need a puppet show!”

“What?” The man was horrified.

“Oh, forget it,” Christmas downed his drinks and left. He felt bad about what he’d done for a moment and then he felt good. He felt very good.
I ‘think’
I’ll have a ‘drink’ somewhere ‘else’
, he said to himself, quote fingers pumping.