A Bright Moon for Fools (6 page)

After a dinner of swordfish, potatoes, rice, avocado and coleslaw, washed down with two bottles of Chilean Montes Alpha M and followed by vanilla ice cream covered in hot caramel sauce, Pepito
picked him up in front of the hotel as arranged. Christmas’ logic was this: if this man was a rascal, he should know the best place for a drink. He explained the kind of bar he wanted to go
to: somewhere with a band, somewhere with Venezuelan women, somewhere without teenagers.

During the drive Pepito tried to sell him a gold watch. Then he tried to sell him a camera. Then he tried to sell him marijuana, and finally cocaine. Christmas said no to everything.

“Why do you say no to everything?”

“Because I don’t bloody want any of it – the devil take you! Is this a taxi or a Turkish bazaar?”

“You want take a bath?”

“No, blast you, I do not want a bath, I want a drink! Why don’t you try and sell me one of those.”

“Sell you drink? But
Señor
, this is not a bar. I am not a barman.”

“More’s the pity, Pepito, more is the pity.”

They turned into a street with a group of oily-clothed men huddling around some steps.

“Look,” said Pepito, “
craqueros
. Crack-heads.
Hola
!” he shouted, tooting his horn, “
Hola
, crack-mans!
Hola
,
amigos
!” The
men turned round. Christmas could see the flame and the pipe. “
Buenas noches, amigos, hola
!” The men scattered in fear. “
Recogelatas
. They spend all day picking up
cans. When they get one kilo of aluminium, they get five bolívares, and with five bolívares they can to buy one crack rock. All day, every day, picking up cans.”

“Do they know you?”

“Of course. I am a policeman.”

“What!”

“I am a policeman.”

“You just tried to sell me drugs!”

“Policeman in Caracas only get minimum wage. We must buy our own uniforms; we must buy our own bullets. Everyone has number two job. Sometimes number three job. I drive the taxi. Lucky for
you my friend,” Pepito started to laugh and slapped him on the knee, “you don’t buy the drugs. Don’t worry. I like you.”

They pulled up outside a bar called
El Mani Es Asi
– ‘The Peanut Is Like This’. It was packed, a central bar with the door on one side and a dance floor on the other. A
band of lively old men were playing salsa hard and fast.

“This is a typical Venezuelan bar. This is a place for salsa.”

“I can hear that.”

“I like this place when I like to dance with the women. When I like to drink with a woman, for
más romantico
, I go this other place, El Barco,” Pepito handed Christmas
a business card, “It’s my brother’s place, very near your hotel. You take this card and maybe you go and visit, OK?”

“Is it full of policemen?”

“You dance salsa?”

“Not so far.”

“Salsa come from Puerto Rico, you know. It come from the prisons.”

“They have trumpets in prison?”

“They made search of prisons here last week and they find machine guns and grenades. If you want a trumpet,” he shrugged “you can get a trumpet.”

Couples were pressed against each other. The air was heavy with smoke and rum. Pepito knew everyone. Christmas shook countless hands, half-heard conversations thrown against the music. They
drank and drank and drank. Christmas told Pepito and his friends stories about English women. Everybody laughed and refused to let him buy a round. “You are my friend,” said Pepito.
“My English friend!”

“So,” said Christmas, his arm around the man’s shoulder. “Your brother owns a bar. Now I’m thinking of starting a business here, you know, that kind of thing. And
what with you being a copper and so forth, what’s the process, what’s the procedure, the red tape? I mean what’s standing between a man like me, a foreigner and day one –
bingo – the cocktails start jumping over the bar, you follow?”

“You want to open a bar in Caracas?”

“Why not?” Pepito began to answer but Christmas’ attention had wandered over to a woman. He smiled at her. She smiled back. He raised his glass to her. She smiled even
wider.

It was rare to see gringos in this place, much less such an interesting-looking one her own age, and this man looked like he was fun. He had a cheeky smile, a rugged face and
mischievous eyes. They had the same build. Lola Rosa distrusted skinny men. Her mother had always told her that skinny men were liars.

Harry Christmas, shining with charm, went over and introduced himself. “Do you think you could teach an old gringo salsa?”

“I doubt it,” she replied, “but we can try.” She gave him a wink and stood up. Christmas was smitten. Her lips and eyes shimmered with make-up. She had green eyes, an
enormous bottom in tight jeans, and titanic breasts crammed into a small yellow top. He told her he was a movie producer.

When the salsa proved to be beyond him, he insisted on exaggerated foxtrots and waltzes. He made her laugh. They took breaks at the bar and drank rum and coke. She was staying with family in
Caracas for a few days before going back to her village, San Cristóbal.

“Where’s that?”

“In Sucre. On the Caribbean side. Opposite Trinidad and Tobago.”

“Is that anywhere near Guiria?”

“Guiria is not far, yes.”

“Well I never,” beamed Christmas. “That’s why I have come to Venezuela. To visit exactly that part of the country.”

“You going to make a movie there?”

“A final scene.”

“So maybe,” she said, patting his face, “you can come visit.” Her hands were rough and calloused. Christmas leant closer. Yes, there was something of Emily about her.

“You are funny,” she said. “I like you.” Two men stood up, grabbed at each other, then one smashed a glass into the side of the other’s face. Everyone stopped to
watch the fight. People scurried clear, or waded in. Christmas stepped in front of Lola.

“
Verga
! What are you doing?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“I can’t see.”

“I am a human shield,” he boomed, raising his arms wide. “No harm can come to you!” She gave him such a dimpled smile it triggered the shining of a gold tooth in the back
of her mouth. The fighters were dragged away. The music started up again.

“Y
ou fuck like my husband,” she said, smoking at him from her bed. Christmas adjusted his hat in the mirror. It was early next
morning.

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s dead.”

“My dear woman, are you implying I don’t move around enough?” Christmas gave her a hearty laugh. She was obviously astounded by his performance. They often were. “How do
I look?”

“You look old.”

“Everyone looks older in the morning.”

“Especially old people,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette with force. He turned around, marvelling at this woman folding her arms before him. Christmas assumed he’d been
masterful. In fact, sprawling with rum, he’d barely managed to get his clothes off. It had been a long time since Lola had liked a man enough to sleep with him. This one had really let her
down.

“Why don’t we have dinner tonight?”

“I don’t want to have dinner with you.”

Ah, the spirit
, he chuckled to himself,
of these Latin women
! Putting his hands in his pockets, his fingers came across the business card for Pepito’s brother’s bar.
“Do you know this place in Sabana Grande – El Barco?”

“Yes. I know it.”

“See you there at eight?”

“
Verga
! I told you. I don’t want to see you for dinner. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Wonderful,” said Christmas, granting his hat-angle final approval, “eight it is.”

He showed himself out through an apartment full of pictures ringed with lace and children watching television. Two old women gave him toothy grins. It was raining. He caught a
cab back to the hotel, easily avoiding the receptionist in the vast lobby. He went back to his room. He counted his money. He decided to spend the day exploring Caracas and work on his plan of
action for the weeks ahead. He could travel to Guiria with Lola! Perhaps he would open a bar there. Or work as some kind of consultant for people wishing to trade with Europe.

After a nap, he breakfasted on
cachapas
– corn pancakes – stuffed with ham and cheese,
guyaba
fruit, and several slices of buttered toast and marmalade. Then Christmas
went wandering through the city. He walked through Sabana Grande, Los Caobos and Pinto Salinas, regularly stopping for beers. He crossed streets that ended in clouds and mountains. He found
decaying squares and market stalls. Artisans lay beside their bracelets. A man with a white beard guarded trolleys full of books.

Christmas took the metro to Bellas Artes and walked into Parque Los Caobos, wandering beneath its trees, noting joggers, a practising saxophonist, school groups all in red. Junkies queued for
food and treatment at one of the Chávez
misións
. Lovers by the fountain watched a man sing. Outside, Christmas found a restaurant covered with patterned tiles. Here he ate his
first
empanada.
Emily’s grandmother was right – they were delicious: fried corn pastries stuffed with meat or fish, onion and spices. He left Emily the last bite on his plate and
ordered coffee. It was weaker than he was used to, and bitter, but serving it in these little plastic cups really was a stupid idea. How was a man meant to pick it up without burning his fingers?
It trembled and sloshed about. Christmas let it go cold then downed it in one. He patted at his brow with paper towels and stared out into the street. A man wheeled a safe down the pavement.
Christmas paid up and followed behind, past the soldiers, the music and stalls and phone cards and lottery tickets and cheap underwear and pirate videos and food and graffiti and the Chávez
government is your government. His feet began to hurt but his eyes grew younger, dazzled by the beauty of Venezuelan women. “In Caracas a man can fall in love twenty times a day,” he
proclaimed to an invisible audience, “and twice, seriously.”

“Lo-la Ro-sa!” he sang at a bemused luggage porter while approaching the entrance of his hotel, “Lola Rosa. Lola Rosa. Lola,” he gave her last name a Chávez roll
of the ‘r’s, “R-r-r-r-rosa!” and skipped into the lobby.

“Mister Christmas?” A tall, thin hotel manager appeared in front of him. He had a strong American accent, and seemed to have been taught English by the internet.

“Yes, my good man! How the very devil may I be of service?”

“Mister Christmas, in regard to your residency and payments due thereof, certain questions have been raised vis-à-vis your—”

“Credit card? Must have handed over an old one when I got here. I’ll go straight up to my room, have a shower and be back with another one in two ticks. OK, young man?” He
patted the manager on the arm, then smiled at him like a proud father.

Christmas returned to his room and ordered a lunch of scallops and then Argentine steak along with a bottle of extremely expensive burgundy. Then he enjoyed an extended siesta. Then an extended
bath. Then an extended period of dressing and self-examination. “Well, damnation seize my soul!” he exclaimed cheerfully to the mirror, identifying the lightly agitated sensation in his
stomach as nerves. Nerves indeed. Harry Christmas didn’t feel nervous about women! He checked himself again and then his watch. It was time to meet Lola Rosa.

Out in Caracas, the evening was under way. Transsexual hookers on Avenida del Libertador were already recommending themselves to passing cars underneath a huge banner that
said: ‘
SOCIALISMO
’. Almost seven feet tall in their heels, one had an Adam’s apple so pronounced she looked as if she’d swallowed a cricket ball. Christmas marvelled
at those wonderful breasts, solid as helmets and far from the only amplified bosom on display. Indeed, Christmas had become convinced that Caracas was the breast enhancement capital of the world.
Everyone, it seemed, was in training for the Miss Venezuela competition, but if one thing was for certain, it was the rapid technological progress of vanity. Christmas couldn’t help feeling
that in ten years time all these stiff tits would look terribly out of date.

He entered the bar at exactly eight o’clock. It was a wooden submarine, with a low curved roof and a vaguely naval feel to the doors and uniforms. He took a seat. They were playing a salsa
version of ‘Hotel California’. In the middle of the spirit shelves a ‘Polar’ beer sign hummed below the music. A weathered-looking couple folded over each other gave him a
brief look. Otherwise the place was empty.

Christmas had once owned a bar. The son of a Streatham dentist and his former assistant, the young Harry realised in his late teens that there were easier ways to get on in life than further
education, so he left grammar school, poshed up his accent, and got a job at an auction house. The antiques game had given him a taste for embellishment – and so began a career of running
doomed and dodgy businesses, including a bar, a drinks delivery firm, a company that imported glassware from the Far East and a curtain fitters.

“
Si, Señor
?” The barman was in front of him. He scanned the rows. City of London Gin – an obvious fake. Dewar’s, Grant’s, Chivas Regal and other
revolting whiskies shamelessly parading as the cream of Scotland. Blended filth. The only blended filth that Christmas had affection for was Whyte and Mackay to which he said ‘och aye’
on the frequent occasions when he didn’t have twenty-five pounds to spend on a bottle of scotch, or he did have twenty-five pounds, but needed two. He decided to test the available rums and
ordered a Superior. It was predictably inferior. Ten minutes passed. Lola Rosa still hadn’t arrived. He tried a Gran Reserva. Passable. Twenty five past eight. He tried a Cacique. That was
better. More time passed. The Cacique was rather good. At nine o’clock, he officially knighted the brand as his rum of choice by touching the glass on each side with a cocktail stick and then
bidding it rise to his lips. The bar was filling up. Lola Rosa wasn’t coming. After a few more drinks, he stopped looking up when someone came in. Lola Rosa. Lola Rosa. Why the devil
hadn’t she come?