A Bright Moon for Fools (7 page)

“So where are you from?” asked the barman in English. It was midnight. Christmas was drunk.

“England.”

“England? So which is your team – Manchester United?”

“I detest football.”

“English and you hate football? Seriously? Wow. I haven’t met an English before who doesn’t like football.”

Christmas looked into his rum.

“How much does it cost to start up a bar in this town?”

“Really I don’t know. You want that I ask my boss?”

“No. Don’t bother. Thanks anyway.”

“So, why you come to Venezuela?” Christmas shook his drink. Then he put his finger in it, stirred it some more, took his finger out, licked it and downed what was left.
OK,
OK
, thought Christmas loudly to himself,
Why am I here? Ran off with my fiancée’s money. Wasn’t my high point. Bit short on high points of late. Bit fucking scarce. Bit
fucking thin-on-the-ground, the old ‘high points
’ ...

“Awful.”

“
Que
?”

“I did something awful. Shameful. Ran out like a coward. Ran here. Caracas. Tell me, young man, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to a woman?” The barman laughed
uncomfortably and filled his customer’s glass.

“I try not to do bad things to anyone.”

“This isn’t a fucking job interview. We’re here, two men, and I’m asking you – have you ever betrayed a woman?”

“Sure,” the barman shrugged, “I have fooled around.”

“Not just cheated on,
betrayed
. Are you following?” Christmas downed his drink and gestured for another. “Do you know what Whites is?”

“Whites?”

“It’s a gentlemen’s club in London.”

“I have never been to London.”

“I am probably not the first man to have completely fucked himself up by accepting a dinner invitation to that contemptible place.”

“And there was a woman there?”

“No women allowed, matey! I wish there had been. Atmosphere was like a funeral.”

“Somebody died?”

“Government was about to bring in their bloody Nazi smoking ban. Old Harry here finds himself at their final cigar dinner. Champagne, cigar, soup, cigar, white wine, cigar, main course
with several different reds, cigar, pudding, cigar, dessert wine, cigar, port, more port and another bloody cigar.” The barman took an order, nodding to Christmas that he was still listening.
“So there we were, drunk as priests in this old panelled dining room stared at by endless portraits of droopy-eyed toffs and I had the misfortune to be sat next to some old boy who had long
forgotten how to use consonants. Couldn’t understand a bloody word. He joined in the toasts all right, but beyond that – ooo-uuu-aaa-ooo-aaa – completely incomprehensible. Anyway
for some reason the old bugger took a shine to me and after we left the dining room I couldn’t shake him, mumbling into my ear about Tony-bloody-Blair or something – anyway I tended to
nod and say yes and he seemed so over the moon that somebody was finally agreeing with him he insisted I come back to his house in Pimlico and crack open a special reserve ’59 he’d been
saving—”

“One minute, please.” The barman served some more customers, then returned to Christmas.

“Now then, due to circumstances I shan’t go into, I didn’t actually own my own place any more, so I thought, ‘Why not? – do the old bugger a favour.’ Of
course he hadn’t said ‘Pimlico’, he’d said ‘my place in Plymouth, shall we go?’ but without most of the bloody consonants – well, suffice it to say he had
a Daimler outside with his chauffeur. I got in, passed out, woke up near bloody Plymouth! Quite a shock I can tell you, and by the time I’d worked out what had gone on, there we were,
pootling up the drive to this bloody great pile, dogs, staff, the whole caboodle. I’m shown to an extremely comfortable guest room, the old boy insists I stay the weekend, won’t take no
for an answer, and so I say to myself, why the devil not, eh Christmas, why the devil not?

Anyway, turns out I’m not the only guest. He’s got his goddaughter staying there – Diana, about my age, not bad looking in a country sort of way. Sand bags and glad rags. Lots
of teeth – you know the type. Well, you probably don’t, but anyway I could tell she took a shine to old Harry right from the off. So I told her I was a widower – true – and
a big shot in the media – not so true. Didn’t take much to convince – just acted like a complete cunt and made a couple of loud phone calls to no one about ‘the
project’ and how ‘Woody and I’ were going to ‘hump the money pig’ – you know, all that bollocks. Well, you probably don’t, but it worked a treat. Kept the
old boy happy of course, agreed with every damn thing he was saying even though he could have been reciting Eskimo poetry for all I know, and pretty soon I could tell he was telling her what a fine
chap I was, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if the crafty bugger hadn’t brought me down with his goddaughter in mind. Hubby had popped his clogs a few years back and as far as I could
tell she was rather fond of the good life and was sick of waiting around for the old man to do the decent thing and croak. Bottom line: she was on the look-out for a man with the readies to take
care of her, i.e. yours truly.” Christmas finished his drink and tapped it on the side for another. The barman filled his glass.

“A weekend became a week, the weeks became months and pretty soon we were back in London living at hers. I’d kept up the bollocks about my glittering career, how I didn’t have
a house because I’d just sold mine to George Michael etcetera, arranged a couple of people I know to drop by, or bump into us in the street, talk business and what have you, drop a few names
to get her excited, and then after she’d been sending out the hints, dived in there with the old, ‘We’re not getting any younger, let’s just do it right now’ speech,
‘Got Cannes coming up’ blah-di-blah. Well of course she jumped at it. So then—” Christmas sighed. “So then, we open an account together, she sticks in a big wodge and
I take the lot out in cash and leg it, which, I may say, was pretty much what she was planning to do to me, though perhaps more of a slow march towards the grave than the old hit-and-run ...”
The barman began to have a conversation with one of his colleagues, but Christmas kept going. “Needless to say of course Diana screamed blue bloody murder. I mean I – can’t blame,
I mean – look I’ve done some – but I’d never done anything like that before – don’t feel especially terrific about it, but I was in a hole,
am
in a hole,
and when you’re in a hole, well, you don’t know what you’ll do, until you’re in one ... anyway ... well, anyway, like I said, it’s just what she was planning to do to
me, exactly the bloody the same if you really look at it. She wouldn’t have given old Christmas a second look if she knew he was up to his eyeballs in debt and without a pot to piss in
...” Christmas took a swig and crunched down on an ice cube. “Besides, she was hardly Snow White. Hadn’t even told me she had a son. In fact, she explicitly told me she
didn’t have any children. Technically true, I suppose. Stepson. One of her friends let it slip in the end. Total nutter. Does all that battle recreation stuff at the weekends, you know, well,
you probably don’t, but anyway Hubby had this kid from a previous marriage. First wife died in mysterious circumstances. Topped herself, by the sounds of it because Hubby was a first class
bastard. Used to knock Diana about, and the kid. He gets thrown out of the navy or something, becomes a history teacher, drops dead.

“The stepson, William – absolutely mad about his new mother. Followed her everywhere apparently, like a puppy, but once Hubby had keeled over he goes from bad to worse. Chip off the
old block. Kicked out of school for bullying. Pretty much raped a girl at a party once. Girl was sparked out from the booze and she woke up with Junior on top of her. Well, that was it as far as
Diana was concerned. Didn’t want to have anything else to do with him, but he kept turning up drunk in her garden in the middle of the night, that sort of thing. Totally obsessed with her.
She got a restraining order in the end. Yes, she kept shtum about Mummy’s little cherub, didn’t she, until she started threatening me with him ... Christ. He turned up at my place. Like
I said, not really my place any more according to the bank, but that’s another story. Fucking great knife! Nearly fucking killed me!—Escaped by a whisker young man, by a
whisker
.
Scared the fucking bejesus out of me, I can tell you.” Christmas looked down. His hands were trembling.

The barman walked away to serve another customer. Christmas downed his drink. He closed his eyes against the memory: parking outside his flat in Streatham. The ‘For Sale’ signs were
back up, and he was just about to pull them down again when he heard someone shout his name. The next thing he knew, William Slade was running up the pavement towards him, a knife in his hand.
Christmas only just got back into his car in time, accelerating up the road with Slade in the rear-view mirror. He had driven straight to the airport and bought a ticket to Caracas.

Christmas ordered another Cacique. Then another. The rum was taking over. He rotated his knuckles against his eyes until they stung, stirring the last few drinks into the cauldron of feeling
that was bubbling up through his veins.

What the devil had he taken Diana’s money for in any case? Twenty-six thousand pounds. It certainly wasn’t enough to reverse his fortunes. What was it then? Just a needless
prolonging of the inevitable. What did he really think he was going to do here? Discover oil?

He took out the poetry book from his jacket pocket,
Muerte y Memoria
by Eugenio Montejo. It was Emily’s favourite book, the red jacket still clinging to the cover, always beside the
lamp on her side of the bed. He used to read it to her when she was ill or when she couldn’t get to sleep. It had been a present from her beloved Venezuelan grandmother and Christmas
hadn’t let go of it since the day of Emily’s funeral. She had always wanted to visit Guiria, her grandmother’s port town on the Caribbean side of the country. He’d promised
that one day he would take her. Now he was going to take what he had left, this book. He would sit on the beach she’d dreamt of, read to her one last time and push the book into the sand.
Christmas gave the book a kiss and put it back in his pocket. He sighed.

So this was the plan? He was just going to bury Emily again, spend all the money, go back to England, and then what – back to penury and disgrace? The bar was crowded and loud. He was
alone. Was he to become one of those pensioners checking the coin tray of every public phone, shivering in his slippers, alone in a bedsit somewhere with nothing to keep him company but complaints?
No, no, no – there was no going back. Better off adrift in foreign waters, playing his own tune even if the ship were going down. He was better here, unhindered, the sovereign of his own
decline. Death and the banks had taken everything he ever had, but even they could not—

Oh stop it, Pops, for God’s sake
, he heard Emily say,
listen to yourself. Honestly – you’re like a child. A great big pissed fat child
.

“Typical bloody woman!” Christmas announced to the bar, cocking his head to the roof. “You’re dead. Leave me alone!”

Shut up, Pops. You’re making a fool of yourself. Look – you’re annoying everyone
.

“And why shouldn’t I make a fool of myself, Emmy, eh?” he thundered.

“Please, Señor—” said the barman.

“Who fucking cares?”

“
Señor
, your voice, please. Lower.” Christmas looked at the barman. He blinked and returned to his rum. A glut of tears rose in his throat. He drank it down.

Alcohol cloaked his mind. He would never remember Pepito coming into the bar, also drunk, embracing him noisily. He asked Christmas lewd questions about Lola Rosa and then ushered his brother,
the owner, into the bar from a back office. The three men drank shot after shot of a clear, sweet liquid that Christmas could not pronounce.

At some point, Christmas left. Staggering under the weight of the booze, he wandered down the street. People approached him, whispering and propositioning. He waved and grunted them away. He
stepped over a man asleep in the street. He walked on a few paces, stopped, took out twenty bolívares, went back, and stuffed it deep into the man’s grimy pocket. Somehow he made it
back to the hotel. With assistance from the night porters, Christmas finally crashed into his room and collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling fan was on. He took off a shoe and then fell backwards
again. He threw the shoe at the fan. It caught a blade, bounced off the wall and hit him in the face.

S
lade stood in the doorway of the hotel room. He imagined various scenarios all at once: fights with assailants who had tried to catch him
sleeping; hooded men counter-ambushed and disabled with devastating efficiency. There wasn’t enough room for exercises. The mattress looked thin. He shook his head and pushed past the
concierge. With his kitbag on his shoulder, Slade walked through the lobby and out into the Chacaito district of central Caracas. He was in unfamiliar territory. The air smelt of damp trees,
gasoline and fried corn. Salsa music swung in and out of hearing. Businesswomen trailed hair and cigarette smoke. He had not slept during the flight.

Slade was trying to decide whether he was bigger than most Venezuelans. The only other time he had been out of Europe was a trip to Thailand to have sex with prostitutes, and he’d enjoyed
the sensation of being taller than the local people.

Two soldiers walked past, teenage recruits. Slade had tried to enlist in the army when he was eighteen but had walked out of the induction as soon as he realised it was full of men tougher than
he was. He lied to everyone that he was kicked out because he had failed the psychological examination.
Unable to accept authority
, he told them.
Too much of a lone wolf
.

He sized up the two soldiers now stopping to chat with a woman and imagined how he would attack them: a blizzard of punches and kicks, balletic moves executed with a serene face.