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.
10
“You 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?
“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. Techn
ically 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.
A Bright Moon for Fools Page 5
