Eventually he left the hotel to go to El Barco, and was assured again by different staff that his wallet was not there. Lost in thought, he walked for an hour or maybe more without concentrating on where he was going, until he found himself in a leafy residential area, with large white houses behind security fences. He came across a smart café. He went in, sat down with a gasp of pain and ordered an espresso. Just money, he was still telling himself, just a bit of bloody money. He was used to losing money. “But damn it!” he said out loud. Everyone looked at him. How had Slade found him? And if he had just remembered to take Emily’s book! ... The espresso arrived. He took a sip and burnt his lips. “The devil!” He closed his eyes. He felt under his hat for the lump, breathed deeply and counted to ten. Harry Christmas was still alive. He opened his eyes.
The lady he saw in front of him was so unmistakably British you could have spotted it from the moon. She was wearing a flowery summer dress, sandals and a straw hat. She had a large forehead with hooded drooping eyes that made her look as if she were falling asleep and paying attention at the same time. She seemed to be interested in some dreadful pottery that was on display in the window, and, with her business concluded, she was shown to a table. Christmas noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Then he noticed her large purple feet.
The woman delved into her handbag and pulled out a book. She put on her glasses and began to read, sipping a juice and tapping one foot against the air. Christmas strained to see what she was reading. The author’s name was also Harry – THE NAA TREE POSTAL SERVICE by Harry Strong. This, surely, was a sign.
She put the book down for a moment and Christmas stood up. He stepped past her table, purposefully knocking the book onto the floor.
“So sorry,” he said in Spanish, wincing, picking it up for a quick check. He was in luck – no author’s photo. He began to laugh. “Oh dear,” he said in English, adjusting his accent up a notch, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. That is funny!”
“What’s funny?”
“Do you mind me asking – are you enjoying this?”
“Yes, thank you, just finished it. Why do you ask?”
“Well, this is rather embarrassing ... Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry – Harry Strong.”
15
“You mean you—”
“That’s right.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Judith,” she said hurriedly, “Judith Lamb. This is extraordinary!”
“Well, sorry to disturb you—”
“Oh, no, please ...”
“And to knock your book, well, my book, well, our book, on the floor.”
“Our book ...!”
“Hope it held your interest.”
“Oh, it’s marvellous, but Mr Strong—”
“Harry, please.”
“But Harry – Venezuela – Caracas – I mean what are you doing here? Are you an ex-pat?”
“No,” replied Christmas, “my name has always been Harry.”
“Pardon me?”
“Actually I’m on a sort of sabbatical. I came here to – I’m afraid it’s rather a long and boring story. I’m sure you’re much too—”
“Oh no, I would love to hear it! Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a juice or something or are you off somewhere important?”
“Not at all.”
“Will you join me then?”
“Well ...” smiled Christmas, “why not?”
“Marvellous!” said Judith in a deep voice. “Tea with the author straight after the last page! How vital. Now hang on and I’ll get Juan Carlos on the job. He does a wonderful mixed fruit thingamajig – how about one of those?” Christmas gave Judith a grateful smile and she tore off to the counter. He grabbed the book, turned to the back and read the bumph:
THE NAA TREE POSTAL SERVICE. When University Professor Steven Trafford finds out that his star pupil is in fact his illegitimate son from a forgotten affair, memory and fate compete as the story dips between contemporary Bristol and 1970s Sri Lanka. As conflict with the Tamil Tigers rages, a young teacher and his new wife begin their first term at Colombo’s newly-built School of Excellence, run by the beautiful and mysterious Mrs Amarikidivada ...
‘Warm and compelling. A tour de force. Sweet and sour and then sweet again.’ – EVENING STANDARD
‘I thought it was a wonderful book. I really, really did.’ – THE GUARDIAN
‘Blisteringly urgent. Wistfully timeless.’ – TIME
‘Three letters, one word, one sound: f**king WOW.’ – GORDON RAMSAY
How dreary, thought Christmas, turning to the inside cover. The real Harry Strong was married with two children, lived in Canterbury and was the author of GHOSTS OF AMARILLO and PEABODY’S BOAT.
“So!” said Judith sitting down with his juice, “how did you think of that ending?”
“I didn’t really think of it,” he replied, “it sort of ... thought of me.” He knew how these people talked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, one often feels like one is taking dictation, you know, and wherever these stories come from, one’s just glad that it picked one to be the mouthpiece.”
“But that woman ... when she ... incredible. Is it based on anyone you know? Oh, I am sorry – listen to me firing all these questions at you.”
“Not at all, Judith. You’re spot on. She’s based on my wife.”
“Your wife killed herself with a snake!”
“Character, I mean. Only partially, you understand, but yes, definite touches of my wife. My ex-wife now, I should say.”
“Ex? Oh you poor thing. Have you just ...?”
“Well, it’s all to do with why I’m here, actually. I’m sure you don’t want to ...”
“Oh please,” said Judith, leaning forward, “do tell.” Christmas sighed and, looking as deeply into her eyes as he could, set about creating his new life.
He was recently divorced. No one was to blame, they had simply grown apart. Rocked yet liberated by the separation he had decided to come to Venezuela, a country about which he knew little, in search of inspiration for his next book. The emotional trauma had been giving him writer’s block and he hoped that by throwing himself open to experience his creativity would bounce back. Unfortunately, he had been violently robbed by a taxi driver called Pepito, so he was stranded, all possessions gone, waiting for the credit card company to send over a replacement and for the embassy to arrange a passport. It should have taken a week, but there had been a mix-up, everything was sent to the wrong hotel and sent back again, and now he was stuck in Caracas for he didn’t know how long.
“Robbed?” inhaled Judith. “Were you hurt?” Christmas solemnly took off his hat and showed her the stitched lump. Then he pushed up his sleeve to reveal his blackened arms. She clasped her face and shook her head.
So here he was with these plans for escape, for change, for putting his divorce behind him, and he was beginning to regret ever coming here.
“Oh, but Harry, Venezuela is exactly what you need. I got divorced myself not long ago—”
“Oh God! And there I was yabbering on about myself. Judith, forgive me.”
“No, no, no. It’s fine. It was my choice really. We certainly weren’t in love any more, but even so, when you’re just so used to someone ... Anyway the point is that’s why I didn’t go back to England. Creatively, the energy, the light ... it’s so vital. And the key thing is you’ve got to move forward. Even if things get a little rough, you’ve just got to stick it out, haven’t you?”
Judith suddenly looked so sad Christmas had to cough before speaking. “Now, please, you’ve been patiently listening to me, can I get you anything? A coffee or something?”
“Oh, I never touch the stuff. Body is a temple and all that.”
“Free to get in?”
“What?” The sadness evaporated. “Oh, I get it! Oh – ha ha ha!” She began to laugh.
It was an incredible, ear-splitting sound, like someone practising scales on a rape alarm. “You know I have masses of questions to ask you about your book. I mean for instance when she—”
“If you don’t mind Judith, I’m trying to put that book out of my mind. My wife, you see ...”
“Oh, of course, of course, I’m so sorry.”
“Plus I have got this silly superstition never to talk about a book once it’s finished. I’m convinced it will bring bad luck.”
“Really? How interesting.”
“Let’s talk about you. So how’s your boyfriend? Everything working out all right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Actually,” whispered Christmas, as he leant in close, “what I really wanted to say is ‘will you come for lunch with me?’. I was just checking you were still single.” Then he winked and pulling back, assumed his previous voice and position. “Did I say boyfriend? I meant your Spanish. How’s that coming on?” Judith blushed.
Christmas took Judith out for lunch in an upmarket restaurant, gambling eighty-one bolívares of his remaining 170. They ate tapas, drank a bottle of white Rioja, and talked about art, books and antiques.
“So you live out of town?” asked Christmas.
“Oh yes. I live in Estado Sucre, over in the Caribbean part of the country, el Oriente. Have you ever been?”
“The Caribbean part. Really.” Things were getting better and better. “Do you know, I have always wanted to go there.”
“The colours, the landscape ... Really, it’s just what you need. You’ll go completely mad cooped up in Caracas for another month. When Columbus arrived, I think it was on his third expedition – he landed in Estado Sucre and do you know he really believed he had found the literal Garden of Eden? Everybody naked. Whopping great fruit everywhere!” Judith began to laugh again. It truly was a painful noise.
“Columbus?”
“Avocados and mangos and coconuts and coffee and bananas and – oh, Harry, the most amazing chocolate rum – you’ve never tasted anything like it – and well, it’s just amazing.”
“Are you anywhere near Guiria?”
“Other side of the peninsula. It’s on the south coast and I’m on the north – so it’s not next door, but not a million miles away either – why?”
“Oh, no reason. It was recommended to me.”
“Well, that whole part of the country is so ... I don’t know – vital.”
“It sounds like heaven.”
“You must come and visit.” Christmas sat forward in his chair, clenching his teeth against the pain.
“Oh Judith, do you really mean that?”
“Yes – yes of I course I mean it.” Judith was blushing again. “God, I can’t tell you how nice it is just to talk to someone with the same – you know, someone English. I know it sounds awful, and don’t get me wrong, I love the people here, but there’s not much in the way of chat about Ruskin and Turner.”
“You must get lonely.”
“Oh no,” she gulped at her glass. “Far too busy.”
“Far too tough, you mean.”
“Well, it’s all about moving forward, isn’t it? Shall we have some more wine?”
After the meal Christmas took her back to her hotel in Alta Mira. He suggested a nightcap at the bar.
“I’d better not.”
“Oh, come on, Judith. Where’s the harm?”
“No. I’ve had a lovely evening, thank you, but I really must go off to bed now, I think.” They stood for a moment in silence. Christmas took her hand. She was rather startled. He kissed her on the cheek. She pulled her hand away.
“Goodnight,” she peeped, and scuttled off. Christmas turned round and went out of the hotel. He looked up at night sky. He was running out of money. He was running out of time.
The next day he called for her at her hotel but she was out. The day after he tried again. He now owed the Jolly Frankfurter for two nights. If Judith didn’t come through with an offer of help he was done for. Another runner from a hotel. Bus to the airport. Failure.
Just as he was heading through the door, checking all around him for Slade, he saw her chatting with the concierge.
“Harry!”
“Judith. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in to see you ...” Judith let out a theatrical breath then marched over to him and pecked him on the cheek.
“I got upstairs to my bedroom the other night and realised I didn’t have your phone number or anything—”
“Me too, so I thought—”
“Anyway—”
“So I came back. God, it’s nice to see you again.” They smiled at each other for a moment.
“Do you have any plans today?” asked Judith.
“None whatsoever.”
“Then I’m taking you to lunch and I’m paying this time and that’s that.” Christmas opened his mouth in protest, closed it again, and gave her a deep bow.
The waiter filled their glasses, wiped the neck of the wine bottle and ground it back into the ice bucket. They were in a corner booth of a tasca restaurant, just around the corner from the Hotel Continental. Christmas had one hand in his pocket, fingering a fifty bolívar note. It was all he had left.
“Have you ever worked as a waiter, Harry? Or in a kitchen or anything?”
“I have as a matter of fact. Judith—”
“I remember when I was young and waitressing in this Italian place in Bath and a customer came and said he wanted his coffee right away and then went in to the loo, so when his espresso was ready I took it in there and pushed it under the door. Got the bloody sack!” Judith laughed hysterically. Other diners looked over. He downed his glass. He looked down at her purple feet. He had to make his move.
Christmas stopped eating, sighed and looked into the middle distance.
“Harry? Are you OK?”
“God. It’s so stupid,” he said, refilling his glass.
“What? What’s stupid?”
“Look at me. I’m drinking like a fish. I mean I know I’m never going to see that psycho taxi driver again but I can’t shake this feeling that he’s going to appear around the next corner, or in here, and attack me again. It’s ridiculous, I know, but – but – every time I see a taxi. I just—” He covered his eyes.
“Oh Harry, you poor darling ...”
“I was on the phone to the credit card people again this morning. Can’t get a word of sense out of them so here I am, stranded, trapped, all I want to do is get out of Caracas and they can’t bloody well give me my own money to do so – it’s insane. It’s a nightmare. The whole thing has been a nightmare except ...” He gave her his most soulful look. “... except for meeting you, of course.”
“Harry—”
“Well, I’m just going to have to suffer it, aren’t I?”
“But—”
“Grin and bear it, I suppose.”
“Harry, look – I know we’ve only just met but – well – I’m heading back to my place in Estado Sucre. Why don’t you come and stay? Get yourself out of here?” Christmas sighed. His ribs were agony. This was a triumph.
“Judith, that really is so kind of you but, well, I haven’t two farthings to rub together at the moment.”
“Harry, darling – please – forget all about that. After what you’ve been through – look – you need some R+R and you’ll be staying at my house so you won’t need any money and the hotel can ring through when your cards arrive. Besides I’m sure we can find a way for you to earn your keep.”
“Oh Judith. I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s an eight hour drive at the least from Caracas, five hundred kilometres, and the fact is, I could really do with the company. The roads are quite dangerous, especially if it rains, so you see, really it would be you doing me the favour. But listen to me charging on – you’ve probably got lots to do here.”
“Not at all. Like I told you, I’m completely stuck.”
“Then why don’t you let me try and unstick yo
u?” She patted his knee.
“Chocolate rum, you say?”
“Our very own writer-in-residence! And there is a town nearby, so if we want to strangle each other after a couple of days you can easily escape. I know we’ve only just met, but I do trust my instincts. I think we might just have a whale of a time. What do you say – how about a little adventure?”
“When are we off?”
“Oh, how marvellous!” she clapped her hands together. “In about a week.” Christmas sat back. This was a disaster.
“A week?”
“Week – week and a half. I’ve got to buy some bits and bobs for the house, then there’s this terrible set of old curtains I’ve got to collect and—”
“Judith. I’ve got an idea.”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t we go today?”
“Today?”
“Or tomorrow – why don’t we just do it? Just get out of here?”
“But Harry I can’t possibly—”
“Can’t you feel it, Judith? Spontaneity! Do you know ... I think I can feel those creative juices flowing again already.”
“If I didn’t have all these chores then I’d love to but—”
“May I tell you something?” said Christmas, putting his hand in his pocket and tightly scrunching his last note into a ball. “The truth is, since getting so viciously beaten up and everything, well, I really am pretty jumpy here as I said – stupid, I know – I mean I’m sure I won’t see this man again, of course ...”
“Oh, Harry ...”
“So you know, I promised myself – I mean I absolutely swore to myself – that I would leave town tomorrow whatever happens, because I don’t really feel safe here at all and I’m sick to the back teeth of feeling like this and tomorrow – well – OK, I’ll just come out with it – tomorrow is my birthday.”
16
Slade had seen it from every angle of the city – from Altamira, Palos Grandes, Chacao, Las Mercedes, La Campiña, Parque Carabobo, Campo Alegre, Bello Monte, El Rosal. He had seen it when leaving the Hilton, or the Four Seasons, or the Continental with a photograph of Harry Christmas in his hand and the chalk of dead ends in his throat: the cable car.
A Bright Moon for Fools Page 8
