A Bright Moon for Fools

by Jasper Gibson

  They drove through a village where a long line of children were helping untangle a fishing line.

  “That’s something you don’t see at home,” said Bridget.

  “Kids? There’s a bloody plague of them.”

  “No, I mean, helping, you know, everyone helping out. Our sense of community has just gone. We’re so atomized.”

  “Bridget, have you ever lived in place with lots of community feeling? It’s a fucking nightmare.”

  “Oh God, Harry, just forget it.”

  “No, no, no – this is important; ever since your caveman was trying to find his own little corner of the cave where he could chew on a nice bit of mammoth rib without interruption, man has been desperately trying to live on his own.”

  “Here we go ...”

  “Modern man has spent five hundred years trying to get his own flat, and people like you, who’ve never lived in a community the likes of which you’re so keen on imagining, are determined to send him back to live with his parents. An atomized society is a marvellous, wonderful bloody thing. The summit of human achievement. The less I have to talk to my neighbours – especially my neighbours – the better. Civilization, if it has any meaning, is the ability to choose one’s friends along lines of greater value than the relative proximity of kitchens.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Not sure.”

  “So what are you going to do your talk about?”

  “Talk?”

  “Your speech. For her birthday dinner, remember? You said you’d do a talk.”

  “I think I’ll improvise.”

  “On what theme?”

  “On the theme of improvisation.”

  “And what about a present?”

  “Dunno. Perhaps a nice bottle of rum.”

  “Rum?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Why don’t you just get her a gun? Or a rock.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean a bottle of rum – it’s not very touchy-feely, is it?”

  “If it’s touchy-feely she wants, Bridget,” Christmas sighed, “she should be sleeping with a blind man.”

  As soon as they parked the car, Christmas went into the locutorio, pretending to make a call that would tell him his credit card had not yet arrived in Caracas. When he came out Bridget had disappeared. He walked down the main street, Avenida Bermudez, wide and empty with pavements raised high for the floods and cars dozing in the shade. He saw a licorería. It was painted yellow and covered with old posters. Men sat on the steps beneath the counter. He bought a Polar Ice and started chatting to them in Spanish.

  “So,” said a man in plastic sandals and shorts, “you staying here in Rio Caribe?”

  “No. About an hour or so that way. Up on the hills.”

  “The English woman’s place?”

  “That’s right.” The men looked at each other and started laughing.

  “The English woman, the one who makes the—?” The man put an empty beer bottle against his groin.

  “That’s her.”

  “She make one of yours? Hey!” A couple more friends were sauntering by. “This man stay with the English woman who makes the—” he masturbated his bottle and slapped Harry on the back. Everybody was laughing. “So she make one of yours?”

  “She doesn’t have enough clay.”

  “Ha ha ha! Not enough clay! Que coño!”

  The man offered to buy Christmas another beer, but he saw Bridget coming up the road carrying bags of food. “Another time, gentlemen, another time, excuse me, adios.” Harry stepped out of the laughter into the sun.

  “Made some new friends?” said Bridget.

  “We’ve got similar tastes in art.”

  “OK. I’m going to the car with this lot; you get the booze?” She held the bags with one hand and dug out her wallet.

  “As soon as the money comes through—” said Christmas as she gave it to him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Bridget, “I know.”

  “Well, it’s embarrassing.”

  “Borrowing some cash after you were beaten up and robbed is not embarrassing. Those breasticles on the other hand ...”

  “Oh, very funny.”

  “You know, Harry,” Bridget pouted at him then took in a long breath, “my mum is really happy at the moment.”

  “Bridget—”

  “Shut up. She’s the happiest I’ve seen her, like, forever, and you might be an old pisshead and everything but, well,” she shifted her weight onto the other foot, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Thank you, Bridget. I—”

  “Back in a minute then, OK?” Bridget flashed him a smile and walked off into town. He watched her go. She disappeared around a corner. He looked at her wallet. He looked at the licorería. He looked down towards the sea and saw William Slade running towards him.

  30

  Slade.

  “Oh God.”

  Christmas pulled off his hat and erupted up Avenida Bermudez. Within seconds he was out of breath. He swung into an alley and then veered right, behind the licorería. There were pallets stacked beside fencing. He hid behind them, pale, wheezing, stuffing Bridget’s wallet into his pocket. How the fuck. . . ?

  He saw Slade stop at the corner, look around, then continue down the alley. Christmas ran across the backyard into the licorería.

  The owner spun round as Christmas came out from the back saying in Spanish, “Stop that other gringo! He’s trying to kill me! Stop him!” He dipped under the wooden bar and past the drinkers. Slade heard the shouts.

  Christmas crossed Avenida Bermudez. Puffing out short, high, breaths, his heart was pounding so fast he thought it might split. He ran through the door of the Caribana, a luxury posada, as Slade reappeared on the other side of the street.

  Christmas skittered past two cleaning girls, his belly bouncing, legs quivering, arms paddling, around the central courtyard, down a corridor, past an office and careered out through a restaurant and into its garden. He heard Slade yell. At the other end there was a high wall with a rickety wooden door. It was locked. He charged at the door with his injured shoulder and busted it from its hinges. Whimpering with pain, he hopped over the broken door, stumbling right and left down back alleys, his lungs sawing for breath. Hunchbacked with exertion, Christmas came out onto Calle Zea, a long straight street. He burst into an internet café.

  It was cold, air-conditioned, full of boys playing video games. The man behind the counter said something to him. Christmas hid beside the window, dizzy, gripping his hat. He thought he was going to vomit. Slade ran past.

  Christmas couldn’t check his breathing. He was gulping, grimacing, his chest felt snagged on barbed wire. He glanced around the room. It had a concrete floor and white walls. The only other door was to the toilet. He wiped back the sweat that was flooding his face and neck, looking out onto the street to see Judith’s car turn into Calle Zea, heading his way. Bridget was looking for him.

  Christmas lay trembling fingers on the door handle. Slade was still running up Calle Zea in the other direction, into town, though he had slowed to a jog. Another few seconds and Bridget would be level. He could flee from the door, across the street, into her car and away. The owner of the internet café was in front of him, firing questions. Ignoring the man, Christmas craned his head, watching Slade turn around, studying the car. Bridget stopped.

  “No, no, no!” Christmas cried.

  She parked, got out and went into a vegetable shop. Slade was heading back towards him, past the car. Christmas let go of the door handle. Slade was checking the shops on either side of the street. Christmas stepped around the owner and ran for the toilet, praying that it wasn’t a dead end.

  Slade stepped into a pharmacist’s, a hairdresser’s, a general store. Their atmospheres were undisturbed. He got to the internet café and opened the door. By the expression on the owner’s face he knew Christm
as was in there. Some of the boys had stopped playing their games moments before. They were all looking at him.

  In the far corner there was a maroon door marked ‘lavabo’. Slade pointed to it. “Is he in there?” The owner replied, but he didn’t understand. He went into the toilet and found that on the other side of the cubicles the room was not yet built. He was standing in a yard. Christmas was gone.

  Slade ran through it into an alley. He could go left or right. He chose right. He sprinted. He found himself back in Plaza Sucre. He looked down Avenida Bermudez, ran the other way and looked down Calle Zea. Nothing. Slade ran to his car.

  He drove through Rio Caribe as night fell, up and down the streets. After he had criss-crossed the part of town near the sea he headed inland, past the police station, the hospital, the town hall, past banks and taxis and trucks. Rio Caribe was busier here, more bodies and cars to scan, headlights and shadows. He drove past a white church. He found himself in Plaza Bolivar.

  Slade stopped. He got out. He stood in the middle of the plaza, cursing. A bus chugged loudly into life. It tooted its horn. It said ‘Caracas’ on the front. Slade watched it pull away. Many of the curtains were shut but he could still see passengers arranging themselves for the overnight journey. One of the pairs of curtains opened at the back and out peered the hollow face of Harry Christmas, checking to see if he was in the clear. The two men locked eyes.

  Christmas, absorbing his mistake, sat back in his seat, winded by self-loathing. He put his head in his hands.

  “Oh dear God,” he whispered.

  31

  Christmas bit at his knuckle, watching the other passengers wrap themselves in blankets and heavy coats. The air-conditioning was freezing. The man next to him was already asleep. This was the night bus to Caracas.

  They moved slowly through Rio Caribe. Christmas stared out between the curtains, trying to see behind. He saw carefree pedestrians. How could Slade have tracked him here? How had it come to this? Were these the last moments of his life?

  The bus leaned out onto Avenida Romulo Gallegos. They were heading along the coast, out of town. His heart was boxing with his chest. A car pulled alongside the bus, but didn’t overtake. It was Slade. Christmas looked down. Slade looked up. He grinned. Christmas shut the curtains.

  Christmas tried to control the panic. He swept the sweat from his face and hair. He stood up, hauling and squeezing himself over the sleeping man, out into the corridor. He went up to the bus driver and asked when the next stop was. Carúpano. Half an hour away. He looked through the windscreen. They were in countryside now, sea on one side, mountainous rock on the other, the road dark and winding. There were no lights save those of oncoming cars. He was travelling in the executioner’s cart. His reflection hovered above the driver’s. Already a ghost.

  Christmas went to the back of the bus. A single set of headlights was trailing them. The headlights flashed. Slade. Christmas dropped his head. He clambered over the sleeping man and got back into his seat. He opened his curtains. Slade, beside the bus now, looking up. Slade revved his engine. Christmas shut the curtains, took off his hat and held it with both hands on his knees.

  Slade saw the curtains shut and moved back behind the bus. He opened the glove compartment and took out the dive knife. He left it on the seat. They swept along the dark road, around sharp corners, up and over headlands, past cars heading to Rio Caribe.

  He looked out to the black ocean. He turned on the radio. It was playing salsa. He turned the dial until he heard music he recognised. Christmas appeared again in the rear window. The bus went round a bend. The radio played ‘If you’re going to San Francisco’. The bus reappeared. Slade waved. Christmas stepped away from the window. In his rear view mirror Slade saw The General sitting on the back seat. He turned around but the cat was gone. He drove along watching the mirror. He pulled alongside the bus. The curtains were open. He could see Christmas.

  After twenty minutes they approached a town. They passed a small, illuminated dock, a hotel, a twenty-four hour arepa restaurant surrounded by mopeds. Slade drove alongside the bus. There was Christmas. Slade dropped back. The road became tree-lined. It rose to a rough park on a cliff. There were street lights. Another hotel, graffiti that said ‘EXXXON MOBIL ... HIJOS DE PUTA!’, a Masonic temple, boarded up and rotting. Then they were in the town and slowing beside a long white wall. Slade could see the tops of buses. It was a terminal. The bus indicated left. It turned in and Slade followed. The bus drew into a bay. He parked up, took the knife, put his jacket over it and ran across the forecourt. He got there before the bus had come to a stop. There were travellers milling about, people selling street food, men with whistles.

  The bus doors opened. Slade looked up at the driver who said something to him. Some passengers came down the steps. Slade let them pass. Then he got on the bus. People were standing up, taking bags down from the rack, leaning over seats, talking to each other, looking at him. Slade saw Christmas at the back, still in his seat. He headed down the corridor, pushing past people who were trying to get out.

  Harry Christmas.

  The fat man was trying to hide behind his hat.

  “Peek-a-boo,” said Slade, picking the Panama off his face, but it wasn’t Christmas. It was a Venezuelan man. He was asleep.

  32

  Sitting there as the bus had swooped around the bends, Christmas pushed the butt of his hands into his eyes. Up on two legs, man! Think – you have to bloody breathe and bloody think!

  He clambered out of his seat, half-waking the man next to him and went back to talk to the bus driver. He took out Bridget’s wallet. He opened it. There was picture of Judith and Bridget with their arms around each other. He took out fifty dollars and offered it to the bus driver in exchange for opening the door when they went around the next corner.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “You don’t want fifty dollars?”

  “You want to jump off my bus?”

  “You see that car? The one that has been following us since Rio Caribe? The man in that car is trying to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me. I swear to God it’s the truth.” The bus driver glanced at his eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Because – because he just came out of prison for killing someone and he went to prison because I saw him kill that person and I told the police and now he’s tracked me down to Venezuela and he’s trying to kill me!”

  “He’s a gringo?”

  “He’s a gringo, he’s a murderer, and please, for the love of God I’m begging you, I have a wife and child – look at them, this is their picture – and you’re the only hope I have left and all you have to do is open the doors at the next bend. You slow down, he goes out of sight for a second, I jump, that’s it. Here, please, in the name of God, fifty dollars, take it!”

  “Señor, I—”

  “One hundred. One hundred dollars!”

  Christmas went to the back of the bus. He could see Slade waving. He stayed there until they turned a corner. Slade’s car disappeared for three countable seconds. Then it was back. He went to his seat. He crouched in the corridor beside the sleeping man, shook him awake and offered him his hat if they could swap places. Christmas handed the man his Panama. Still half-asleep the man took it, examined it, shrugged, moved next to the window, pulled the hat onto his head and promptly fell back to sleep. Christmas carefully opened the curtain.

  He went to the front of the bus. He gave the driver one hundred dollars. That left him twenty dollars and 260 bolívares.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” the driver said. “You’re crazy.”

  “I am alive,” said Christmas. He went down the steps to the door. The verge was changing width, sometimes down to no more than a yard before a steep drop into nothingness. The doors gassed open.

  “Next one,” said the driver, watching Slade in the rear view mirror. The verge widened. Christmas felt the rush of wind, the smells of sea and fumes and vegetation.
He saw the long grass rushing past.

  “Ready,” said the driver. They swung round the bend, the driver watching the mirror. “Now!” and a fifty-eight year old, overweight, injured man with fear in his guts and a memory that you had to try and stay loose in a fall, leapt from the bus into the dark.

  Crunch.

  Grass and branches. Spinning and crashing through undergrowth, his mind empty but for the prayer that he would not fall off a cliff. Christmas came to a stop.

  He looked up into the night and heard the fading engines. Panting, Christmas moved his limbs, anticipating pain. His ribs stabbed him. His shoulder felt dislocated. Christmas turned over and pushed himself up a little so he could see beyond the grass. There were no cars within sight. Clearing twigs from his neck, he lay down again, listening to crickets and wiping his face. He heard a noise and lay flat, but it was nothing. Christmas slowly got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the road, wincing and cursing until he caught sight of tail lights curving over the next headland.

  Scratched, broken and hobbling, he tried to walk along the verge but the grass was too thick. He went onto the tarmac. Headlights came over the brow, heading back towards Rio Caribe, so he hopped back into the grass and lay down, muffling himself against the pain. It was a truck. Once it had passed he got back onto the road again. Another set of headlights approached. He resisted the impulse to hide. He couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t Slade, but he had to risk it, telling himself that if Slade had seen him jump he would have stopped immediately. Christmas whispered another prayer and stuck out his thumb. Rio Caribe was too far to walk. He had to get off the roadside before the bus arrived in Carúpano.

  The car slowed to a stop. Christmas covered his eyes and squinted. It was an elderly couple. They had never seen a hitch-hiking gringo before.

  Christmas eased into the back, biting his lip against the pain. He smiled. The relief overtook him. He started laughing. It hurt, but he couldn’t stop.

  “You OK?” said the man.

  “I’m just very happy,” said Christmas, “that you stopped. I got lost.”