A Bright Moon for Fools

by Jasper Gibson

  “Where are you from?”

  “England,” he said, laughing and the couple were laughing now too, though with bemusement.

  “Where are you headed?” said the woman.

  “Guiria,” Christmas laughed.

  “We are going as far as Chacaracuar, OK?”

  “That’s great,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “Wherever.” He felt for Emily’s book. What if Judith hadn’t told him to take his jacket? “Thank you,” he sighed, chuckling. “Oh, Jesus Christ, thank you, thank you.”

  33

  Slade checked every face on the bus, every face outside it, underneath the bus, in the luggage compartment. No Christmas.

  “Fat,” he interrogated the driver, forcing the photograph into his face. “English – that hat there – that one—” louder, over and over again, but the driver refused to talk to him. He shook his head. “No English,” he said. The other passengers wouldn’t talk to Slade either. The driver had told everyone that he was a gringo murderer, just released from prison. Slade went back to the driver. His coat slipped. The driver saw the dive knife and started yelling for help. Slade left the bus. Men approached. They began to encircle him. They were shouting. His coat fell away. He held the knife in front of him and backed towards his car.

  He got in and shut the door. Some of the men tried to block his path. He drove into them. They got out of the way, kicking the car. Slade sped out onto the road. Another car had to emergency brake, horn blaring; more voices swearing, but Slade was on the other side of the road, heading back to Rio Caribe.

  The vehicle slid along the dark coast. Inside, Slade punched the dashboard, again and again. He roared and yanked at the steering wheel and punched the roof and took the knife with his free hand and stabbed the passenger seat in the legs and chest. Then he pulled his arm right back and stabbed it through the face and left the knife sticking out. He panted. He dug his hand into his pocket for the map drawn on the napkin. He stretched it over the steering wheel with both hands, examining it, accelerating.

  Judith and Bridget were in the kitchen. Bridget had driven around and around Rio Caribe, getting increasingly cross until she decided that the only possibilities were that he was getting drunk somewhere or had already made his own way back.

  “What do you mean you lost him, you stupid girl?” Judith was gulping from a glass of wine. “Look at this bloody dinner! The guests are going to be here any minute and they’ve all come to meet him and – oh God, it’s a disaster! How could you?”

  “Have you listened to a single word I’ve said? I told him to wait by the licorería and when I got there he’d gone and that, Mother, is not my fucking fault!”

  “Don’t you swear at me!”

  “Well, stop shouting then!”

  Judith downed her glass and crossed her arms. “I mean what’s he going to do? He hasn’t got any money.”

  “I gave him my wallet. He’s got plenty of money.”

  “You did what?”

  “I said, ‘Take my wallet, buy the booze, I’ll meet you back here.’ I told you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look, Mummy, I think we both know what’s happened, OK?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “He’s an alcoholic. He’s in a back room in Rio Caribe somewhere pissed out of his mind, probably passed out by now. Tomorrow he’ll wake up and—”

  “Shut up!”

  “Mummy—”

  “He wouldn’t do that to me!” She began to sob, “... it’s my birthday.” Bridget took a deep breath. There was a knock at the door. “Oh Christ!” said Judith, wiping her face. “They’re early. Perfect. Just perfect. Haven’t even put my face on and everything’s ruined and Harry and—”

  “Mummy,” said Bridget, taking her by the shoulders. “Calm down, OK? I’ll take care of the guests. You go and get ready. I’m sure Harry’s going to turn up any minute. I’m sure he’ll realise the time and he’s probably on his way right now in a taxi or something, OK? All right?” Judith exhaled and nodded. Bridget gave her a hug, and then walked through the house to the front door shouting, “Just a second!”

  She pulled open the door to meet the boiling eyes of a large white man with a burnt, unshaven face. He looked deranged, as if he had just walked out of a train crash. Bridget stepped back.

  “Is he here?” Slade demanded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fucking Christmas! Harry fucking Christmas!”

  “What?”

  “Is he here?” Slade pushed past her and stepped inside.

  “Hey!” she said, “HEY!” He went into the courtyard. He looked up at the doors. “Hey, I’m talking to you! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Mummy! Call the police!” Judith came out of her bedroom.

  “What’s going on? Who are you?”

  “Harry Christmas. Where is he? Is he up there?” Slade ran upstairs and Judith backed away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” shouted Bridget. Slade was on the landing, pushing open doors. “Mummy, where’s the phone?”

  “What the bloody hell is going on here? You! Young man, I’m talking to you!” bellowed Judith, following him around. “How dare you go barging around my house like this? Get out! Immediately!” Slade ran downstairs. Judith ran down behind him and over to her daughter, pulling her close.

  “He was here though, wasn’t he?”

  “Get out of my house this instant!” yelled Judith, “This instant!” Slade pulled the photograph of Christmas from his back pocket.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Oh my God! Harry! Why have you got Harry’s picture?”

  “So you do know him.”

  “What is going on here?” demanded Bridget.

  “Don’t fuck me about!” threatened Slade, “Where is Harry Christmas?”

  “Harry what?”

  “He’s called Harry Christmas. He’s a thieving piece of shit and I’m looking for him and I know he was here and want to know where the fuck he is now, understand?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been conned. He’s a conman, his name’s not Strong, it’s Christmas, and I want to know where the fuck he is right the fuck now!”

  “A conman?” stammered Judith. “What on earth are you talking about? Right, that’s it! Now get out! Get out and leave us alone!” Slade wasn’t listening. He was running his eyes over the daughter. She had an inquisitive, feline face with cunning little shoulders. She was wearing a miniskirt and a bikini and she knew he was telling the truth.

  “Mummy,” she said, “where’s the phone?”

  “It’s over there. Call the police.”

  “I’m going to – just a second. We need to – just wait a second.” Bridget went over to a side table. She picked up the phone. She got through to a friend in England whom she told to put ‘Harry Strong, novelist’ into a search engine and pull up some photos.

  “What does he look like ...?” Bridget’s face began to fall. She turned away. “So he’s not fat? At all?” She looked back at her mother. “How old? ... Right. Shit. No moustache? No, OK ... Look, I’ll call you later and explain. No, everything’s fine ... Thanks – OK – Bye.” Bridget cocked her head to the side and sighed deeply. “Mummy ...”

  Judith sank to the floor. “No, no, it’s not true, it’s not true, no, Harry, please, no, it can’t be true ...” She exploded into tears, weeping from her lungs and her gut.

  “Now where is he?” said Slade

  “Look, dickhead, can’t you see she’s upset?” snapped Bridget. “Fuck’s sake!” Bridget pulled her mother to her feet. “Come on, Mummy, let’s get you upstairs, let’s lie down, come on, shush, it’s going to be OK, shhh ...”

  He watched Bridget guide her mother up the stairs. He could see her ribs moving beneath her skin. They went into Judith’s bedroom and shut the door. After a moment, Bridget reappeared at the top of the stairs. She hovered, swore, and then trotted down.

  “So he’s like a professional? A
professional conman? This is, like, what he does? All the time?”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “This afternoon, in Rio Caribe. He just ... disappeared.”

  “He hasn’t been back?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “Do I know where he was planning to go once he’d conned us, ruined my mother’s life and stolen my wallet? No, funnily enough, I do not – excuse me ...” She went past him into the kitchen. “How did you know he was here?” Slade didn’t reply. “Jesus ...” Bridget was rifling through kitchen drawers. “Where are those pills? I mean what a – a bastard ... God, I feel sick—” She stopped. Slade was examining her.

  “What are you—” Slade moved towards her.

  She backed up against the cupboards.

  “Hey, what—” Slade grabbed her face with one hand, squeezing her cheeks together, trapping the noise. With his other hand he grabbed her hair, yanking back her neck, and pushed her against the sink.

  “Call me a dickhead?” He took her throat, choking her. “Friend of yours, is he?” Bridget could only see over his shoulder. She would never forget what she saw there: a dark window filled with insects.

  “Bridget?” Judith called from upstairs, “Where are you?” He spun her round and pushed her head down into the sink, crushing it against the metal, gripping her neck. With his other hand he searched between her legs and ripped down her bikini bottoms. She was struggling, bucking, trying to scream, but when he got his penis out and forced it into her she froze.

  He raped her, squeezing at her body, smothering her face, while her mother called out her name and The General stared in through the window.

  When he’d come in her, he threw her onto the floor. He thought she looked like a fish, eyes wide, gaping for breath.

  He pulled up his jeans and went into the courtyard.

  He left the house. The crickets were loud. The forest was vibrating.

  He got into his car and was about to start the engine when a jeep came up the drive. He pulled the knife out of the headrest. He stayed in the dark until the new arrivals had got out, chatting and clutching bottles of rum. When he was sure Christmas wasn’t among them he put the knife down. He switched on his headlights. They turned round. Slade drove away.

  34

  Christmas’ elation at having escaped Slade was short-lived. As the old couple drove him through the night, he lapsed into confusion and regret. Nothing made sense. How had that maniac found him? Was he some kind of expert? A tracker? A detective? No, he was a thug. What was it then? Luck? Just plain old rotten luck? Now that Christmas could believe in. Sod’s law. The exact opposite of what you wanted materialising in front of your face every bloody time. His quarry having disappeared, Slade decides to go to the beach – What’s the nicest bit of beach? he asks someone – Sucre, they say, the Paria Peninsula, Rio Caribe, it’s where Columbus went blah blah blah and – bingo – there’s old Christmas, right bang slap in the middle of the street. Yes, that was the kind of luck he was used to.

  And what of Judith? It was the old girl’s birthday party, for God’s sake. He’d ruined that for her. She’d be worried sick until she realised he’d legged it and then she’d be devastated. Well, it was better than leading William Slade to their door. And Bridget? She’d always think he nicked her wallet on purpose. Christmas let out a profound sigh. There was no helping it. He couldn’t go back now. They’d figure out he wasn’t Harry Strong sooner or later and then they’d both hate him anyway, so what difference did it make? He deserved to be hated. He was breaking Judith’s heart. Yes, she was a bit bats, but she was a game old bird really, a game old thing when all was said and done ...

  They drove through Rio Caribe, then took the road south towards Yaguaraparo and Guiria. Christmas tried to reassure himself. If it was luck then – just a case of one-in-a-million, bad bloody luck – then surely it could not happen again. This random car, taking him somewhere only he and Emily knew about – how could Slade possibly follow him there?

  A mile before Chacaracuar, the old couple let him out at a posada. Breathing against his pains, he eased himself out of the car, thanking them over and over. Holding his ribs and shoulder, he watched their car disappear and walked up a short drive of rhododendrons and into Hacienda Macuro. The man at the reception desk asked for his passport. Christmas gripped his trouser pockets, then his jacket. His passport. It was hidden behind the wardrobe in Judith’s bedroom.

  Biting down on a curse, Christmas recited his passport number. The man seemed satisfied, logging it in his guest book while Christmas stood there, furious. His passport was still at Judith’s. The man asked for payment, 150 bolívares. Christmas opened the wallet. There were Judith and Bridget, their arms round each other.

  Christmas was led up green wooden stairs that he took one step at a time, the man offering help. Christmas waved him on, the pain in his ribs and shoulder jabbing at his temper. They went along a green wooden balustrade to one of the green wooden doors, overlooking a courtyard and a pool ringed with plants. The man opened the door and turned on the light. Christmas turned off the light and shut it again. He had more pressing business.

  Next to reception, the green wooden bar was full of murmuring people and the plucking of a four-stringed quarto on the radio. A woman behind the bar wiped down the cutlery, dropping it into a tray. It was a tall room with lights covered in ribbons hanging from the roof. Painted driftwood, ceramic animals, flags and rattan baskets all climbed the walls. Christmas stood in the doorway and eyed the rows of spirits. Beethoven’s head kept watch above them; electric lights in his eyes simulating fiery talent. He ordered a bottle of Cacique and inspected the patrons.

  There was a table of shaggy-haired Germans. They ate at a table while consigning their Venezuelan guide to eat at the bar. This man and Christmas exchanged a nod – in agreement, Christmas assumed, about the turpitude of his party. In another corner there was a family from Caracas, Spanish-looking and fashionable, while next to him an American couple in their thirties were fondling each other’s noses. The man was squarely-built, the woman blonde.

  Christmas sat down. He took out the wallet. He looked at the photograph of Judith and Bridget. He put the wallet away. The American woman caught his eye.

  “Hi there!” she said, “Just got into town?”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “British?”

  “That’s two out of two so far.”

  “On your own?” Christmas was outraged by the question. Yes, I am on my own, the devil take you! What of it?

  “You can come and join us if you want to,” she nodded to her boyfriend, who also began to nod, though rather more slowly. Christmas was flabbergasted. Was there no limit to their effrontery?

  “You are inviting me to join you at your table.”

  “That’s right.” Christmas didn’t move. Strange moments passed as he assembled his poisoned, angry energies. Then, barking an impatient “Rum!” towards the bar, he rose, straining and grunting and grating the table against the floor as he launched himself into their world.

  “Chris,” he smiled, “Akabusi.”

  “Linda Craven, and this is Steven.”

  “Steven Da—”

  “I said ‘rum’!” Christmas interrupted, sending the order sideways through his face without turning round.

  “Hey,” laughed the man awkwardly, “take it easy, buddy.” Christmas widened an eye.

  “Are you a doctor of medicine?”

  “Me?”

  Christmas didn’t reply. He was noting the man’s T-shirt. It said ‘Bethesda, Maryland’.

  “Soooo,” said the woman brightly, trying to reclaim the moment, “you here on vacation?”

  “No.”

  “You work here?”

  “No.”

  “You live—?”

  “No. I am an inventor,” he said bitterly. He couldn’t even be bothered to lie well. “I have come here ...” A bottle of rum
and three glasses arrived on the table “... to invent.” He opened the bottle. “You?”

  “No thanks, not for—”

  “Splendid.”

  “So – I’m sorry – you’re here to invent something?”

  Christmas paid no attention. He splashed his glass full and took a long draw on it, squeezing his eyes closed as all of his senses left their posts to join hands and dance in the sweet golden ford that now brooked his tongue. “The humidity,” he gasped, “helps me think. Keeps the mind sticky; the synapses, you understand, more ... adhesive.”

  “Really? Well, isn’t that interesting.”

  “What have you invented?” said the man, who was finding the whole situation rather less interesting than his girlfriend.

  “I dunno. The self-cleaning teeth? Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard about those – and the chair that acts like a table.”

  “You invented stools?”

  “Condoms for dogs!” Christmas toasted himself. “That was the big one, but I suffered terrible reprisals at the hands of the animal liberation front, Catholic wing. They hounded me out of the country,” Christmas held up the moment with his eyebrows.

  “Hounded,” said the man.

  “So I moved to Ruritania where I became famous for – shall we say – my psychic speed-reading events.”

  “Speed-reading?”

  “I’m at a table, they’re in a queue: ‘Teacher – sock fetish – mother died of boredom. Next!’ It was so successful they gave me my own television programme, from which I had a string of hits culminating in the ratings-buster ‘Is Your Daughter A Virgin?’ where parents stood to earn ten thousand Ruritanian yen if they guessed correctly. Extra bonuses depending on how accurately they guessed the sexual acts she had accomplished. Lie detectors. Crying. All the usual humiliation. Great success. Unfortunately some parents took the avalanche of information rather badly and one poor girl was shot. End of commission. But what do you do? You move on. Then I became head of the Texas Communist Party. I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, but he’s British, and that shows just how bad things are down there. Then I became a dentist, just like my father, only rather better than him as I was only drunk in the afternoons.” Christmas stopped abruptly. There was an uncomfortable silence. “I say,” he said, pouring another rum, “would you permit me a modicum of unwarranted levity?”