A Bright Moon for Fools

by Jasper Gibson

  “Dios Mio!” exclaimed Lola when she ran into the house with an umbrella. “The—” but she saw the washing machine, safe and in the dry. Christmas sat at the kitchen table.

  “You got that?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes.” Lola blew a long note of approval.

  “Verga – OK, you come outside. The pigs need—”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “What?”

  “I cannot get out of this seat.”

  48

  For the next few days Christmas was confined to the house with a bad back. He couldn’t have cared less. When he was close to Lola it was as if all the points of her face were points in his mind, the configuration to a forgotten safe, something unlocking. He found himself enslaved by a constant analysis of how she was acting, if she was playful or grumpy, and whether that meant he was more or less in favour. Neither back pain nor mosquitoes meant anything to him, as long as he could dimple that face with a smile.

  She fed him plates of guayaba fruit, toasted sweetbread with butter and eggs, fried chicken with small, sweet peppers, rice with fish and carrots and fried cambur. He watched her flick her hair over her shoulder. He watched her buttocks barge each other forward, her green eyes shimmer and her brown skin shine.

  One evening she cooked a cunaro fish with rice and fried okuma that was stuffed with mango chutney. The smells were irresistible, full of sweetness and spice. “I think I can make it to the table for this one,” called Christmas as the others sat down to eat, but his back wasn’t quite ready and it trapped him halfway through the rise.

  Suddenly Lola had her arms around him, squeezing him against her, the old man shouting “Epalé!” as his daughter picked up the Englishman and danced him to the table. Their eyes were almost touching. She plonked Christmas down. The contact was too wonderful, too unexpected. He blushed.

  Christmas felt the glow overpower his face. The more he fought it the hotter it got. He stared down at his plate, inspecting its contents with the greatest interest he had shown any meal since a winter’s night in Cumbria in nineteen seventy-eight had forced him and his companions to rustle and butcher a sheep. The devil take you, Christmas cursed himself, are you fifty-eight or four-fucking-teen? After a few moments, feeling the flush subside, Christmas looked up to check whether his brief new colour had gone unnoticed. Lola was staring straight at him. A skew-whiff half-smile made its début appearance on Christmas’ face.

  The days were clear and hot. Festival preparations were underway, the Old Testament crackheads working even harder than usual. The grass that grew in the middle of the main street was cut, the earth raked, the rubbish cleared. Bunting was strung up across the streets. A building Christmas had never seen open before was now full of children stacking palettes of beer from the back of a pick-up truck. People gathered in bigger groups, there was more playfulness, more laughter. Tents appeared on the beach, families swollen with returning sons and daughters, cousins, friends; economic exiles back from Caracas. They arrived by boat, bright suitcases wrapped in plastic, baseball caps and bikini tops, bellies, guts and make-up.

  “You can’t sleep,” the old woman with hardly any hair warned Christmas; “there’s too much noise and too many people.”

  “Bleurrgh,” said the old man from his sofa, “It’s six days of partying! Six days of drinking! Six days of dancing!”

  “Not for you, old man!” the woman cackled. “You can dance with your pipi! That’s it!”

  “When the disco arrives – boooof! – all day, all night, bom-bom-bom – you better learn salsa quick, gringo.” The old man leant forward and turned on the CD player for the village anthem: “Que se acabe la plata / pero que goce yo / que se acabe el dinero/ pero mi vida noooo ...”

  “Are you from Colombia?” shouted Christmas over the music.

  “What?”

  “Exactly. You are not from Colombia, so I do not refer to you as Colombian. I am not from the United States, so will you please stop calling me gringo!”

  “Maybe if you dance good, like a Venezuelan, the people will stop calling you gringo.”

  “I have a personal style, developed over a lifetime of attending awkward events. I am not about to chuck it all away because of your fascist insistence on salsa ...”

  But the old man was not listening. He was clapping, “Hep! Hep! Hep! Hep!” and she was on her feet dancing, albeit in a rather minimal way.

  Christmas couldn’t wait for the festival. He had great hopes he could get Lola drunk. On the Sunday, with his back improved, he went for a walk and found a twenty bolívar note screwed up in the mud. It wasn’t much, but Christmas took it as a definite wink from the gods. He went to the cockpit, bet the twenty and turned it into forty, then into eighty, then into one hundred and sixty.

  He took his winnings and sat on the jetty wall looking out to sea. He turned the notes over and over. He had enough money to get back to Caracas, to get back to England. “The devil take you, England!” Christmas shouted. He bought two bottles of rum for Lola, a carton of Belmont cigarettes for the old man, vegetables, chicken, pork, a dusty and forgotten bottle of ketchup, coffee, eggs, chocolate bread, frozen yoghurts, ice cream and with great pleasure he hired his crackhead friend El Perro to wheelbarrow the whole lot to Lola’s house.

  Aldo was in the yard, lying on a sedated pig. An extension cord ran from the house and he was holding the homemade tattoo gun with one hand, the ink pot in the other, carefully following the new nativity design that was sketched onto the animal’s skin. The contraption hummed and clicked. The other pig snorted uncomfortably from its pen. The original Virgin Mary had been joined by some other figures, one of which was an enormous kidney bean baby Jesus. The wonky gothic lettering was now a shed, or perhaps a mountain. El Perro seemed disgusted by the whole project.

  “So,” asked Christmas, “that’s the Virgin Mary, that’s Christ, who’s—?”

  “That isn’t the Virgin Mary, that’s Mama. That’s Grandpa, that’s me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s you.”

  49

  Oscar discovered that Christmas had spent a night in Hacienda Macuro. His name was in the guest register and the owner recognised the photo. It took a few more days to locate the taxi driver who had taken him to Guiria. There the trail went cold, but it was enough information for Oscar to get Slade out of his house and away from his wife and family. He too had come to loathe and distrust the foreigner. Slade never took off those round, mirrored sunglasses. He didn’t wash. He didn’t have a toothbrush. He was grinning all the time. It wasn’t a human grin. It was animal.

  Oscar took Slade on the back of his moto-taxi to Guiria. They stopped to eat at a roadside restaurant. “Get me a beer,” Slade ordered when they sat down. “A cold one.”

  “You paying for a guide. You want slave, it cost more oíste, cabrón?”

  Slade didn’t reply for a while, then, smirking, he said, “How much more?” The waiter arrived. They ate in silence.

  “So,” said Slade, “How much is he paying you?”

  “Who?”

  “You know. How much more are you getting for this thing you’re doing?”

  “What ‘thing’?”

  “Oh. Oscar. I think we both know.”

  “No. I do not know.”

  “OK, OK. I understand,” said Slade, patting Oscar’s shoulder then squeezing it. “This is how it’s got to be, right?” Slade was grinning. “This is how he wants it.”

  By the time they arrived in Guiria, it was already getting dark. They found a posada up some steps above a shoe shop. While Oscar negotiated with the owner, a black cat wound figures-of-eight between Slade’s ankles. There were cats everywhere.

  Beyond the reception area the posada was a corridor lined with rooms. Once he had given Slade his room key and had been paid for the day, Oscar disappeared into town, desperate to get away from him. Slade went into his room and put hi
s rucksack on his bed. He took his mobile phone out of his bag and rang Diana. His number had been blocked. He turned on the television and watched a news channel he couldn’t understand.

  For three days they crawled about in the heat and dust of Guiria. They went to every posada, every hotel. They showed Christmas’ photo to waitresses, to licorería owners, to empanada sellers, but all they got was a crazed barefoot drunk, the hundredth person to ask Slade for money that day, who saw the photo and hopped about, biting his lip and shrieking, “He is my friend! He is my friend!”

  On the fourth day Oscar rose early. He opened the door of Slade’s room and told him he was going back to Cumana to check on his wife. He saw the photograph of Christmas was tacked to the ceiling above his bed. Slade raised his head from the pillow.

  The next evening Oscar was back. He parked and locked up his motorbike. He walked up the stairs, shooing kids out of his way. When he got to Slade’s room, he could hear talking.

  Oscar opened the door. Slade didn’t notice. He was alone but he had captured one of the cats. He was kneeling on the cat’s body, pushing its jaw against the cement floor with the flat of his hand. With his other hand, he pressed a teaspoon to its cheek. In one move he dug in and flicked out the cat’s eye. The cat made a retching sound with its throat. Oscar whispered a short prayer. Slade turned round. His knee came off the cat’s chest just enough for it to squirm its body free and scrabble out of the open window, screaming, its eye hanging by the optic nerve.

  “What are you?” said Oscar

  “What are you?” repeated Slade, grinning widely. “What are you?”

  50

  On Tuesday, the first day of the festival, a huge troupe of Lola’s friends came round to do their hair and nails. The crowd of adaptors hanging onto the socket in the front room doubled in size; straighteners, curlers, hair-dryers, tongs. The old man disappeared out the back but Christmas was determined to brave this dragoon, knowing that if a man can get along with a woman’s friends, his stock is up.

  They were all over the house, on the porch, underneath the trees, silver foil twisted into their hair, shoulders covered with towels beside brushes and paint and combs and jugs of hot water. The stereo was on full blast: “Que se acabe la plata / pero que goce yo / que se acabe el dinero/ pero mi vida no.” Christmas bounced between the groups, keeping the Cuba Libres flowing, sipping only Coke himself, summoning all his charm; he complimented, he joked, he took impromptu salsa classes, he let himself be laughed at. Lola began to get tipsy. Then, as night fell and Christmas was arguing with two women who were determined to paint his nails, a great cry went up.

  A man appeared through the cambur, a bit younger than Christmas, wearing a silk shirt and pressed cotton trousers. He looked as if he had spent his youth in a band. He was tanned and groomed, with broad shoulders and a big smile. He did not have a moustache. Lola got up and flung her arms around him. Christmas felt something hot slithering around in his stomach. The women readjusted themselves in the newcomer’s presence. They bade him sit and gave him a drink. Lola was acting like a little girl, giggling, rolling her eyes, making high-pitched noises. They beckoned Christmas over. He shook the hand of the man, who immediately said something Christmas didn’t understand. Everybody laughed. The man went on talking as if Christmas wasn’t there. Christmas looked around but there were no free seats. He stepped back from the group and leant against the tree, listening. The man was back from Caracas. The man was working as such-and-such. The man was doing so-and-so. Ponce thought Christmas, Bloody spic ponce. Unwilling to count himself as part of this man’s fan club, he sauntered off to the house.

  “Hey, gringo!” Lola shouted. “Get some more ice!” She watched him go. Her friends started elbowing her, and telling the man the whole Harry Christmas story. She laughed and pushed back. Wasn’t the gringo handsome now that he had a tan? Those blue eyes? Couldn’t she tell how crazy he was about her? It was festival time – wasn’t she going to do anything about it? Lola stood up and winked at her friends. They gave back a cheer.

  Inside Christmas paced about, snatching glimpses through the door, listening to the jollity. Who the devil was this man? Why the devil was he here? He opened the fridge door, breathed, shut it again, opened it, shut it.

  “Is there a problem with the door?” Lola was standing right by him.

  “Yes. Fixed now.” He opened it again. “See?”

  “Gracias,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Christmas was stunned. Lola was smiling. It was a drunken, full-beam, lazy-eyed smile.

  “Who’s that?” said Christmas, pouting toward the man.

  “Old friend,” she said. “His daughter is my god-daughter. He is from—” She pouted upwards. Guiria.

  “Ah.” There was silence. Her green eyes were getting lazier, her hair newly-curled, flecks of potato chip on her chin.

  “Are you jealous?” Lola raised her eyebrows. She looked cheeky as the devil. She put her hand on his arm.

  In every cell of his being, in every body and anti-body, in all the streams of plasma and in every worm hole of his wooden heart, Christmas recognised this moment. This was the kiss that he had been waiting for. But he was panicking. Emily? he called out, Can I do this? Is this OK?

  Lola waited.

  Still he did nothing, blinking, reddening, paralyzed as in dreams.

  Aldo walked in. Lola folded her arms. Her eyes no longer looked lazy. Now she looked cross.

  “Hey gringo, when are you going to let us do your hair?” another woman came in from outside. Lola sucked her teeth and took some ice from the fridge. Then she was gone.

  What the fuck was that? Christmas railed at himself. What the fuck is wrong with you, you bloody moron!

  Shaking with self-disgust, Christmas stumbled out the back door and into the yard. If it was any other woman, he thought, any of the ones he didn’t really care about, he would be kissing her by the fridge right now. There was the old man. Christmas needed to smoke a cigarette.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said the old man.

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “I have a Russian.”

  “Fine.” The old man passed him a hand-rolled cigarette made out of exercise book paper. It was about as far from a Sobrani as you could get, but Christmas didn’t care. He lit it, inhaled, noted its strange odour, felt a numbing of the lips, a spangled exhilaration, thought this isn’t a cigarette, and exhaled as Lola filled the doorway. She sniffed.

  “Mama guevo!” she bayed, “You smoking crack! You smoking crack with my father!”

  “Wait – no – Lola, I thought it was a cigarette. You said it was a cigarette!”

  “I said it was a Russian,” shrugged the old man, “marijuana and crack. Here it’s called ‘a Russian’.”

  “But—”

  Lola stormed over and cuffed Christmas across the head. The old man started shouting but it was no good. She grabbed Christmas by the collar and pulled him towards the house.

  “Get off me, woman! This is a mistake, will you just let me—”

  “Get out of my house! Hijo de puta! Out!” She shoved him through the house, sending the tortoise spinning off into a corner, out into the group of silenced friends, past the man, to the dark edge of the cambur, shouting and struggling all the way.

  “Go, gringo, enough! Hijo de puta!”

  “Will you shut up and listen!”

  “Go! Get away from me!”

  “But—”

  “Go!” She picked up an axe handle.

  “Bleurrgh,” said Christmas finally, and off he maundered into the village, swearing and shaking his head.

  51

  “UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!” Christmas shouted up at the night and then sat down on a tree stump in despair. Men wandered about gripping bottles of Cacique, Vallenato music blaring from every house. People tried to talk to him but he waved them away. He walked down to the sea. He walked into the boatyard, lay down in the hull of an unfinished boat and thought about
his life. He got up and walked to the end of the jetty. He sat down on the jetty for a while. He got up and walked towards the village. He walked past the library. The door was open. It was a small room being cleaned by two women. There was a hole in the roof and the books were being taken from the shelves and piled up on the floor. Some were rotten, others curtseying from the damp.

  Christmas wandered through into the infocentro. This room was pristine and air-conditioned, with rows of white computers. Christmas nodded at the people he recognised and sat down at an available screen. He typed ‘Harry Strong’ into Google. Up came a list of reviews for When the Naa Tree Sings and Peabody’s Boat. He clicked on a thumbnail. The real Harry Strong looked like a celebrity plastic surgeon. He had a long, tanned face and floppy, perfect hair. Then he typed in ‘What am I going to do?’ The search engine referred him to an article subdivided into headings: ‘What does success mean to me?’ ‘What are my non-negotiable needs?’ and ‘What are my non-negotiable boundaries?’

  Outside, Christmas sought somewhere to lie down. He found a section of quayside wall hidden behind a tree. He filled his nose with the soft vegetable smell of the sea and closed his eyes to its lapping. The wall was only just wide enough. He crossed his ankles. I could turn round and fall in, he thought, just roll off and away.

  “Gringo!” Lola Rosa was standing by his feet. She had some of the food he had bought, including the last bottle of rum, and his jacket. Christmas sat up. Lola dumped everything onto the ground, eyes wide with anger. “This is all your things. I don’t want them in my house! Now you can leave San Cristóbal! Now you can go!” Christmas said nothing. He was the most tired he’d ever felt. He picked up the rum and thought fuck it. He opened the bottle.