A Bright Moon for Fools

by Jasper Gibson

  “Huh!” snorted Lola and off she stormed into the darkness. Christmas took a long deep swig. He gasped, wiping his mouth. “Verga!” he cursed. Then he ran after her.

  “Now listen here!” he said, grabbing Lola by the arm and swinging her round. She raised her hand to hit him.

  “Let go of me, gringo!”

  “If you listen! Jesus Christ, woman! You’ve done all the talking and all the shouting as per usual but now it’s my turn so will you just listen? I never asked to come here. It was a mistake, OK? I just ended up here and you were here and that was a great bloody surprise and you and your father took me in and looked after me and I am very, very, very grateful for that. I was sticking around just until I could make a contribution and I know you didn’t want me here and I’ve tried to do my bit while I sorted myself out – in a small way, I know – but I’ve tried. And don’t worry, don’t you worry – you will never have to see me again, OK? And, as that’s the case, I’ll tell you this, and damn you, woman, you better listen because it’s the last thing you will ever hear me say, but I just wanted you to know that – that—”

  “That what?”

  “That ...” he looked at the rum bottle “... that when I finally had one bloody bolívar in my pocket, all I wanted to do was buy something for you; all I wanted to do was give you something,” and he shoved the bottle at her like a dare, “and the truth is, in the kitchen just then, I thought we were going to, you know – but – but I didn’t and I don’t know why, but – OK – I’m a coward, that’s why – and so I went outside feeling bloody awful and I asked your father for a cigarette because I felt so bloody stupid and he gave me one with crack in it and I had no idea, OK? No idea at all. So you’re kicking me out and that’s fine. I know I have been hanging around like a fat old baboon and well, I deserve it, in general that is, but though you are absolutely right about me – I am an hijo de puta – you are wrong about that, OK? You are not right about that. I didn’t know. You ask him. That’s the fucking truth!” Lola yanked free her arm. “One drink, we’ll say goodbye, that’s it. I’m leaving.” He shoved the bottle at her again. She snatched it, took a swig and shoved it back. “I’m telling the truth. I did not know that cigarette had crack it it,” he repeated, taking a swig, returning the rum. She drank again, thrust it back. So it went on for several exchanges.

  “It’s the truth,” he said again, towards the end of the bottle.

  “OK,” said Lola, gasping and wiping her chin. “I believe you.”

  “And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I—” They heard shouts a little way off. Lola started walking towards them. Christmas finished the bottle, left it on the wall, picked up his jacket and followed her into a stampede running back towards the jetty.

  The sound system for the fiesta had arrived. Lola and Harry were borne along by the crowd, the boat coming out of the night as if carrying a slain giant, a great form wrapped in plastic. The crowd leant over the quayside. Lola put a hand on his shoulder so she could see better. Once the engines were cut and the boat was pulled into position, the plastic was pulled back and men lifted boxes of wires and speakers onto their shoulders, through the water and onto the back of a pick-up truck. By the time the boat was empty, the Cacique had taken effect: Harry and Lola were plastered.

  They meandered towards home up and then off the main streets, into the narrow pathways and the dark. Lola walked in front. He reached out and touched her fingers. She did not flinch but stopped and turned round. They were facing each other. There were crickets and moon shadow and the spinning mischief of the earth.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  “Stupid,” she said, “Well. Yes.”

  He kissed her. She was full in his arms. They went back to the house, stopping and kissing all the way. She led him into her room and they made fierce, sweltering love. He was astonished throughout. They fell asleep. She started snoring.

  52

  It was an ugly music. Trolls in angry congress. Someone trying to drive pigs over a bridge. Christmas tried whispering, talking, shouting, rolling her over. Nothing worked for long. He woke up with his arm on her face, his finger and thumb resting either side of her nose ready for the pinch. It was early, the disco already booming Vallenato across the village. Even though it was a ten-minute walk to the Plaza Bolivar from Lola’s house the music arrived loud and clear through the wall: “Que se acabe la plata / pero que goce yo / que se acabe el dinero/ pero mi vida no ...”

  Christmas got up and walked into the kitchen. There was a man sparked out on his bed in the front room. The man woke up, looked about him, said “Verrrrrga ...” and then wandered out the door. The old man was asleep in a chair on the porch. Christmas inhaled. The morning burst across his soul. He released a bottle of Cacique from the old man’s fingers and battled his hangover, fire with fire.

  Harry, in the most tremendous of moods, spent the day with Lola drinking, eating and making love. The streets smelt of barbeque and marijuana. The disco never stopped. As afternoons became evening, crowds moved onto the plaza, couples in flip-flops dancing almost motionless salsa, then soca, then Vallenato, then calypso.

  Everyone knew what had happened between Lola and Harry. They had to field nudges, slaps on the back, winks, jiggling eyebrows and even outright applause. The ‘Epalé!’ count broke all previous records. The camp bed was put away. Aldo affected indifference. The old man was overjoyed.

  On a trip back to the house, Christmas came across him sitting with a couple of ancient comrades underneath a neem tree. Both these men were without teeth. One wore a red T-shirt ‘Con Chávez Podemos!’ and the other a battered Arsenal top. He could tell by their deranged sparkly faces that they were also geriatric crackheads.

  “Epalé! Here he is! Verga – my gringo son-in-law! Now you can call me Papa!”

  “No thanks.”

  “So now you are –” the old man made a circle with one hand and an obscene gesture with his finger, “– you don’t tell her about our agreement, OK? What are they saying, your bank? You get money after the festival?”

  “After the festival. Exactly.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Very good! Very good!”

  The festivities rolled on. They went to another beach with a group of Lola’s friends, waking early and making love before opening their eyes. They walked down to the jetty holding hands, pink popcorn clouds exploding in the dawn sky. They climbed into the boat full of people and supplies, the waves black beneath the sun, scudding past cliffs sunk to their brows in jungle, cloud-cast shadow moving in slow fleet across the mountains. They found a beach fringed by palm trees and grass, unloaded their picnic and drank cold beers, splashing and pushing each other in the water.

  Christmas, lying in the shade, watched Lola in her swimming costume trot into the waves. What a wobbly bottom, he thought, I love that wobbly bottom. Yet there was something too bright in the sunlight, a film of unreality over everything. He couldn’t accept it. He didn’t deserve it.

  Then she was again beside him on the towel; wet, black, covered in sea-diamonds. One of the men came over from the icebox and handed them new beers. Lola twisted the cap off and closed her eyes against the cold on her tongue.

  “By the way,” she said, “you don’t have to use the outside toilet any more. You can come inside.”

  “Oh, thank you, your majesty. Permission to—” he grabbed her as she squealed, rolling in the sand, cheers ringing out from the rest of their party, fallen beer turning to slugs. They stayed all day, grilling fish on the fire and waiting for sunset. When it came, they sang songs. They drank Cacique and lay beneath the darkening sky. On the way back the shoreline glittered with fireflies.

  As they rounded the headland, they heard the disco resounding across the bay, a soca version of ‘Hotel California’. Christmas held Lola to his chest.

  “Where do your eyes come from? Did your mother have green eyes?”

/>   “No. Maybe the Indian side. Or maybe my great-grandfather.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He was French.”

  “French!”

  “Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Vive La France!” cheered Christmas, before breaking into ‘La Marseillaise’ as the boat bounced across the waves and a triumphant ocean spat in his face.

  On Friday the Vallenato band from Colombia arrived. The women of the village seemed very excited by the presence of its tubby young singer and, once again Lola’s house became a beauty parlour. Aldo had finished tattooing the pig, and he brought it out of the sty to be admired. Christmas was in the front room. Lola and a friend were holding up a hand mirror and insulting him.

  “Rubbish!” he said, smoothing down his kelp. “I’ve got a fine head of hair.” It looked as if someone had dumped a child’s wig on him the wrong way round.

  “Then what about we cut your moustache – chop – or your eyebrows, baby, mnnn? They look like rats. If we don’t cut them maybe they are going to shit in your eyes.”

  “Keep your blades away from my locks—” There was a crack from the other side of the room. The wall socket, overloaded with plugs, burst into flames and fizzled with electrical charge. The women leapt back. Christmas grabbed a broom handle and attempted to knock the socket off the wall. The plugs fell but it refused to budge. The flames rose higher. He pushed past the children who had run in when others ran out, looking outside to see where the wire left the building and looped through the trees to a small pylon. When he went back inside he saw Aldo about to stab into the socket with a carving knife. “No!” he bellowed, lunging through the crowd and snatching at his wrist just before the blade made contact. Christmas grabbed a chair, took it outside and stood on it, stretching for the cable first with his fingers, then, once in his hand, yanking it free of the mains supply. He could hear the crackle of electricity stop instantly. He went back inside.

  Lola was holding Aldo in one hand and the knife in the other, her face a blend of terror and relief. “You don’t stick something metal into a socket,” Christmas told the boy, “or you will turn into a hotdog.”

  “You saved his life,” Lola whispered. She had tears in her eyes. She covered Aldo in kisses. “He could have died.”

  “Well,” replied Christmas, savouring his new hero status, “I have had some experience with electrics.” Lola pulled Christmas towards her, embracing him with her son, muttering a prayer before taking off the gold chain she was wearing. She put it around Christmas’ neck.

  “Wait, no – no, Lola.”

  “You saved my son’s life.”

  “This is ridiculous, I only—”

  “You saved his life. Keep it.”

  “No, Lola, this is gold—”

  “Take it. I want you to have it.”

  “Lola, for God’s sake, I’m the one who should be giving you necklaces to repay you for all the—”

  “Please, Harry. I want you to have it.”

  “Lola, listen to me, this is worth a lot of money. There is absolutely no way I can, or will, accept it. You’ve already done too much for me.” He tried to take if off but she stopped him.

  “I don’t care how much it is worth. You saved Aldo’s life. I want you to have it, Harry.”

  “No, Lola, please, it’s too much—” She held his face and kissed him. He could taste the salt of her tears.

  “Lola—”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes closed. “Thank you, Oh God, for sending this man into my life to save my son.”

  The plaza was crammed full for the band. There was a hamburger trolley, a blue wooden popcorn cart, racks of handicraft jewellery and inflatable toys. Rockets screamed into the night sky, strings of bangers popped and smoked. Adults drank beer, rum and whisky. Teenagers drank anis.

  Christmas and Lola were seated on plastic chairs beside the dance floor, eating empanadas from the teenage mother’s stall; a pot of oil bubbling on top of a gas burner, the semi-circles of corn dough filled with fish or meat fizzing golden. They ate one after another, squeezing guasacaca sauce all over them – puréed avocado mixed with onion and coriander – chomping and wiping their chins. Lola was all in white, heels, tight trousers, tight top, nails painted, hair done up high. Christmas, in a clean shirt with his hair cut, fiddled with the chain. It felt like a medal. A line of men walked past, shook Christmas’ hand and gave him the thumbs up.

  “Who were they?”

  “The ones who tied you upside down to a tree.”

  “When are you two going to dance?” asked the teenage mother. A bottle smashed. The ingredients of a fight dissolved into nothing.

  “He can’t dance.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He tried before and he can’t do it.”

  “Lies!”

  “You can’t dance to this music. If you could dance, we would be dancing, no?” The devil take this woman, he thought. She knows just how to manipulate me. For the first time that day, Christmas thought of Emily. He sat up, shocked. Never had he gone a day without thinking about her. He looked at Lola. She smiled, and her Caribbean beauty hit him almost like pain.

  “Look at you – too frightened to dance, old man. Verga! You’re chick-en-shit.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Si, Señor,” Lola leant back on her chair and gave a little burp. “Chickenshit.” Christmas looked at the band. “He won’t do it,” she said to the teenage mother. “He’s a pussyman.”

  “Oh, I am, am I?”

  “Pussyman.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Chick-en-shit-puss-y-man.” Christmas got to his feet. The teenage mother burst out laughing. He was off. He had no idea what he was going to do. Even before he got to the dance floor people were watching. Couples on the perimeter saw him approach and made a gap. The gap became a space. The singer noticed what was happening and sang with arms outstretched in special welcome for the foreigner. The entire village was looking on.

  Stepping over the edge of the dance floor his dread was so basic, so complete, that it permitted only one thought: whatever was about to happen was best done with his eyes closed. So, like someone searching for a light switch, Harry entered the circle. He felt the music and the crowd around him. He put his hands on his hips, tapped a foot and then ... he felt a hand on his, an arm at his waist and he opened his eyes. “I thought I better save you,” Lola said, and there they were, swaying together in a tiny, crooked circle.

  “You know, Lola,” he whispered, “I badly want to make love to you.”

  “Badly?” she pouted. “I would prefer if you did it well.”

  53

  With Oscar gone, Slade was alone in Guiria. It was the middle of the night. He lay on the bed of his hotel room, listening to laughter outside. He couldn’t understand the voices but he was sure they were talking about him. A door closed. The voices stopped.

  Slade went back to concentrating on the filaments of light shed by the curtain. He had been that way for hours.

  “Can I book an appointment?” someone said. Slade sat up. “Our office wants to go paintballing.” There was no one else in the room. He peered over the side of the bed. There was The General, sitting on its back legs with its eye hanging out.

  “You’re fucked. I know you. Oh boo-hoo,” said The General, “I hate you too. Be quiet, William.”

  Slade turned around in his bed. His heart was beating so hard his pillow sounded like a drum.

  He stayed in his room all the next day. He left when it was dark. It was Friday. Across the other side of the plaza were neon lights he hadn’t seen before. The karaoke bar was open for the weekend.

  The barman recognised the photo of Harry Christmas though he spoke no English. Slade tapped the image until another man was brought forward who could muster a hesitant pidgin. Christmas had been here. He was very drunk. He was singing, then they threw him out. He went to San Cristóbal and the villagers tied
him to a tree by his leg. Yes, he was still in San Cristóbal. He was living with a woman there.

  Slade went back to his hotel room. He stuck the photograph onto the wall. He lay down on the bed and looked over at Christmas. Slade held the dive knife with both hands, the blade flat against his chest, a Saxon funeral pose. With a cry, he lept up and stabbed the photograph. Then he took the knife in one hand and pushed the point of it against his forearm. It quivered against the skin before splitting it, Slade holding up his arm so the blood ran to his armpit.

  He lurked in his room until dawn. When the sun came up he had an uncontrollable fit of crying. He checked out of the posada and was directed to the pier. The boat left at three in the afternoon. He sat down in a café and tried to eat but he could not.

  The Saturday boat was already full when Slade eventually picked his way over luggage and loud families, and settled himself against the prow. Everyone was in fiesta mood, bottles of Cacique passing back and forth, people greeting the foreigner with a cheer. Two ladies shifted to make a place for him and then pulled faces at each other when Slade ignored their kindness. He stared straight down into the hull. It was a deep, open boat with slats for benches that covered the bags and supplies crammed in below. A child started the engine while his father let loose the rope. They pushed off from Guiria’s quayside. It was two hours to San Cristóbal.

  Slade felt sick from the motion. The smell of gasoline was intense. He looked around the boat. They were all talking about him.

  “Boo-hoo,” said a voice. He looked down. The General was curled up on some luggage, staring up at him between the slats, his eye hanging out. Slade slipped off his seat to boot him but The General was gone. He sat back. People were saying things to him in Spanish.

  That morning Christmas woke with a hangover. It was still dark. His body felt like someone else’s, his mouth a dead fire. The last thing he could remember was Lola sitting on his lap, boxes of expensive whisky being passed around, and him saying, “This stuff doesn’t affect me.” He put an arm round Lola. She took it, kissed it, then wore his elbow as a beard. Christmas fell back to sleep.