“Pepito knows you?”
“I go ... to his brother’s bar in Sabana ... Grande and we ... became friends he ... picked me up from ... the airport ... in his taxi.” The policeman scrutinized Christmas for a moment, opened the door, shoved in the prisoner and beckoned the foreigner out. Christmas staggered out of the gate, wiping spit off his face, avoiding the screwed-up bundles of newspaper and puddles of urine, breathing in quick shallow stabs.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m old,” said Christmas, the pain disappearing as his respiratory system rediscovered its stride. He turned round for the scowls, but his eyes were drawn instead to the man who had been on the floor shaking. He was crouched at the back, hugging himself. He looked at Christmas.
Christmas was taken back through the corridors and left in an interrogation room for four hours. He watched the door, hoping like a child that Lola would appear, but when it finally opened there was Pepito, holding a small bottle of water, tracksuit bottoms and a plain blue T-shirt.
“Señor Christmas!” he cried, “My English friend! You really fucked up.” Christmas let out a long sigh and hung his head. “Look at you – nobody kills you – you survive the night! Drink this and change you clothes, OK? You dirty. But why don’t you tell my name to the people before?” Christmas took the water and drained it. Pepito put the clothes down on the bench beside him.
“They don’t let me – they didn’t understand – Pepito – I – I have to eat.”
“Hey, no problem, I get you an arepa, OK?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
“Cost you two thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“I don’t—”
“Only joking!” He opened the door and shouted some instructions. In a few minutes, Christmas was devouring the tastiest thing he could ever remember eating and telling Pepito what had happened in Sucre.
“So, what’s going to happen to me?”
“Why do you do that? You crazy man. Why do you leave Gran Melía hotel and not to pay? This is very stupid, Señor Christmas. Why you do these things?”
“I didn’t mean to do it! I lost my wallet with all my fucking money in it! In fact it was in your brother’s bar – I went to your brother’s bar—”
“I know this. I was there, remember?”
“You were there?”
“Dios mio – you don’t remember? Me and my brother and you, we drink very much.”
“I – no. I don’t remember.”
“And you left your wallet there. Next day I went to your hotel but they say you ran away.”
“But I ran away because you – you have it? You’ve got it now?”
“Well. No.”
“But—”
“This is weeks ago, amigo. I don’t think I see you again. The money is gone. The wallet I give to my brother. I can ask to my brother if you want the wallet ...”
“But I need that money.”
“I told you. It has gone.”
“Then you owe me! You’ve got to get me out of here!”
“The only way you get out of here is if the sergeant is paid, and the money in the wallet is gone, Señor. I do not have it to pay the sergeant. If I had it, I would pay, but I do not have it.”
“But – but you have to do something, damn you!”
“Hey! You calm, OK? If it was not for me you still be in the cell, and you will not last long in there, OK? Now put on those clothes! You fucking stink, gringo.” Christmas put his head in his hands. “Just call someone in you country to give you the money.”
“There is no one I can call,” Christmas replied, holding the new T-shirt out in front of him. He began pulling off the one he was wearing.
“No one? A brother? A sister?”
“No one, I told you! Jesus fucking Christ!” Christmas threw his old T-shirt onto the floor.
“What is that?”
“What is what?” Christmas looked down at his belly.
“Around your neck. Is it gold?” Christmas covered his neck. “Señor Christmas—”
“No.”
“Or it is prison, the real prison. To be honest, I am not even sure the sergeant will accept, but you lucky. I try, because I am your friend. You will lose the chain in prison. You will also lose much more than the chain. Understand yourself. There is nothing else you can do, Señor Christmas.”
59
Christmas, his passport returned, was released into Pepito’s custody. He was given new clothes. He arranged his flight. They went to a sex hotel that rented rooms by the hour and Christmas took one to shower and change in.
He stepped under the faucet. There was warm water, controlled and plentiful, but when he pushed the door, it did not open into Lola’s yard. He squeezed out a luxurious dollop of shower gel onto his hand and wished that it was the fading lozenge of pink soap, picked off the concrete and covered in hair. The mirror wasn’t cracked. The towels were not bald.
After he had washed, Christmas sat on the bed and dressed himself beneath his own reflection. He was alone in a sex hotel. He held his head in his hands. He looked at the phone from between his fingers. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t have her chain.
Pepito was waiting for him in the lobby. The owner waived the bill. They went to a restaurant that had the flags of the world strung from the ceiling. They sat in a booth. The waiter brought perico eggs and beer. Christmas clasped his bottle, filling his hand with cold relief. He downed it. He asked for another. He asked for a glass of rum.
While they chewed, coughed, bare scrapes of cutlery against plate, Christmas looked out through his ghost in the window and watched the night grow thick. Their meal was over. Pepito lit up a cigarette. Christmas asked for another glass of rum.
“So you have problems about what happened in Sucre?”
“A girl was raped. It is my fault.”
“You raped a girl?”
“No! The man who was killed. He did it.”
“So it is good he was killed.”
“I watched a man die. I had his blood on my face.”
“You have never seen that before. It is troubling you.”
“Of course it’s fucking troubling me!”
“Whoever he was, whatever he did, he is in a better place now.”
“You’re a Christian. What a surprise.”
“No. I am just saying: this world is hell. It is better to be dead than alive.”
“If you believe that then why haven’t you killed yourself?”
“I like to be around people,” he said, exhaling through his nostrils. “Hey – you ever see that woman again? The fat one from the bar?”
“Lola.”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Her name is Lola Rosa.”
“OK,” he shrugged, “you see her again?”
“I’ve been living with her. She gave me that chain.”
“Then maybe she save your life.”
“She did save my life. She did, she did ...” Christmas put his elbows on the table and covered his face.
“This woman is still there. She is still alive. You are still alive. The other man is dead.” He extinguished his cigarette. “These are the facts.”
“Will you do one thing?”
“What?”
“If the chain is sold, will you keep a record of who buys it, where it goes?”
“You want to buy it back?”
“Yes.”
“Forget the chain. The chain is gone.”
“I have to see her again!” Christmas shifted suddenly to the edge of their booth. Pepito made the same movement.
“Don’t do any more stupid things, Señor,” he said.
Christmas looked out of the window. He looked at the rum and cursed it. He pushed it away. Then he downed it and cursed it again from the edge of his teeth. He could write Lola a letter. Surely it would find its way, though he didn’t know her address, or if she had one, or eve
n if there was a postal system – he had never seen any letters arrive. But the infocentro – some villagers must have email addresses. If he could just find one out – on the internet somewhere – that’s what it was for, wasn’t it? That kind of thing ...
Pepito said something to the waiter. There was no bill. The two men got up to leave. He would write some kind of letter and explain himself, apologise, hope that somehow it would get to her, that she would read it and understand, that she would forgive him. Surely it was her that had cried out. Surely there was hope. They walked out of the restaurant into the warm night. His lies had destroyed everything.
They climbed into Pepito’s taxi and set off towards the airport. The streets were full. How would he get back to San Cristóbal, to Venezuela? He must face Diana. He owed her that. He owed her his version of her son’s last moments. And Judith? And Bridget? How could he ever make amends? That, at least, was simple. He could not.
A motorcycle carrying three people sped past his elbow. England. He was flying back to England. The smell of wet tarmac and chewed leaves. He was broke. He should try and face the scope and detail of his debts, sit down with someone professional and unpick the web. He must find a job. He must take control of his drinking. Oh God, give me a drink.
Either side of the highway thousands of naked bulbs illuminated the deprivation of the barrios. Pepito turned on the radio and lit another cigarette.
He would visit Emily’s grave. He would make a doctor’s appointment about his chest pains.
A sign for the airport rushed overhead.
He would get older. He would die alone.
He was hovering in the air, a tiny figure above the dark volcano.
Oh, Lola. Soon he would drop.
They pulled up in front of the terminal building. She wasn’t going to be there. She wasn’t going to appear. Pepito took him inside, watched him check in, and led him as far as the metal detectors.
Pepito shook his hand. “Goodbye, amigo. I hope you take it more easy.” Christmas started to say something, then shook his head. He stepped through the frame.
In the departure lounge, Christmas sat down on a row of empty plastic chairs. He stared at his hands. The airport felt empty. He watched a man mop the floor. He examined a family asleep. He went to the bathroom. He saw that he had a tan. His face was covered in lines. He had no moustache. He was an old man in a tracksuit. She had come to the jetty to see him leave. She had cried out – hadn’t she? Would she remember he had saved her son from being electrocuted?
Christmas sat down in front of a monitor and watched the capitals of the world move upwards, blink and disappear. His flight was boarding. He walked down the hall to his gate and joined the queue. The woman who took his boarding pass didn’t look at him. She was beautiful. Then he was behind her with his stub, facing a plastic tunnel.
Christmas boarded the plane. A steward welcomed him. He took his seat by the window and looked out at the moon, listening to the people settling around him, the security announcements, the ping and click of the machine readying itself.
An old Indian woman sat beside him. She had sunglasses in her hair and wore a warm jacket over her sari. She stowed her book and took out the in-flight magazine. She rifled through it, put it away and took out her book. She snapped back the pages, sighing and shifting in her seat.
The plane began to move. She muttered a prayer. Christmas turned to her from the window. She forced a smile, her neck iron with fear. The plane rolled into position. She seized the armrests. It accelerated. It roared and rose.
Bridget. He had the rape of a girl on his conscience now, burnt on like a slave brand, something he could not remove or disguise except with drink and he must stay away from drink. He was an agent for evil. How could he live? How could he still be walking through the world with all that he had caused? There was nothing to fix, nothing to do but accept. He must go and see Diana. He must at least present himself, and then, whatever she said, work and earn and repay her. What was the price of a dead stepson? Christmas curled in his seat. There was pressure in his ears. He was being cast out from the human race. Oh, the drink. How it would hide his heart. But there must be no drink. The only offering he had left for the dead and the maimed was his torment held pristine. He saw a road open up in front of him beneath this low moon that offered no rest, no end except death. He must meet this road with a clear mind, with courage. He must conduct himself from here on without the easy deceits of the past. Emily was gone. Bridget and Judith were destroyed. Slade was murdered. Diana was alive. Lola. He must find a way to get back to her. He thought of her injuries. Let me drink, said a voice, and he caught the eyes of a passing stewardess. She smiled. He turned to the window. The moon. The plane was levelling. Christmas looked down.
Venezuela. It was already just a dwindling constellation, one of many that cover the earth: sparks of mankind in stubborn struggle against the night.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sarai Rodriguez
Marie-Elisa and Billy Barker
Seorais Graham
Christoph Hargreaves-Allen, king of readers.
Al pueblo de Macuro, Estado Sucre, especialmente a la Señora Beatriz, a la Señora Luisa, Juriana Martínez, su hija Daisy mi ahijada y su padre Pinpon Kezama, Laurie y su familia, Alve Medina, Jose ‘Nango’ Medina, Adolfo ‘El Pargo’, Reina, Milagro, Caridad, Thomas, Modesto Jose, mi jefe Pedro Pablo y su familia, Luis, Roberto y a toda la gente de esta comunidad de tal fuerza, dignidad y generosidad.
Frances and Hugh Gibson, Effie and Phiz Phizackalea, Amelia and Paddy Lyndon-Stanford, Patrick Gibson, Bea Gibson, Nick Gordon, Orlando Hermandez, Aldo Centeno, Salvador, Tael and Laura, Rosie Flint, Dom Minns, Peta Kennedy, Bill Curtis, Shauneen Lambe, Will Goodlad, Anne-Marie and Mathew Court, Matthew Clark, Ellie Wyatt, Kam and Lloyd Hudson, Richard ‘Speedy’ Byrne, Farah and Miles Cleret, Rachel and Roland Marks, Jane and Ben Maschler, Rachel Oakes, Mr and Mrs Squat Boy, Pawna and Mike Spencer-Nairn, Toby Tripp, Becky and James ‘the Baptist’ Razzal, Chris Milton, Niall Griffiths, Tracey Rogers, Nat Turner, Lulu and Mick Sadler, Laurence and David Ambrose, Chloe Aridjis, Cath and James Herring, Lee Bramley, Lana Henry, James Haddon, Nick Fuller-Sessions, Buster Turner, Carla Rodamilans Castillo, Ed Maklouf, Max Bayer, Claudia Zimmerman, Elizabeth Carrillo, Pablo and Virginia Silberschmidt, Bing Taylor, Pam Rose.
The people of Barceloneta, Catalonia. Jose-Maria and his family at La Cova Fumada. Margarita, Susanna and everyone who works at the New Orleans Café, Plaza Poeta Bosca.
Everyone who works at Le Chien Qui Fume, Boulevard Montparnasse.
Natalie Bennett, Nick Gillett.
Lewis Heriz, Zissou Limpkin, Olivia Wood, Scott Pack, Caroline Gorham, Laura Kincaid, Jenny Todd, Sian Gibson, Alan Jessop, Payhembury Marbled Papers, Genoveva De La Peña, Bookcunt, India Waters, Jamie Byng, Sam Hart, Peter Ho, Jeremy Wood, Raffaella De Angelis, Claire Harris, Nick Marshal, Mark Ollard, Jo Dickinson, Matt Bates, Ruth Killick.
In particular I would like to thank Crispin and Rowan Somerville for their belief and energy, without which this book would not exist.
Finally, for all her support and insight, I would like to thank Daisy Sadler, whom I love so very much.
BADDENDUM
Thanks for reading my debut novel. This being the paperback version, Simon & Schuster asked me to write something extra they could stick in the back. After several failed attempts at starting a short story, and then starting a nap, I’ve decided I’m going to tell you a true story instead, not about writing this book, but about writing one of the others that Simon & Schuster and many others failed to publish; about how I came to hear a screech of tyres behind me, turn around, and see two Armed Response Unit vehicles emptying their guts of policemen with machine guns. They were screaming orders. The guns were all facing in my direction. Then I was on the floor being arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
Most ideas writers have are bad. I’d recently had one of my very worst ideas: a novel about modern-day pirates o
n the Thames, set in a world where everyone has removable genitalia. Stage one of my research was buying a plastic vagina and leaving it in a bowl on the kitchen table. How I wish I’d remembered to remove it before my mother came round. Stage two was meeting T– .
T– was a captain for hire who bought boats to London from other European ports. We arranged to meet in one of the capital’s greatest drinking establishments: the Wibbly Wobbly, a floating pub moored in Surrey Quays. After a boozy evening of me asking questions about how the Thames was policed, we said our goodbyes and within a couple of minutes I was in handcuffs, and assuming this was an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. I was wrong.
Counting white tiles in a police cell is difficult. You lose your place. You get back to the top corner and start again. You lose your place. You become discouraged and look around for inspiration. I found mine in a message scratched on the gurney frame. Fuck the Shit, said the nameless philosopher. Yes, I thought, fuck the shit! But I was too thirsty to maintain such impressive levels of rebellion. I was sobering up. It was three in the morning.
I rang the bell and asked for water. When it came the officer told me that T– had been arrested and was in the cell block. “T–!” I shouted through the hatch once he had gone. “T–!” someone shouted back in a girlie way.
I lay back on the plastic mattress. Unsettling thoughts began to creep across the hour. I’d only just met T–, what did I really know about him? Maybe I’d been arrested because of him. He’d just bought a boat back from Amsterdam – perhaps it was stuffed full of drugs. Perhaps he was an arms smuggler. Perhaps he was one of those Nazis they still ask you about on your way into America.
At midday, I was visited by two CID detectives. At last! Now this whole mess would be sorted out. I stood up.
“So,” said Detective P., “are you going to tell us about the weapons-grade plutonium?”
I sat down. “If you can tell me what weapons grade plutonium looks like,” I sighed, “I’ll tell you if I’ve got any.” The two detectives looked at each other. Somewhere, somehow, there had been one enormous cock-up.
A Bright Moon for Fools Page 29
