A Bright Moon for Fools (11 page)

“Oh Judith, do you really mean that?”

“Yes – yes of I course I mean it.” Judith was blushing again. “God, I can’t tell you how nice it is just to talk to someone with the same – you know, someone
English. I know it sounds awful, and don’t get me wrong, I love the people here, but there’s not much in the way of chat about Ruskin and Turner.”

“You must get lonely.”

“Oh no,” she gulped at her glass. “Far too busy.”

“Far too tough, you mean.”

“Well, it’s all about moving forward, isn’t it? Shall we have some more wine?”

After the meal Christmas took her back to her hotel in Alta Mira. He suggested a nightcap at the bar.

“I’d better not.”

“Oh, come on, Judith. Where’s the harm?”

“No. I’ve had a lovely evening, thank you, but I really must go off to bed now, I think.” They stood for a moment in silence. Christmas took her hand. She was rather startled.
He kissed her on the cheek. She pulled her hand away.

“Goodnight,” she peeped, and scuttled off. Christmas turned round and went out of the hotel. He looked up at night sky. He was running out of money. He was running out of time.

The next day he called for her at her hotel but she was out. The day after he tried again. He now owed the Jolly Frankfurter for two nights. If Judith didn’t come through
with an offer of help he was done for. Another runner from a hotel. Bus to the airport. Failure.

Just as he was heading through the door, checking all around him for Slade, he saw her chatting with the concierge.

“Harry!”

“Judith. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in to see you ...” Judith let out a theatrical breath then marched over to him and pecked him on the cheek.

“I got upstairs to my bedroom the other night and realised I didn’t have your phone number or anything—”

“Me too, so I thought—”

“Anyway—”

“So I came back. God, it’s nice to see you again.” They smiled at each other for a moment.

“Do you have any plans today?” asked Judith.

“None whatsoever.”

“Then I’m taking you to lunch and I’m paying this time and that’s that.” Christmas opened his mouth in protest, closed it again, and gave her a deep bow.

The waiter filled their glasses, wiped the neck of the wine bottle and ground it back into the ice bucket. They were in a corner booth of a
tasca
restaurant, just around
the corner from the Hotel Continental. Christmas had one hand in his pocket, fingering a fifty bolívar note. It was all he had left.

“Have you ever worked as a waiter, Harry? Or in a kitchen or anything?”

“I have as a matter of fact. Judith—”

“I remember when I was young and waitressing in this Italian place in Bath and a customer came and said he wanted his coffee right away and then went in to the loo, so when his espresso
was ready I took it in there and pushed it under the door. Got the bloody sack!” Judith laughed hysterically. Other diners looked over. He downed his glass. He looked down at her purple feet.
He had to make his move.

Christmas stopped eating, sighed and looked into the middle distance.

“Harry? Are you OK?”

“God. It’s so stupid,” he said, refilling his glass.

“What? What’s stupid?”

“Look at me. I’m drinking like a fish. I mean I know I’m never going to see that psycho taxi driver again but I can’t shake this feeling that he’s going to appear
around the next corner, or in here, and attack me again. It’s ridiculous, I know, but – but – every time I see a taxi. I just—” He covered his eyes.

“Oh Harry, you poor darling ...”

“I was on the phone to the credit card people again this morning. Can’t get a word of sense out of them so here I am, stranded, trapped, all I want to do is get out of Caracas and
they can’t bloody well give me my own money to do so – it’s insane. It’s a nightmare. The whole thing has been a nightmare except ...” He gave her his most soulful
look. “... except for meeting you, of course.”

“Harry—”

“Well, I’m just going to have to suffer it, aren’t I?”

“But—”

“Grin and bear it, I suppose.”

“Harry, look – I know we’ve only just met but – well – I’m heading back to my place in Estado Sucre. Why don’t you come and stay? Get yourself out of
here?” Christmas sighed. His ribs were agony. This was a triumph.

“Judith, that really is so kind of you but, well, I haven’t two farthings to rub together at the moment.”

“Harry, darling – please – forget all about that. After what you’ve been through – look – you need some R+R and you’ll be staying at my house so you
won’t need any money and the hotel can ring through when your cards arrive. Besides I’m sure we can find a way for you to earn your keep.”

“Oh Judith. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s an eight hour drive at the least from Caracas, five hundred kilometres, and the fact is, I could really do with the company. The roads are quite dangerous, especially if it
rains, so you see, really it would be you doing me the favour. But listen to me charging on – you’ve probably got lots to do here.”

“Not at all. Like I told you, I’m completely stuck.”

“Then why don’t you let me try and unstick you?” She patted his knee.

“Chocolate rum, you say?”

“Our very own writer-in-residence! And there is a town nearby, so if we want to strangle each other after a couple of days you can easily escape. I know we’ve only just met, but I do
trust my instincts. I think we might just have a whale of a time. What do you say – how about a little adventure?”

“When are we off?”

“Oh, how marvellous!” she clapped her hands together. “In about a week.” Christmas sat back. This was a disaster.

“A week?”

“Week – week and a half. I’ve got to buy some bits and bobs for the house, then there’s this terrible set of old curtains I’ve got to collect and—”

“Judith. I’ve got an idea.”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we go today?”

“Today?”

“Or tomorrow – why don’t we just do it? Just get out of here?”

“But Harry I can’t possibly—”

“Can’t you feel it, Judith? Spontaneity! Do you know ... I think I can feel those creative juices flowing again already.”

“If I didn’t have all these chores then I’d love to but—”

“May I tell you something?” said Christmas, putting his hand in his pocket and tightly scrunching his last note into a ball. “The truth is, since getting so viciously beaten up
and everything, well, I really am pretty jumpy here as I said – stupid, I know – I mean I’m sure I won’t see this man again, of course ...”

“Oh, Harry ...”

“So you know, I promised myself – I mean I absolutely swore to myself – that I would leave town tomorrow whatever happens, because I don’t really feel safe here at all
and I’m sick to the back teeth of feeling like this and tomorrow – well – OK, I’ll just come out with it – tomorrow is my birthday.”

S
lade had seen it from every angle of the city – from Altamira, Palos Grandes, Chacao, Las Mercedes, La Campiña, Parque Carabobo,
Campo Alegre, Bello Monte, El Rosal. He had seen it when leaving the Hilton, or the Four Seasons, or the Continental with a photograph of Harry Christmas in his hand and the chalk of dead ends in
his throat: the cable car.

Slade was visiting every luxury hotel in Caracas, every day squashed into the streets, heat fermenting his clothes, rain insulting his efforts. Each morning he rang his
eorlderman
; each
morning he was told there was no passport or credit card activity. Christmas was still in Venezuela.

Slade paid five hundred dollars to the police and fifty dollars to each hotel staff member he had fought with while trying to chase Christmas. He gave both the police and hotel management all
the information he had about Harry Christmas. They let him go, but only after he’d been waiting all day and half the night, in the hotel, in a police car, outside the police station where
they wrote up their report on a table in the sun, back to his own hotel so they could search his room, back to the police station, standing in the police courtyard, perspiring, unable to work out
if they had forgotten about him, following the guns in their holsters as the officers came in and out of the station. Did they know what he could do if he wanted to?

He took out some more cash with his credit card and bought a dive knife with a rubber handle and scabbard that he could attach to his belt. He bought a new rucksack and new clothes: shirts and
T-shirts that were big enough to cover the weapon. He stayed in the areas the guidebook said were safe, but kept his hand on the knife handle whenever people or cars approached too quickly, or too
slowly. He wanted someone to try to rob him again. He wanted the world to witness what happened when a Saxon warrior was ready.

He bought hot dogs at roadside stands to conserve his money. The slightest exchange was difficult, every question and answer a wrestle of repetition, incomprehension, confusion and delay. Slade
often looked up suddenly, and imagined catching Christmas at a window with a long-lens camera. He questioned well-groomed concierges in glistening halls: “No. This man. In the photograph. I
am looking for this man.”

“You want I take you photograph?” Slade was sure they all spoke English. He was sure they had been bribed to confound him.

In the evenings he returned to his den on the tenth floor of the Hotel Lux. It was a cubed room with tinted windows, white walls, white bed, white bathroom, white floor. He lay on his bed and
drank whisky, staring at the photograph of Harry Christmas he had tacked to the wall, talking to it, promising. He threw the dive knife at it but it never stuck.

Slade barely slept, and when he did he always dreamt of The General, his father’s cat. He had hated that animal when he was a boy. He hated all cats; self-satisfied, scrawny vermin that
belonged outside the house but had somehow gained protection from the world of men and languished there, pampered and plotting, servile and haughty. After he had been found tormenting The General,
he was not allowed to touch the creature. He dreamt it was lounging on his father’s desk, licking itself. “Let the fat man escape twice,” said the cat, “Boo-hoo.”
Slade woke up. Christmas’ face was being kindled by the city at night. From his bed Slade could see the lights of the cable car snaking up the El Ávila mountains. Christmas would go
there, he decided. He imagined him surveying Caracas from above, laughing, spading expensive delicacies into his doughy mouth. That’s where he would pick up the trail.

It was late afternoon. The taxi dropped him off in the car park. He stood in the grey light and noticed a police station adjacent to the cable car’s entrance. He stared
at it for long moments, trying to decide if and how he could enlist their help. Finally he returned to the sales booth and bought his ticket for the
teleférico
. No, she did not
recognise the photograph. He walked through the empty turnstiles and into the passenger dock. He showed the photograph of Christmas to the attendants. They shrugged and shook their heads. He showed
them again.

The cabins descended noisily, shunting and rattling into place. He was about to have a pod for himself, but just as its doors were closing a mother, father and their little girl stepped in. The
parents each held one of their daughter’s hands. She was smiling. The cabin lurched. They left the dock.

It was going to rain. Soon they were surrounded by cloud. The child twisted in her seat, desperate for something to see. The father said something. Slade examined him, then his wife, then his
daughter.

“English,” he announced. The little girl stared, kicking her legs. He produced the photograph. “Have you seen this man?” The family inspected it, then shook their heads,
asking him questions he couldn’t understand. Slade put the photograph away. Rain pattered the windows. The lights and structure of a tower yawned out from the mist as they passed it, receding
just as quickly. The ground was steepening. Again they were enveloped.

Slade felt unbearably heavy. He rubbed his face and looked out into the mist and remembered being in the Peak District with his father. They were walking across the dales. They were lost. His
father was getting angry because he had misjudged the route. It grew dark. William was cold. He was panting and sweating and nursing the back of his head where his father had clipped him for
complaining. They came to a stone wall. His father was shouting at him to hurry up and get over the stile. The next field was full of horses. They were agitated. William was frightened. His father
grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over. A horse came out of the mist, whinnying with curiosity and his father whacked it across the mouth with his walking stick. It reared and fled and William
cried out. His father turned round cursing and hit him with the stick and William fell over and then ran off into the mist and he was alone. He could hear the shouts of his father and the braying
of the horses and he clutched his head and prayed for Diana to come and get him.

After almost an hour the cable car arrived at the top of the mountain. It was cold. The family hugged and shivered. They said goodbye to him. Outside the cable car station rows
of fast food stalls were closing. He went into a fondue restaurant built from dark, heavy wood. He sat at the bar and showed round the photograph. He drank whisky and then left, following the path
past a playground and an ice rink to one of the many observation points. There was no mist here, only Caracas, a glittering hell of light. Slade gripped the handrail.

He turned to find the family beside him, the parents lifting their daughter so that she might see through one of the old coin-operated telescopes. Beyond Caracas, the dark giants of the Valles
Del Tuy slept on to the south, rolling towards the Amazon, towards Brazil. He was sure Christmas could not survive in such territory. He must be down there. He must still be in the city.

The family was having a problem with the telescope. “What’s the matter?” he called to the father.

“No work,” said the man, “We put the money. No work.” Slade went over. He looked through the telescope but it was blank. He began examining the machine. “No
problem, no problem,” said the father.