A Bright Moon for Fools (10 page)

Yet Slade was in this city and evidently meant to kill him. He counted the fold of notes in his pocket – 190 bolívares. Three nights in that shitpit of a room. He drank another beer
and thought of Emily and was ashamed. Christmas bought a quarter bottle of rum and made for the metro station, resolving to go back to Parque Oeste and sit beneath the trees until he had come up
with a plan.

Once there, he found a stone bench under a
jabillo
tree. He sat down. He tried to concentrate, sipping on rum and feeling his lump. “
El futuro
?
El
futuro
?” A woman was waving a Tarot pack in front of his face. She had short grey hair, her arms covered in bangles, her nose full of rings, and was in a raggedy black dress. “Five
bolívares,” she said in Spanish. Christmas waved her away.

“Very cheap.”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you OK?”

“No. Thank you.”

“You look very sad,” she said. Christmas gave a deep sigh. “I read your cards for free, OK?.”

“Oh, why not,” he relented. “Might give me some ideas.” The woman settled on the other end of the bench. He split the pack for her and then she set about arranging the
cards. Her face began to drop.

“Many troubles. Many problems.”

“You’re the one begging in a park.”

“The cards say you are alone. Much travel, much restlessness, much moving from place to place. No time for love. Only time for self. Self, self, self, self, self—”

“OK, that’s enough thank—”

“The cards say you face great danger, but also great opportunity. You are at a crossroads. This is why destiny has led you here, to Caracas. Many things happen here.”

“That’s what the policeman said.”

“Policeman read your cards? They take everything! I have spent years—”

“Do you mind?”

“OK, OK, relax ...”

“Don’t tell me to relax, woman! I’ve just had the shit kicked out of me. I am being pursued by a maniac, and I will not be told to relax!”

“I didn’t tell you to relax.”

“What?”

“The cards tell you to relax.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake ...”

“The cards say you are at an important moment in your life. Destiny has brought you to this place.”

“It was the metro.”

“On your right is happiness. On your left is—”

“Dog shit.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking at the hardened faeces, “dog shit. You must climb the mountain of your soul. Only then may you fight the demon of your ego.”

“Are you recommending the cable car?”

“There is a lovely view.”

“Look,” huffed Christmas, “this is all a bit vague. That’s always the problem with you people – can’t you give me something a bit more exact? Look,
here’s five bolívares. Take it.” The woman took the money and returned her gaze to the cards. She turned over two more, nodding her head with interest.

“You will live until the age of ninety-four.”

“Ninety-four? That’s not bad.”

“I didn’t say you’d be healthy.”

Slade was in Venezuela
. Christmas still couldn’t believe it. For the rest of the day he stayed in his hotel room, not wanting to risk being outside. All his lines
of credit were closed. How could he have been so stupid as to lose his wallet? Why hadn’t he left it in the safe? Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. Perhaps he had been robbed but just
couldn’t remember it. For a moment he considered going back to England – he had a flexible return ticket – but he was here to take Emily to Guiria. He squeezed the book in his
jacket pocket. He must not let himself be defeated. He must find a way to get some money. He must get out of Caracas.

Eventually he left the hotel to go to El Barco, and was assured again by different staff that his wallet was not there. Lost in thought, he walked for an hour or maybe more without concentrating
on where he was going, until he found himself in a leafy residential area, with large white houses behind security fences. He came across a smart café. He went in, sat down with a gasp of
pain and ordered an espresso.
Just money
, he was still telling himself,
just a bit of bloody money
. He was used to losing money. “But damn it!” he said out loud. Everyone
looked at him. How had Slade found him? And if he had just remembered to take Emily’s book! ... The espresso arrived. He took a sip and burnt his lips. “The devil!” He closed his
eyes. He felt under his hat for the lump, breathed deeply and counted to ten. Harry Christmas was still alive. He opened his eyes.

The lady he saw in front of him was so unmistakably British you could have spotted it from the moon. She was wearing a flowery summer dress, sandals and a straw hat. She had a large forehead
with hooded drooping eyes that made her look as if she were falling asleep and paying attention at the same time. She seemed to be interested in some dreadful pottery that was on display in the
window, and, with her business concluded, she was shown to a table. Christmas noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Then he noticed her large purple feet.

The woman delved into her handbag and pulled out a book. She put on her glasses and began to read, sipping a juice and tapping one foot against the air. Christmas strained to see what she was
reading. The author’s name was also Harry –
THE NAA TREE POSTAL SERVICE
by Harry Strong. This, surely, was a sign.

She put the book down for a moment and Christmas stood up. He stepped past her table, purposefully knocking the book onto the floor.

“So sorry,” he said in Spanish, wincing, picking it up for a quick check. He was in luck – no author’s photo. He began to laugh. “Oh dear,” he said in
English, adjusting his accent up a notch, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. That is funny!”

“What’s funny?”

“Do you mind me asking – are you enjoying this?”

“Yes, thank you, just finished it. Why do you ask?”

“Well, this is rather embarrassing ... Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry – Harry Strong.”

“Y
ou mean you—”

“That’s right.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Judith,” she said hurriedly, “Judith Lamb. This is extraordinary!”

“Well, sorry to disturb you—”

“Oh, no, please ...”

“And to knock your book, well, my book, well,
our
book, on the floor.”

“Our book ...!”

“Hope it held your interest.”

“Oh, it’s marvellous, but Mr Strong—”

“Harry, please.”

“But Harry – Venezuela – Caracas – I mean what are you doing here? Are you an ex-pat?”

“No,” replied Christmas, “my name has always been Harry.”

“Pardon me?”

“Actually I’m on a sort of sabbatical. I came here to – I’m afraid it’s rather a long and boring story. I’m sure you’re much too—”

“Oh no, I would
love
to hear it! Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a juice or something or are you off somewhere important?”

“Not at all.”

“Will you join me then?”

“Well ...” smiled Christmas, “why not?”

“Marvellous!” said Judith in a deep voice. “Tea with the author straight after the last page! How
vital
. Now hang on and I’ll get Juan Carlos on the job. He does a
wonderful mixed fruit thingamajig – how about one of those?” Christmas gave Judith a grateful smile and she tore off to the counter. He grabbed the book, turned to the back and read the
bumph:

How dreary
, thought Christmas, turning to the inside cover. The real Harry Strong was married with two children, lived in Canterbury and was the author of
GHOSTS OF
AMARILLO
and
PEABODY’S BOAT
.

“So!” said Judith sitting down with his juice, “how did you think of that ending?”

“I didn’t really think of it,” he replied, “it sort of ... thought of me.” He knew how these people talked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, one often feels like one is taking dictation, you know, and wherever these stories come from, one’s just glad that it picked one to be the mouthpiece.”

“But that woman ... when she ... incredible. Is it based on anyone you know? Oh, I am sorry – listen to me firing all these questions at you.”

“Not at all, Judith. You’re spot on. She’s based on my wife.”

“Your wife killed herself with a snake!”

“Character, I mean. Only partially, you understand, but yes, definite touches of my wife. My ex-wife now, I should say.”

“Ex? Oh you poor thing. Have you just ...?”

“Well, it’s all to do with why I’m here, actually. I’m sure you don’t want to ...”

“Oh please,” said Judith, leaning forward, “do tell.” Christmas sighed and, looking as deeply into her eyes as he could, set about creating his new life.

He was recently divorced. No one was to blame, they had simply grown apart. Rocked yet liberated by the separation he had decided to come to Venezuela, a country about which he knew little, in
search of inspiration for his next book. The emotional trauma had been giving him writer’s block and he hoped that by throwing himself open to experience his creativity would bounce back.
Unfortunately, he had been violently robbed by a taxi driver called Pepito, so he was stranded, all possessions gone, waiting for the credit card company to send over a replacement and for the
embassy to arrange a passport. It should have taken a week, but there had been a mix-up, everything was sent to the wrong hotel and sent back again, and now he was stuck in Caracas for he
didn’t know how long.

“Robbed?” inhaled Judith. “Were you hurt?” Christmas solemnly took off his hat and showed her the stitched lump. Then he pushed up his sleeve to reveal his blackened
arms. She clasped her face and shook her head.

So here he was with these plans for escape, for change, for putting his divorce behind him, and he was beginning to regret ever coming here.

“Oh, but Harry, Venezuela is exactly what you need. I got divorced myself not long ago—”

“Oh God! And there I was yabbering on about myself. Judith, forgive me.”

“No, no, no. It’s fine. It was my choice really. We certainly weren’t in love any more, but even so, when you’re just so used to someone ... Anyway the point is
that’s why I didn’t go back to England. Creatively, the energy, the light ... it’s so
vital
. And the key thing is you’ve got to move forward. Even if things get a
little rough, you’ve just got to stick it out, haven’t you?”

Judith suddenly looked so sad Christmas had to cough before speaking. “Now, please, you’ve been patiently listening to me, can I get you anything? A coffee or something?”

“Oh, I never touch the stuff. Body is a temple and all that.”

“Free to get in?”

“What?” The sadness evaporated. “Oh, I get it! Oh – ha ha ha!” She began to laugh. It was an incredible, ear-splitting sound, like someone practising scales on a
rape alarm. “You know I have masses of questions to ask you about your book. I mean for instance when she—”

“If you don’t mind Judith, I’m trying to put that book out of my mind. My wife, you see ...”

“Oh, of course, of course, I’m so sorry.”

“Plus I have got this silly superstition never to talk about a book once it’s finished. I’m convinced it will bring bad luck.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“Let’s talk about you. So how’s your boyfriend? Everything working out all right?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Actually,” whispered Christmas, as he leant in close, “what I really wanted to say is ‘will you come for lunch with me?’. I was just checking you were still
single.” Then he winked and pulling back, assumed his previous voice and position. “Did I say boyfriend? I meant your Spanish. How’s that coming on?” Judith blushed.

Christmas took Judith out for lunch in an upmarket restaurant, gambling eighty-one bolívares of his remaining 170. They ate tapas, drank a bottle of white Rioja, and
talked about art, books and antiques.

“So you live out of town?” asked Christmas.

“Oh yes. I live in Estado Sucre, over in the Caribbean part of the country,
el Oriente
. Have you ever been?”

“The Caribbean part. Really.” Things were getting better and better. “Do you know, I have always wanted to go there.”

“The colours, the landscape ... Really, it’s just what you need. You’ll go completely mad cooped up in Caracas for another month. When Columbus arrived, I think it was on his
third expedition – he landed in Estado Sucre and do you know he really believed he had found the literal Garden of Eden? Everybody naked. Whopping great fruit everywhere!” Judith began
to laugh again. It truly was a painful noise.

“Columbus?”

“Avocados and mangos and coconuts and coffee and bananas and – oh, Harry, the most amazing chocolate rum – you’ve never tasted anything like it – and well,
it’s just amazing.”

“Are you anywhere near Guiria?”

“Other side of the peninsula. It’s on the south coast and I’m on the north – so it’s not next door, but not a million miles away either – why?”

“Oh, no reason. It was recommended to me.”

“Well, that whole part of the country is so ... I don’t know –
vital
.”

“It sounds like heaven.”

“You must come and visit.” Christmas sat forward in his chair, clenching his teeth against the pain.