Read Online A Bright Moon for Fools by Jasper Gibson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jasper Gibson
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then? Just a needless
prolonging of the inevitable. What did he really think he was going to do here? Discover oil?
He took out the poetry book from his jacket pocket,
Muerte y Memoria
by Eugenio Montejo. It was Emily’s favourite book, the red jacket still clinging to the cover, always beside the
lamp on her side of the bed. He used to read it to her when she was ill or when she couldn’t get to sleep. It had been a present from her beloved Venezuelan grandmother and Christmas
hadn’t let go of it since the day of Emily’s funeral. She had always wanted to visit Guiria, her grandmother’s port town on the Caribbean side of the country. He’d promised
that one day he would take her. Now he was going to take what he had left, this book. He would sit on the beach she’d dreamt of, read to her one last time and push the book into the sand.
Christmas gave the book a kiss and put it back in his pocket. He sighed.
So this was the plan? He was just going to bury Emily again, spend all the money, go back to England, and then what – back to penury and disgrace? The bar was crowded and loud. He was
alone. Was he to become one of those pensioners checking the coin tray of every public phone, shivering in his slippers, alone in a bedsit somewhere with nothing to keep him company but complaints?
No, no, no – there was no going back. Better off adrift in foreign waters, playing his own tune even if the ship were going down. He was better here, unhindered, the sovereign of his own
decline. Death and the banks had taken everything he ever had, but even they could not—
Oh stop it, Pops, for God’s sake
, he heard Emily say,
listen to yourself. Honestly – you’re like a child. A great big pissed fat child
.
“Typical bloody woman!” Christmas announced to the bar, cocking his head to the roof. “You’re dead. Leave me alone!”
Shut up, Pops. You’re making a fool of yourself. Look – you’re annoying everyone
.
“And why shouldn’t I make a fool of myself, Emmy, eh?” he thundered.
“Please, Señor—” said the barman.
“Who fucking cares?”
“
Señor
, your voice, please. Lower.” Christmas looked at the barman. He blinked and returned to his rum. A glut of tears rose in his throat. He drank it down.
Alcohol cloaked his mind. He would never remember Pepito coming into the bar, also drunk, embracing him noisily. He asked Christmas lewd questions about Lola Rosa and then ushered his brother,
the owner, into the bar from a back office. The three men drank shot after shot of a clear, sweet liquid that Christmas could not pronounce.
At some point, Christmas left. Staggering under the weight of the booze, he wandered down the street. People approached him, whispering and propositioning. He waved and grunted them away. He
stepped over a man asleep in the street. He walked on a few paces, stopped, took out twenty bolívares, went back, and stuffed it deep into the man’s grimy pocket. Somehow he made it
back to the hotel. With assistance from the night porters, Christmas finally crashed into his room and collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling fan was on. He took off a shoe and then fell backwards
again. He threw the shoe at the fan. It caught a blade, bounced off the wall and hit him in the face.
11
S lade stood in the doorway of the hotel room. He imagined various scenarios all at once: fights with assailants who had tried to catch him
sleeping; hooded men counter-ambushed and disabled with devastating efficiency. There wasn’t enough room for exercises. The mattress looked thin. He shook his head and pushed past the
concierge. With his kitbag on his shoulder, Slade walked through the lobby and out into the Chacaito district of central Caracas. He was in unfamiliar territory. The air smelt of damp trees,
gasoline and fried corn. Salsa music swung in and out of hearing. Businesswomen trailed hair and cigarette smoke. He had not slept during the flight.
Slade was trying to decide whether he
prolonging of the inevitable. What did he really think he was going to do here? Discover oil?
He took out the poetry book from his jacket pocket,
Muerte y Memoria
by Eugenio Montejo. It was Emily’s favourite book, the red jacket still clinging to the cover, always beside the
lamp on her side of the bed. He used to read it to her when she was ill or when she couldn’t get to sleep. It had been a present from her beloved Venezuelan grandmother and Christmas
hadn’t let go of it since the day of Emily’s funeral. She had always wanted to visit Guiria, her grandmother’s port town on the Caribbean side of the country. He’d promised
that one day he would take her. Now he was going to take what he had left, this book. He would sit on the beach she’d dreamt of, read to her one last time and push the book into the sand.
Christmas gave the book a kiss and put it back in his pocket. He sighed.
So this was the plan? He was just going to bury Emily again, spend all the money, go back to England, and then what – back to penury and disgrace? The bar was crowded and loud. He was
alone. Was he to become one of those pensioners checking the coin tray of every public phone, shivering in his slippers, alone in a bedsit somewhere with nothing to keep him company but complaints?
No, no, no – there was no going back. Better off adrift in foreign waters, playing his own tune even if the ship were going down. He was better here, unhindered, the sovereign of his own
decline. Death and the banks had taken everything he ever had, but even they could not—
Oh stop it, Pops, for God’s sake
, he heard Emily say,
listen to yourself. Honestly – you’re like a child. A great big pissed fat child
.
“Typical bloody woman!” Christmas announced to the bar, cocking his head to the roof. “You’re dead. Leave me alone!”
Shut up, Pops. You’re making a fool of yourself. Look – you’re annoying everyone
.
“And why shouldn’t I make a fool of myself, Emmy, eh?” he thundered.
“Please, Señor—” said the barman.
“Who fucking cares?”
“
Señor
, your voice, please. Lower.” Christmas looked at the barman. He blinked and returned to his rum. A glut of tears rose in his throat. He drank it down.
Alcohol cloaked his mind. He would never remember Pepito coming into the bar, also drunk, embracing him noisily. He asked Christmas lewd questions about Lola Rosa and then ushered his brother,
the owner, into the bar from a back office. The three men drank shot after shot of a clear, sweet liquid that Christmas could not pronounce.
At some point, Christmas left. Staggering under the weight of the booze, he wandered down the street. People approached him, whispering and propositioning. He waved and grunted them away. He
stepped over a man asleep in the street. He walked on a few paces, stopped, took out twenty bolívares, went back, and stuffed it deep into the man’s grimy pocket. Somehow he made it
back to the hotel. With assistance from the night porters, Christmas finally crashed into his room and collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling fan was on. He took off a shoe and then fell backwards
again. He threw the shoe at the fan. It caught a blade, bounced off the wall and hit him in the face.
11
S lade stood in the doorway of the hotel room. He imagined various scenarios all at once: fights with assailants who had tried to catch him
sleeping; hooded men counter-ambushed and disabled with devastating efficiency. There wasn’t enough room for exercises. The mattress looked thin. He shook his head and pushed past the
concierge. With his kitbag on his shoulder, Slade walked through the lobby and out into the Chacaito district of central Caracas. He was in unfamiliar territory. The air smelt of damp trees,
gasoline and fried corn. Salsa music swung in and out of hearing. Businesswomen trailed hair and cigarette smoke. He had not slept during the flight.
Slade was trying to decide whether he
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