A Bright Moon for Fools Read Online Free PDF Page B

into Venezuela.

8
    C hristmas awoke with a start. He had been dreaming that a clown lover was trying to run him over in her tiny car.
Where the devil am I
? he
thought.
Bloody hell. Caracas
. Christmas pulled his tongue off the pillow, pushed his eyes to the front and swung out of bed
.
He opened the curtains. There were the El Ávila
Mountains, a cable car plotting its way to the top. He drank all the bottled water in the room. He went back to bed, his belly uncomfortably stretched, battling an old feeling of dread that was
always worse with the hangovers. He closed his eyes and rummaged through other thoughts. He found some that were pinned to the future and dressed his mind in their confidence. Venezuela. Everything
would be better here.
    He got up again. He went into the bathroom. “Morning, Christmas,” he said to a group of Christmases all standing off at an angle from one another. Christmas made a slight bow to
them. They all bowed back. Christmas let out an oddly high-pitched fart. Everyone found it funny.
    Down by the outdoor pool on the first floor, white and green striped awning covered the breakfasters. Skyscrapers rose up beside them. Women read magazines on sun-loungers and trailed their
hands in the water. Inside, Christmas violated the buffet. Scrambled eggs, streaky bacon, hash browns, waffles, syrup, fruit salad, orange juice. He sat down with a copy of the
International
Herald Tribune
as his guest. Once he had grown tired of the newspaper he amused himself by observing the business people in relaxed mode – bare white ankles sticking out of yachting
shoes, knowing laughter, rigidly pressed shirts and shorts. They all looked desperate.
    He was disappointed with the coffee – far too bitter – but he drank a vaseful anyway, beckoning refill after refill until he could feel it hot-wiring his subterranean ignitions.
Christmas decided to explore the hotel. He walked its corridors and discovered restaurants. He went into the business centre. He found conference rooms being prepared and came out into a shopping
arcade. From a walkway he saw a man living under the flyover opposite fixing his roof with a new cardboard box. He re-entered the hotel. He went into the gym. He inspected the Jacuzzi.
    “Feel like a work-out, sir?” said the receptionist.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed.
    Once the first coffee of the morning had worn off, he’d usually had enough of being alive. Today was different. Today he was in a new city. Yes, he breathed deeply to himself, marching
along the corridor to his room, here he would triumph. He got to his door and realised he’d lost his key.
    Like most logical people, when Christmas lost something he assumed it had been stolen by supernatural forces bent on sabotaging his life. After several furious seconds he found it again. Once
inside, he took a bath, dressed, and counted his money ready to go shopping. He spent several minutes getting the angle of his Panama right. Then he lost his room key again. He finally found it in
his back pocket. “It’s the mischief of the devil himself,” he muttered in bewilderment. Christmas returned to the mirror for final approval and then set off into Caracas.
    Outside the hotel’s force field of wealth lay the Sabana Grande district. There was something about its shops that reminded him of Derby in the 1980s; a kind of tropical Eagle Centre, with
a similar mix of jewellery, hi-fis and bargain shoes. The air was close, clouds struggling to keep off the ground. Beggars watched old men play chess. People stood by food stands eating corn
arepas
stuffed with ham and cheese, while Chávez looked down from the billboards, his impressive face balancing on a bright red shirt:
POR NUESTRO FUTURO, POR NUESTRA
REPÚBLICA
!
    Christmas sat down in a café. He drank an espresso and settled down to watch the Venezuelans. They were of every hue, from morning pink to oak black. They talked and laughed. Hands were
grabbed, cheeks