technological progress of vanity. Christmas couldn’t help feeling
that in ten years time all these stiff tits would look terribly out of date.
He entered the bar at exactly eight o’clock. It was a wooden submarine, with a low curved roof and a vaguely naval feel to the doors and uniforms. He took a seat. They were playing a salsa
version of ‘Hotel California’. In the middle of the spirit shelves a ‘Polar’ beer sign hummed below the music. A weathered-looking couple folded over each other gave him a
brief look. Otherwise the place was empty.
Christmas had once owned a bar. The son of a Streatham dentist and his former assistant, the young Harry realised in his late teens that there were easier ways to get on in life than further
education, so he left grammar school, poshed up his accent, and got a job at an auction house. The antiques game had given him a taste for embellishment – and so began a career of running
doomed and dodgy businesses, including a bar, a drinks delivery firm, a company that imported glassware from the Far East and a curtain fitters.
“
Si, Señor
?” The barman was in front of him. He scanned the rows. City of London Gin – an obvious fake. Dewar’s, Grant’s, Chivas Regal and other
revolting whiskies shamelessly parading as the cream of Scotland. Blended filth. The only blended filth that Christmas had affection for was Whyte and Mackay to which he said ‘och aye’
on the frequent occasions when he didn’t have twenty-five pounds to spend on a bottle of scotch, or he did have twenty-five pounds, but needed two. He decided to test the available rums and
ordered a Superior. It was predictably inferior. Ten minutes passed. Lola Rosa still hadn’t arrived. He tried a Gran Reserva. Passable. Twenty five past eight. He tried a Cacique. That was
better. More time passed. The Cacique was rather good. At nine o’clock, he officially knighted the brand as his rum of choice by touching the glass on each side with a cocktail stick and then
bidding it rise to his lips. The bar was filling up. Lola Rosa wasn’t coming. After a few more drinks, he stopped looking up when someone came in. Lola Rosa. Lola Rosa. Why the devil
hadn’t she come?
“So where are you from?” asked the barman in English. It was midnight. Christmas was drunk.
“England.”
“England? So which is your team – Manchester United?”
“I detest football.”
“English and you hate football? Seriously? Wow. I haven’t met an English before who doesn’t like football.”
Christmas looked into his rum.
“How much does it cost to start up a bar in this town?”
“Really I don’t know. You want that I ask my boss?”
“No. Don’t bother. Thanks anyway.”
“So, why you come to Venezuela?” Christmas shook his drink. Then he put his finger in it, stirred it some more, took his finger out, licked it and downed what was left.
OK,
OK
, thought Christmas loudly to himself,
Why am I here? Ran off with my fiancée’s money. Wasn’t my high point. Bit short on high points of late. Bit fucking scarce. Bit
fucking thin-on-the-ground, the old ‘high points
’ ...
“Awful.”
“
Que
?”
“I did something awful. Shameful. Ran out like a coward. Ran here. Caracas. Tell me, young man, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to a woman?” The barman laughed
uncomfortably and filled his customer’s glass.
“I try not to do bad things to anyone.”
“This isn’t a fucking job interview. We’re here, two men, and I’m asking you – have you ever betrayed a woman?”
“Sure,” the barman shrugged, “I have fooled around.”
“Not just cheated on,
betrayed
. Are you following?” Christmas downed his drink and gestured for another. “Do you know what Whites is?”
“Whites?”
“It’s a gentlemen’s club in London.”
“I have never been to London.”
“I am probably not the first man to have completely fucked himself up by accepting a dinner invitation to that
that in ten years time all these stiff tits would look terribly out of date.
He entered the bar at exactly eight o’clock. It was a wooden submarine, with a low curved roof and a vaguely naval feel to the doors and uniforms. He took a seat. They were playing a salsa
version of ‘Hotel California’. In the middle of the spirit shelves a ‘Polar’ beer sign hummed below the music. A weathered-looking couple folded over each other gave him a
brief look. Otherwise the place was empty.
Christmas had once owned a bar. The son of a Streatham dentist and his former assistant, the young Harry realised in his late teens that there were easier ways to get on in life than further
education, so he left grammar school, poshed up his accent, and got a job at an auction house. The antiques game had given him a taste for embellishment – and so began a career of running
doomed and dodgy businesses, including a bar, a drinks delivery firm, a company that imported glassware from the Far East and a curtain fitters.
“
Si, Señor
?” The barman was in front of him. He scanned the rows. City of London Gin – an obvious fake. Dewar’s, Grant’s, Chivas Regal and other
revolting whiskies shamelessly parading as the cream of Scotland. Blended filth. The only blended filth that Christmas had affection for was Whyte and Mackay to which he said ‘och aye’
on the frequent occasions when he didn’t have twenty-five pounds to spend on a bottle of scotch, or he did have twenty-five pounds, but needed two. He decided to test the available rums and
ordered a Superior. It was predictably inferior. Ten minutes passed. Lola Rosa still hadn’t arrived. He tried a Gran Reserva. Passable. Twenty five past eight. He tried a Cacique. That was
better. More time passed. The Cacique was rather good. At nine o’clock, he officially knighted the brand as his rum of choice by touching the glass on each side with a cocktail stick and then
bidding it rise to his lips. The bar was filling up. Lola Rosa wasn’t coming. After a few more drinks, he stopped looking up when someone came in. Lola Rosa. Lola Rosa. Why the devil
hadn’t she come?
“So where are you from?” asked the barman in English. It was midnight. Christmas was drunk.
“England.”
“England? So which is your team – Manchester United?”
“I detest football.”
“English and you hate football? Seriously? Wow. I haven’t met an English before who doesn’t like football.”
Christmas looked into his rum.
“How much does it cost to start up a bar in this town?”
“Really I don’t know. You want that I ask my boss?”
“No. Don’t bother. Thanks anyway.”
“So, why you come to Venezuela?” Christmas shook his drink. Then he put his finger in it, stirred it some more, took his finger out, licked it and downed what was left.
OK,
OK
, thought Christmas loudly to himself,
Why am I here? Ran off with my fiancée’s money. Wasn’t my high point. Bit short on high points of late. Bit fucking scarce. Bit
fucking thin-on-the-ground, the old ‘high points
’ ...
“Awful.”
“
Que
?”
“I did something awful. Shameful. Ran out like a coward. Ran here. Caracas. Tell me, young man, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to a woman?” The barman laughed
uncomfortably and filled his customer’s glass.
“I try not to do bad things to anyone.”
“This isn’t a fucking job interview. We’re here, two men, and I’m asking you – have you ever betrayed a woman?”
“Sure,” the barman shrugged, “I have fooled around.”
“Not just cheated on,
betrayed
. Are you following?” Christmas downed his drink and gestured for another. “Do you know what Whites is?”
“Whites?”
“It’s a gentlemen’s club in London.”
“I have never been to London.”
“I am probably not the first man to have completely fucked himself up by accepting a dinner invitation to that
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