Villa Pacifica (7 page)

Again, she slept the sleep of the innocent. And again, her dreams were far from innocent. She dreamt of a woman statue who wasn't a statue at all. She stood in a clearing in the middle of a jungle, white, perfect-faced and naked, her breasts bursting with jungle sap. Then, out of the bushes came a hairy, olive-skinned man who stood behind her, placed his hands on her breasts and started humping her. It was Max. No, oh my God, it was Jerry. No, that was impossible. She didn't want to know. She looked away from it, and yet it was everywhere. And the statue was… It was either Alma or Eve, she couldn't tell, because the statue's identity was somehow beside the point. She was every woman, the female principle at its most basic. And as he humped her, the statue's belly started swelling. Ute felt aroused and repelled at the same time, because she knew that this primeval spectacle was put on especially for her, that they knew she was watching. That they were provoking her, trying to tell her something. She ran back into the dark forest, but straight away came onto another clearing drenched with light, and there too was an identical copulating couple. And again she turned away and ran through dense vegetation, sorrow and anger clutching at her throat, and again – a clearing where… She was surrounded.

She woke up drenched in sweat, shaken and annoyed with her dream. Jerry wasn't there.

In fact, she felt ill – not physically, just generally ill. Maybe it was the strong incense. It was as if a malevolent spirit dwelt here with them, in the heavy drugged air of the cabin, and seeped into their days and nights.

T
here was nobody on the terrace or in the lounge, but the kitchen sounded busy. Ute peered inside. A squat woman in an apron was extracting juice in an industrial-sized juicer, and Héctor was pouring it into two large glass bottles. They had their backs turned to her, so she had time to look around the kitchen. It was clean and modern, with gleaming surfaces. On the wall, above the tall fridge, was a large board, which, instead of a menu, contained a single sentence in Spanish:

We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it.
El Che

“Would you like some breakfast,
señora
?” Héctor had seen her and was shouting over the roaring motor of the juice extractor.

“Yes, thank you.” OK, so she
was
a
señora
– what else was a married woman in her late thirties? When she first travelled to South America, thirteen years ago, she was a
señorita
.

“That's an original place to put Che Guevara,” she pointed at the board.

“
Señor
Mikel is an original man,” Héctor said. “Continental breakfast?”

“Yes please.”

She walked around the lounge. There were shelves full of well-thumbed books. There was
The Beach
, Bruce Chatwin,
South America on a Shoestring
, Jules Verne, Alberto Moravia, a German-Italian dictionary, the poetry of Pablo Neruda, a biography of Che Guevara in Italian,
Harry Potter
in Dutch. One shelf contained several large, wood-bound, recycled-paper guest books, arranged by year. Ute opened the one from 2004 at random.

“I wanted to leave on the fourth of December. Then I aimed for the sixth. Today is the tenth,” said Ben from Perth, Australia.

“This place is impossible to leave, and impossible to forget,” said Saskia and Frank from Holland.

“I will be back at least one more time before I die,” declared Diego from Buenos Aires.

“What juice would you like?” Héctor deposited a wicker tray laden with breakfast on the table.

“I'll have whatever you were making just now.”

“Ah, that's a special preparation for
Señora
Lucía.”

“Guava then, please. Are you from here?” she asked casually.

“Yes. From Puerto Seco.”

“And have you been working at Villa Pacifica long?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stay here?”

“Probably,” he said after a moment's hesitation. She felt awkward sitting down like this and interviewing him while he stood holding a kitchen towel. He helped her out by saying “I'll bring your juice in a
momentito
” and turning on his heels.

Breakfast was crunchy muesli with yogurt, home-made multigrain bread with home-made jam and an exotic fruit salad. All served with a mug of locally produced cocoa.

When he came back with the juice, Ute asked: “So who did you vote for in the elections this year?”

“You mean last year.” Héctor looked at her. “We have elections here every three years.”

“But there was an election just a few months ago…” Ute smiled. “And they re-elected Gonzales.”

Héctor sighed.

“Gonzales won last year, and I hope he wins again next time. I voted for him, you know. I was going to vote for the university professor, what's his name, Ramón? He seemed like a decent guy, but he's an atheist. I couldn't vote for someone who doesn't believe in God. A person without faith can't guide our nation. Where would he get his principles from?”

“Aha, that's exactly where you're wrong, my friend.” Mikel's voice startled them. Mikel had a way of always being around. And here he was behind Héctor, his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over the grey carpet of his chest.

“Some of the biggest bigots are self-professed men of religion,” Mikel was saying. “Look at that banana-baron bastard, Nortega. He stood for president, and nearly got in, that sonofabitch. Do you know what his election campaign consisted of? Going around the country in a black frock, waving the Bible around and saying he was the son of God.”

Mikel had glasses perched up on his nose, a pen in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, and he was waving both of them around. Héctor stood still and expressionless.

“Have you seen his theatrics? He falls on his knees with a microphone and screams, ‘I love the poor! I love you!'” Mikel spat out onto his finger a piece of tobacco leaf. “Like fuck he loves the poor. He owns seventy per cent of the banana plantations in this country. And during his election campaign, while he wooed the poor, his workers went on strike. Have you been to one of these plantations, Ute?” She had, but this was a rhetorical question. “We're talking people sleeping ten to a shack, going hungry, hungry in this country of plenty, being paid peanuts… So they go on a strike, and do you know what the banana baron and friend of the poor does? He sends in his private militia to deal with it. And they beat them to a pulp. The good Catholic that he is. So you still think a good Catholic has principles, my friend?”

Héctor was thinking about it. And so was Ute – about this strange anomaly in the elections calendar. Either these people were completely out of touch with the rest of the country, or she had well and truly got her wires crossed.

“And yet,” Héctor tried, “people said they were gonna vote for Nortega because he's already so rich that he can't become corrupt.”

“Ah, that's where they're wrong.” Mikel raised a finger. “How do you think he got so rich in the first place, huh?”

“Well, I voted for Gonzales anyway,” Héctor said, looking at the wooden board floor.

“Ah yes, Gonzales, another friend of the poor. And of Hugo Chávez. You all voted for him, and he's slapped huge taxes on us, and now he's trying to drive small businesses into the ground, nationalize everything. Great! That's exactly what this country needs. More state control, a nepotistic kleptocracy, all in the name of ‘the people'… Another modern Venezuela. The Cubans must be laughing themselves sick.”

“I thought you were a socialist,” Ute ventured.

“Of course I'm a socialist! But this is socialism gone mad. This country is not ready for socialism of this variety. It doesn't have enough capital. It'll just become a banana republic without bananas, Cuba without Castro… Don't get me started…”

Héctor shuffled off to the kitchen.

“But Gonzales was re-elected this year, so he must be doing something right,” Ute said.

“What's that?” Mikel looked at her distractedly, like he was seeing her for the first time. “The elections were last year, my dear. And I hope like hell that Gonzales doesn't get re-elected, because if that happens we're fucked. Shit, is that the time?” Mikel looked at his battered watch. “Gotta go.”

“Where are you going?” Ute asked.

“Going to have a look at the mangroves down south. We own some land. The officials from the national park are trying to take over. I've gotta make sure they're not building anything there.”

“Are you going by yourself ?”

“Yep. Lucía doesn't like camping down there. I'll be back tomorrow morning. Will you be here?” He was off already before she could answer.

“Yes,” Ute said to his back. “We'll be here.” A minute later, she heard his jeep rev out of the compound.

In the dark interior, Héctor was leaning in the kitchen doorway with an empty tray, looking at her.

“Have you seen Jerry?” She got up and walked towards him. “My husband?”

“Yes, he had breakfast early and went out.”

“Did he say where?”

Héctor shrugged. “He went out that way,” he pointed in the direction of the main entrance. That meant Puerto Seco.

“The American lady went with him,” Héctor added.

“The American lady,” Ute repeated dully.

“Yes.”

Ute wasn't jealous by nature. She had never been jealous of Jerry, and he'd never given her any reason to be. He wasn't the flirtatious type, though he was very affable, and very vain – but intellectually rather than sexually. And anyway Eve was the last kind of woman Jerry would go for. But then he wasn't quite himself around here. The comments last night, his spontaneous desire to stay longer – he never had spontaneous desires, or if he did, he never acted them out spontaneously… Perhaps Eve was another such anomalous spontaneous desire?

“And have you seen Max, the American?” she asked Héctor, who was now behind the reception counter. He lifted his head.

“He went running in the forest. Like every morning.”

She couldn't picture Max running. But things and people here went well beyond her imagination.

“Do you have an internet connection here?” Ute asked. She suddenly wanted to check the elections, to make sure she wasn't losing the plot.

“No,” Héctor said. “We have mobile phones, but no radio, TV or internet. It's
Señor
Mikel's policy. Do you want to see the animals? I'll take you across if you like.”

“Sure,” she said. “But are we… allowed?”

“Sure we are, if I say so.” He smiled at her, popped his head into the kitchen for a quick word with the cook, and they were off. Perhaps he was looking for diversions in his dull morning.

They walked down to the shore and got into a rowing boat moored to a small jetty. Héctor uncoiled the rope, took hold of the oars and competently rowed downstream.

“Why are we going this way?”

But she could already see why: there was a sharp, steep, rocky bank on the other side, about a metre high and with no access.

“The entrance is that way.
Señor
Mikel has talked about moving it just across from the cabins, but he likes talking and it often doesn't come to anything. Also, it's not that easy to make an entrance there, cos there's no natural shore. Very expensive.”

They were gliding through the overcast day. Dull light leaked through milky ocean mist. There was a bend in the river, after which they left the tropical compound behind. The greyish mass of the Pacific was behind them too, like some somnolent beast – humming, breathing, waiting. They were now moving into a different ecosystem, and the snaking course of the river seemed to lead them into a deeper silence. The knotted trees of the dry forest along the banks had grown aridly, grimly, as if despite themselves. It was like entering a petrified forest.

“How come the animals are so quiet most of the time?” Ute asked.

“These are not ordinary animals,” Héctor said. “You'll see in a
momentito
.”

After a few minutes of silent rowing, Héctor asked: “Are you a journalist?”

“No. I write travel guides.”

“Like the
Lonely Planet
?”

“Yes.”

“I have seen them. Some tourists read them all the time. Will you write about Puerto Seco?”

“I don't know yet,” Ute said.

“In my opinion, you should. And you should include Villa Pacifica. There are interesting things here.” He didn't say
cosas
, things, but
cositas
, little things. Interesting little things.

“Little things like what?” Ute probed.

“Well, I'm not qualified as a guide,” he said. The boat softly landed on a sandy bank, and they stepped out. She could hear the cackling of birds.

“This way.” Héctor started walking inland.

The earth on this side of the river was dry and crumbly, and twisted trees grew among the animal enclosures. The beginnings of a tropical garden sprouted greenly here and there, but they were low and half-hearted. A feral, meaty smell hung in the air.

“Has this been here for long?” Ute enquired while they climbed the inclined bank.

“The animal shelter started about five years ago. I was here when they brought the first animals. And about two years ago, they started planting the tropical plants, but it's too hard to water them, there's no easy access. And it's too expensive. It's a problem. Do you want to see the display hut first?”

The display was in an open hut made from a few tree trunks and a thatched roof. It was full of patterned jaguar skins, paws, feathers, stuffed armadillos, yellow-eyed eagles in mid-flight, enormous iridescent butterflies pinned inside boxes, and tortoise shells of various sizes. A taxidermist's dream, and an animal-lover's nightmare. Ute liked animals, but not in an emotional way. This wasn't her first shelter either, she'd seen another one, much bigger, in the Galápagos a few years earlier, and two others elsewhere in South America. But not a collection like this. This here was a place of death. The violence committed against these animals was almost obscene, it made you feel ashamed.

“DO NOT BUY WILD ANIMALS! THEY ARE NOT PETS!” a sign said in Spanish. Ute wondered who this was addressed to. Those who trafficked animals wouldn't come here in the first place. Those who came here were presumably already disgusted enough. Perhaps Max's suggestion of bringing local school kids here to educate them wasn't completely crazy. Those kids were the traffickers and pet owners of tomorrow.

“These are all items that have been captured from traffickers, poachers and private individuals,” Héctor said.

“You make a good guide,” someone said behind them. Ute turned. It was the man in the gaucho hat she'd seen yesterday. He stood sipping
maté
through a metal straw from a round leather gourd. The rim of the hat cast a shadow over his Indian eyes. Héctor went quiet.

The gaucho was a slow-moving, deeply tanned and, on closer inspection, very attractive man somewhere in his late forties. He hadn't started to go to seed like overfed Alejandro or nicotine-nuked Mikel: he was still in his prime. A rough cotton shirt hung loose over his torn jeans, and he wore battered leather sandals. Every time he moved, a whiff of fresh, honest sweat escaped from him. He looked as if he'd just popped up from the Pampas for a visit.