Villa Pacifica (12 page)

“W
ho's there?” a hoarse voice said in Spanish.

Lucía was lying in a hammock outside the cabin, smoking. In the dingy light of the path, Ute could only just make out her skinny shape.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said in English. “I was just… returning to our cabin. I didn't want to disturb you.”

“You're not disturbing me, I'm already disturbed.” Lucía snuffled a soft laugh. “Where was that from? Come and sit.” She gestured towards the other empty hammock, symmetrically suspended on the other side of the door. “It's nice to have someone to talk to.”

Ute went over and sat on the edge of the hammock.

“What were you looking for?” Lucía asked.

“Oh, I… wasn't looking for anything.”

There was a silence in which her lie echoed long enough for both of them to make of it what they liked. Lucía offered her a cigarette, and Ute lit her second cigarette in ten years, after the first one with Mikel the day before.

“How was your walk in the park?” Lucía asked.

“Actually, we got a bit lost. Well, not lost but we got caught out by the night. We took a shortcut back to the shelter.”

“You know, we've been meaning to get some maps designed, for our guests. It's ridiculous that the national park can't get their act together yet. But then again, nothing surprises me here any more…” She paused. “How did you find the shortcut?”

“I just guessed.”

“That's clever of you.” Lucía said.

“I don't suppose you went as far as Agua Sagrada?” Lucía continued. “It's quite far by foot, a steep climb…” Something in the way Lucía trailed off reminded Ute of Consuelo when she talked about her husband.

“No, we didn't. I wanted to,” Ute said. She waited for Lucía to mention Oswaldo. Another thick silence full of insects. Even Max's voice had been turned off. Ute felt heavy-limbed, and with every second of silence she sank further into a canopy of drowsiness. Lucía's tobacco-textured voice brought her back:

“We plan things a certain way in life. But they turn out differ-
ently.”

This startled Ute, and she turned it over in her sluggish mind.

“Perhaps you're too young to understand this yet. But you will.”

“You have a great life here,” Ute said. She was surprised by how much Lucía was talking, and how intimately.

“Yes,” Lucía said. “Oh yes. Lying in a hammock all day is sweet. And eventually it kills you.”

Ute didn't know what to say. “Do you and Mikel have children?” she asked in the end.

“No. I was a feminist. I didn't want nappies and suburbia. I travelled instead. I took drugs…”

“And Mikel?” Ute asked.

“He had a son.” Lucía had reclined back in her hammock, and her face was out of view. “It's a sad story.” Another long pause, which Ute didn't feel she could interrupt.

“You know, Mikel is an old-fashioned utopian. But, as I said, things don't always turn out the way we thought they would.” Ute waited for more, but Lucía went quiet.

At one point, Ute felt a light breeze near her face: it was a very large green insect flying by.

“You'd think that in a place like this time would go very slowly,” Lucía said just as Ute wondered if she'd fallen asleep. “But ten, fifteen years have gone like that. I arrived on this coast a young woman from California. I blinked, and I woke up middle-aged. Like
Sleeping Beauty
in reverse. When you come to this point in your life, it's frightening. It frightens you and pushes you to do stupid things.”

Lucía lit up another cigarette and, in the quick flash of the lighter, her face looked like a skull.

Ute swallowed. Her throat was dry. “Do you ever leave… this place?”

“It's hard to find someone to manage it.”

“Héctor seems onto it,” Ute tried. She suddenly remembered the gunshot. “That gunshot… Did you hear it?” she said.

“Sure. It's happened before.”

“What, guests of the villa crossing at night?”

“No. Traffickers. That jaguar is worth tens of thousands of dollars, and they know he's here.”

The large green insect alighted on Ute's forearm and stretched its many legs.

“We're on our own out here, you know. If armed traffickers broke into the animal refuge, no one would lift a finger in Puerto Seco. If the place went up in flames tomorrow, no one would do anything to help us. The new government of President Gonzales is a pain too. They took some mangrove land we own, which we bought when we first arrived, to protect it from being turned into a shrimp farm. Cos that was the big thing in the Eighties and Nineties. Shrimp-farming. It became a huge export industry. Some officials from the Ministry of Tourism came round and basically took possession of the mangrove swamps. They refused to compensate us, and of course we refused to sign anything, but they went ahead anyway. Now they're charging visitors for guided tours there, fifty to a hundred dollars a head. And the worst thing is, there's a real danger they might want to take the animal shelter next, make it part of the national park, and start charging for it. Oh, I could go on…”

“And how come you don't get on with the locals?”

“It's not that we don't get on. We contribute hugely to the local economy. Everybody who stays here goes on the local tours, the snorkelling, the new national park. But in their heart of hearts, the people here wish bad things on us.”

“I heard some kids in the village call you
la Bruja
and
el Vasco
,” Ute said. She could be honest with Lucía. Lucía had been honest with her.

“That's right.” Lucía uttered her mirthless laugh and exhaled smoke. “I'm a witch because I've got dogs instead of children. That's what life is about around here. Breeding, lying around in hammocks, chasing the flies, and waiting for something to happen.”

But Lucía was saying this from a hammock, Ute thought. It's not as though she led a strenuous life. Ute was relishing the conversation, the first enjoyable conversation since she'd arrived.

“This fragrance,” Ute said, “what is it?”

“
Palo santo
.” Lucía offered Ute another cigarette, and Ute took it automatically. “A kind of tree bark. It grows in the cloud forest. It chases away bad spirits.”

“Do you believe that?”

Lucía sighed, or maybe sniffed or laughed. “It's a bit late to believe it when the bad spirits have already paid you a visit,” she said. “But I humour Mikel.”

It seemed they'd reached the end of the conversation. Ute bid Lucía good night and walked to the
tortuga
cabin. Halfway there she remembered about food for Jerry and turned back. In the lounge, Héctor was leaning against the reception desk, reading a newspaper. His skin had an oily shine in the dingy light.

Someone was in the games room – there were hefty footsteps upstairs. Ute asked Héctor for a piece of the lemon cake for Jerry. Héctor cut a fat slice, then put it on a small plate with a fork, covered it with a napkin and asked:

“Is he feeling unwell?”

“No, just tired. He missed out on all the excitement tonight.” She reached out to take the plate. But he was holding on to it.

“Yes,” he said, and walked her to the French doors, the plate in his hands. “For the time being, the situation is under control.”

“What situation?”

“The situation in general. With Carlos and all the rest.”

He was now walking with her down the pathway, as if he intended to deliver the cake to Jerry personally.

“By the way,” Ute said out of the blue, “why has Carlos come all the way from Paraguay to live here of all places?”

“Because he got into some trouble there,” Héctor said. “He plotted the murder of a politician.”

“What?”

“Some vendetta. You can ask him. Though I'm not sure you will get anything out of him.
Buenas
.”

They were outside
la tortuga
now, and he handed her the plate. He looked pleased with himself. What exactly did he want from her?

“
Buenas
,” she said. Héctor turned on his heels and sauntered off.

“Idiot,” she said to herself. She'd forgotten to ask Lucía about the elections.

Jerry was sitting in bed, hammering on his laptop.

“Ah, you're back!” He stretched and yawned. “And with sustenance! What's the time?”

Ute looked at her watch. “Seven o'clock,” she said and got into bed, with her clothes on. “Which could mean anything between ten and tomorrow.”

“It feels like midnight. It's like we're in a sort of… black hole here, isn't it?” Jerry gulped a forkful of cake. “I thought I heard a gunshot earlier.”

“You did,” Ute said. She was already under the covers, with her back to him.

“Strange thing is, it didn't surprise me,” Jerry said, but Ute didn't reply. She was sinking into a vat of sticky sleep, where bad dreams were already churning.

L
oud music woke Ute up. Jerry wasn't there. The inside of the cabin was dark day and night, because of the heavy thatched roof, and her watch showed seven-thirty. She lay for a while with her eyes closed, trying to work out where the noise was coming from. The chest-thumping loudspeakers were playing Cumbia somewhere close by. Then the music stopped, and some sort of blurred speech took over. It sounded like the fruit sellers that cruised along the sleepy streets of coastal towns here in open-topped trucks laden with fruit, shouting through megaphones, “
Un dolarito las mandarinas un dolarito los bananas…
” until you bought some, just so they would leave. But what were the fruit sellers doing here in the middle of the night?

Ute got up and stumbled outside. Her head was spinning. It was definitely the middle of the night. Barefoot, she walked in the direction of the noise. It was coming from the back gate behind their cabin. Inside the closed gate, she found two guards in plastic chairs, playing cards. Their rifles were on the ground.

“What's up, what's that noise?” she asked them.

“Supporters of Gonzales,” said one.

“It's cos they know
Señor
Mikel isn't here tonight,” said the other.

She listened. True: whoever they were, they weren't selling fruit. They weren't even selling a president – Gonzales was already in power. Ute caught fragments like “power to the people” and “an end to the division of wealth” and “we will implement revolutionary changes”. Spotlight beams hit the gates.

“What are they doing here?” she asked. “Why don't you tell them to get lost?”

“Because we don't know who they are. They might be armed.”

Someone was coming down the dimly lit path. It was Alejandro. His slow-moving body was encased in satin boxer shorts and a T-shirt that stretched across his belly.

“What's happening?” he demanded. The guards explained. Next, Max turned up.

“What's that noise,
amigos
?” he asked. The guards explained again.

“Give me that gun.” Max reached out for a rifle.

“We're not opening the gate,” one of the guards said. “They may be armed.”

“We're armed too, goddamn it, what do you have these rifles for?”

“
Señor
Mikel—” the guard began.

“Get out of here,” Max pulled the rifle from his hands and unlatched the wooden gate. The guard tried to stop him, but Max shook him off. The other guard, galvanized into action, grabbed the second rifle to back him up. Pointing the rifle upwards, Max stepped outside and yelled with powerful lungs, “
Basta yaaa
!” But the music continued, so he fired a shot in the air. Ute had never heard a gunshot so close-up. It was deafening. The obnoxious noise died down at once.

“Why the party?” Max shouted.

“Who are you?” A male voice shouted back.

“I'm the guy in charge here. What's up,
amigos
?”

No reply from the voice except an engine being started. The Cumbia came on again. The light beams moved away from the gate. Whoever they were, they were leaving. Soon, the roar of the engine died away, muffled by the forest.

The two guards sniggered and scratched themselves sheepishly. Max stayed outside the gate some more, strutting over the tyre-trodden grass, rifle in hand. Eventually, he came back inside. “Take it.” He threw the gun at the guard who managed to catch it.

“See? Easy. No pussyfooting with these guys.”

“True, true,” the guards said.

Alejandro was full of awe. “They could've shot you,” he said.

“Nah. They wouldn't dare shoot a tourist, and they saw I was a tourist. They knew they'd get into trouble.”

The three of them headed back, leaving the guards to their card game.

“Where's your other half?” Max asked Ute. She was wondering the same thing.

“He's sleeping,” she lied. “He doesn't mind noise.”

“Sleep like a baby, huh? So what's going on,” Max moved on, “why's this place got so many enemies?”

“Yes, very strange.” Alejandro shook his head in agreement.

“I tell you why.” Max stopped, forcing the other two to stop as well. Ute glanced at his hairy chest and looked away. “Cos they killed someone here, that's why. They killed a gringo, man, and got away with it. Why? Cos they're gringos themselves.”

Alejandro didn't seem surprised. He had no doubt heard this from Max already, on the way back in the boat tonight.

“They did it man, they killed someone. The little guy in the kitchen, what's his name, he knows everything, he told me on the boat. Uddar heard it too, right?”

Ute didn't say anything, and Max continued: “This place is fucked up. I mean, you saw the gaucho tonight, with his gun—”

“You had a gun too,” Ute said. “And you didn't have to use it.” She started walking again.

“Well, I used it to protect us.”

Ute took the
tortuga
turn-off from the main path, but Max caught up with her, grabbed her shoulder and turned her to him.

“Don't touch me,” she hissed in his face.

“I was protecting
you
,” he shoved a finger at her. “Cos that Jerry of yours would have left it to the women. Now you go back to your man.”

“Max, for Christ's sake!” a tired voice came from the darkness behind them. It was Eve. She was standing on the dark path leading to the Whale cabin, in shorts and baggy T-shirt. Max let go of Ute, and she walked to her cabin, shaken. Jerry still wasn't there. She shut the door quickly and bolted it.

She lay in bed, her head and heart thumping. She hated the sight and sound of Max, but in his brutish way he was right. Jerry was not a man who could protect his own. He wasn't even there. Of course none of this mattered back home, where there was no need for animal instincts because their life was set up so safely that you could be a perfect coward and no one would notice. You could go through life standing for nothing, fighting for nothing, believing in nothing, and therefore leaving nothing behind you. Not even a memory. You could slip through the very same safety net that held your life together and, again, nobody would notice. Nobody would try to stop you with a single rifle shot in the night.

Jerry loved her. But his love was complacent, passive, a shadow that walked a few steps behind him. And she loved him, no doubt about that either. She had always loved him. A life without Jerry didn't bear imagining. He was her family, he was all she had. Without him, she was alone in the world. She had to love him.

She squeezed her eyes, and hot tears trickled out of them and onto the already damp pillow. Humidity must be close to ninety per cent here in the wet season. She rehearsed the facts for her new entry in the updated guide. The National Park of Manteño covers twenty-thousand square metres, with a rich wildlife above eight hundred metres, including howler monkeys.