Villa Pacifica (15 page)

“What's the title?” Ute asked.

“
The Three Lives of Mikel
,” Consuelo said from behind the canvas. Her smile had vanished again. With her arms spread out to hold the painting, she looked like a Colonial carving of a female Jesus.

“
The Three Lives of Mikel
,” Ute repeated.

“It used to hang in the reception room of Villa Pacifica. It was a present from Oswaldo to Mikel.”

“And now it's here.”

“Now it's here. Things change.” Consuelo leant the painting against the wall and stepped beside it. She looked at it. “It's sad, but we are not friends any more. Mikel is a hot-headed person. And Oswaldo… Certain things… I'm sorry, this is of no interest to you.” She waved self-dismissively. “Anyway, his triptychs are based on his vision of the three lives of a person. He believes that everybody has three lives within their single life. And the thing is, he only paints it the way it looks from our present perspective, so by definition it's skewed. For example, in our first years together, he painted a triptych of his own life. And do you know what it consisted of?”

Ute didn't.

“Three portraits of me, in different perspectives.” Consuelo smiled. “I was over the moon. But then I discovered that ten years before he'd painted another triptych of his life. It was three portraits of his previous, second wife. It's just the way Oswaldo is.”

“I guess that one's not for sale then,” Ute said.

“No, that one's not for sale. I have it at home. To remind me of the good times.” Consuelo managed a smile.

“So…” Ute examined the painting for clues. “What does this say about Mikel's life? I mean, about Oswaldo's vision of it.”

“Well, the first life is his European life, before he sailed to South America. If you look very carefully, you'll see the word Gibraltar woven into the paint.”

Ute scrutinized the metallic greys of what looked like a large rubbish dump seen through myopic eyes. A bleak portrait of Europe, that was for sure.

“Yes, I can see it. He wasn't very happy in Europe, if we judge from this.”

“No. Otherwise he would have returned. He was an anthropologist, you know, at university. But he had some political problems, and personal ones, too. I don't like to pry. Anyway, the second part is his epic journey across the Pacific Ocean.”

“The Pacific,” Ute echoed.

“The Pacific. He and his young son sailed from Europe across to the west coast of South America on a small boat. Let's sit down,” Consuelo suggested. “Can I get you another drink?”

“Thank you, I'm fine.” They sat down in the plastic chairs, turned towards the painting as if it was a window. “How long did it take them to get here?”

“Three years. Actually, they ended up in the Galápagos. He wanted to live on an island. But…” Consuelo drifted off and shook her head.

“What happened?” Ute prompted her.

“The island of Floreana is ill-fated, you see. There were disappearances and deaths there in the last century. Some German settlers ended up there and came to a bad end, one way or another. It's still cut off from the other islands. I don't know the details. I don't know whether Mikel didn't know about all the history, or knew and wanted to find out more about the earlier settlers. Or maybe it was a strange and twisted desire to follow in their footsteps.”

“And what happened with his son?”

“It's a sad story,” Consuelo's smile wrinkles vanished. “His son drowned.”

“Oh,” Ute said. She'd expected something out of order, but not this. Consuelo shook her head again.

“Some kind of accident. They had sailed the Pacific, fished and swam every day in the open ocean… It's not as if the boy couldn't swim. It's…” – she searched for the right words – “terrible to live with such sorrow. But even worse is the guilt. You see, he must live with that guilt for the rest of his life. I feel sorry for him, even though he hasn't always been the most… I'm sorry,” Consuelo waved again in that self-dismissive way. “This is of no interest to you.”

Yes it is, Ute wanted to say, I don't know why but this stuff is vital to me. But she didn't want to put Consuelo on guard. After all, she was just passing through, she was just a guide-writing gringa who spoke decent Spanish and was making conversation.

“
Bueno
,” Consuelo said with that kind, unsurprised smile of hers. “So that's what the black line represents in the second life. You will see that the line spells out the word Galápagos.”

Ute could see nothing of the sort, but then she was too busy thinking of Mikel with his temper problems, the sudden clouds that descended over his mood, and the way Lucía hadn't wanted to tell her about his son's death – out of respect for Mikel's feelings.

“And the third one,” Consuelo said, returning their attention to the painting, “you can guess.”

“Villa Pacifica?” Ute asked. “It's the biggest one, so it must be the most important.”

“Yes, that's how Oswaldo saw it. The last, longest, happiest life.”

Something dissonant slipped into Consuelo's voice. Consuelo wanted to get rid of this painting. She must have her reasons. And perhaps she hoped that someone like Ute had her reasons to buy it.

They both looked out to the grey sea, which was hard to separate from the grey sky. Some kids were kicking a ball on the beach.

“When's the fish market on?” Ute asked. “It was closed the other day, and it's closed today.”

“That's because there's no fish,” Consuelo said. “The ocean is too warm. It's all gone upside down. Like last year.”

“What exactly happened then?” Ute said and looked Consuelo in the eye.

“
Bueno
, as I said, we had
El Niño
and all the destruction.”

“But what else?” Ute insisted. Consuelo sighed.

“It all happened at once. Oswaldo's illness. The elections. Oswaldo's move to Agua Sagrada. And then the falling out…
El Niño
.”

“Was there also a… murder?” Ute ventured. “At Villa Pacifica?” Consuelo looked shocked.

“A murder,” she repeated. “I don't understand.”

“A junkie, a gringo… disappeared.”

“Look” – Consuelo looked at her sharply – “I don't know who you've been talking to, but Mikel and Carlos are good men. No matter what happened between us, I won't have anything bad said against them.” She looked hurt.

“I'm sorry,” Ute said.

“Now, would you like to have a look at some others inside?” Consuelo said, quite firmly.

“Yes please.” Ute followed Consuelo back inside with the painting.

The triptych for Mikel was huge, beyond her price-wise and, besides, it felt wrong to buy it. It wasn't meant for her. Ute browsed absently through the other canvases, none of which grabbed her. Whatever had happened here, the triptych carried someone else's history.

Consuelo said, “If you really like the triptych, you can have it for two-hundred-and-fifty
dolaritos
. It's worth a lot more, but I can tell you're not a
personita
of great means.”

Ute got up from her crouching position in a daze, startled by the direct offer and by the price drop.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'll think about it and come back tomorrow.”

“For the snorkelling, you'll come back for the snorkelling,” Consuelo said, without reproach, as if simply informing Ute of her own true intentions, and saw her out.

“Héctor's really nice. He's your son, right?” Ute said casually as she paid for the juice.

“Yes,” Consuelo smiled. “My son.”

“But Oswaldo isn't his father?” Ute asked.

“No.” For the first time, Consuelo looked at her with something resembling mistrust. “Héctor's father didn't hang around. That's how men are around here. Men in the mountains don't have anywhere to run to, but men from the coast get you pregnant and – pouf! – they vanish.” She said this with a forgiving smile. “That's why you see so many single women with kids around here.”

“Well, thank you for showing me the paintings.” Ute made to go.

“You're always welcome, any time.”

Then Ute thought of something.

“What about you – did Oswaldo paint you a triptych?”

Consuelo screwed her face into a wrinkly grimace.

“No. Or, if he has, I haven't seen it. I didn't want one. I felt that as soon as my life was made into a painting in three parts, it would be over. Call it superstition, I've always been superstitious. As far as I can tell – and I'm no artist, I didn't go to university like Oswaldo, and I don't speak a foreign language like Héctor – but as far as I can tell, we only have one life.”

“Yes,” Ute said. “One life. Well, I'm off.
Buenas
.”

“
Buenas
.” Consuelo leant on the peeling blue doorway with her arms crossed.

Ute walked on along the ocean promenade to the end of the village. Just in case there was something to see, someone to meet in this ghost town. But the only traffic she saw was the fruit-seller's van driving the other way, loud music thumping away, the piles of mandarins and bananas already rotting in the heat.

From the street, Ute peered inside the dark interiors of houses perched on stilts. She glimpsed bodies lying in hammocks, and small children in scruffy T-shirts and bare bottoms shuffling in the dust, in and out of doorless doorways.

Ute walked across the beach, until her feet were in the lazy, lapping water. Even the ocean couldn't be bothered. She removed her wet shoes and lay herself down on the sand, her feet pointing out to the open sea. Pointing to the Galápagos, where in a single afternoon Mikel's life had been broken.

She wriggled her toes and spread out her limbs in a star shape. The sky exhaled its hot breath, and she closed her eyes.

Ute's three lives: how would that look? First, the glacial white of a Finnish childhood and youth. White like a snowy tundra, like a hospital corridor, like death.

Next, the world. A globe.

Jerry, home – she could paint that easily enough.

And the end of love, what does that look like? And homelessness? Not because that's how she felt. If she could paint, perhaps she might find out how she really felt.

But the idea of seeing her life on canvas – beginning, middle and end neatly framed – was oppressive. Oswaldo was assuming God-like powers. Perhaps that's why Mikel had rejected the painting. But Mikel did say that they'd be in Villa Pacifica until the end.
We'll die here.
Mikel had already foretold his last life. And in doing so, he had foretold his death – just like Oswaldo had done with the painting.

Ute sat up and shook the sand from her hair. Her head felt full of insects. Fragments of conversations, sounds and faces from the last few days buzzed inside. She needed to cobble something together from all this.

Under every entry in a travel guide there is a short lead-in section where the writer introduces the town in a factual way, while simultaneously evoking its atmosphere, even if it didn't have any. Ute had yet to do the dry-forest national park, the cloud forest up in Agua Sagrada, the snorkelling trip… but the outline was already there. It went something like this:

Puerto Seco is a sleepy fishing village sitting at the estuary of the Agua Sagrada River, 300 miles (500 km) south-west of the regional town of Jipilini. There is not a great deal to see or do, and tourist facilities are thin on the ground. It is however an ideal base for exploring the dry forest and cloud forest of the 20,000-square-metre Manteño National Park, which was established in 2006 and is rich in plants and wildlife. You can go snorkelling off the sandy coast of the Park with a guided boat tour from Puerto Seco. Like many coastal towns in the area, Puerto Seco was severely damaged by
El Niño
floods, but most of it has been rebuilt. There are two accommodation options, and a café along the
malecón
.

The unofficial story was taking shape, too, in her mind. And the more it was taking shape, the more she felt on edge.

Ute was nearing the corner of the
malecón
, where it turned inland and where the open ocean became an estuary leading back to Villa Pacifica. The coast jutted out at this point, and from there, the horizon looked curved. She was standing at the end of the human world, looking out at what was beyond.

There was nothing human beyond. The grey ocean was rising slowly like the back of a whale disturbed in its sleep, ready to spout a bitter tsunami onto the sleepy coast.

The logical thing to do now was to get out of here. Pack up, pay up, say goodbye to Mikel and Lucía, Carlos and Héctor, and leave today. Catch the first bus that passes along the dusty road, or just hitch south and go inland as soon as possible. But they weren't going to.

A solitary seagull shot down from the sky, and Ute ducked instinctively, but it wasn't coming for her. Her left cheek and eyelid were very itchy. Like the
El Niño
current, the eczema was spreading, and no other force of nature could stop it.

She plodded back to Villa Pacifica along the well-tended sand strip. The air was so thick with humidity, it was like moving at the bottom of a sea.

T
hree things happened the moment Ute crossed the gated threshold of Villa Pacifica.

First, some celestial trapdoor opened creakily high above her, and a heartbeat later the sky disgorged a deluge.

Second, she heard delighted squealing and “Oh my God!” – and her heart sank even before she glimpsed Carlos and Liz together on the veranda. Liz was standing with her arms outstretched to feel the rain, like some Antipodean earth goddess, and Carlos, in a black singlet, sat with his feet up on a chair. She was shocked at how much it hurt her to see him. And Liz's sun-struck, carefree, easy animal beauty hurt her even more. Liz took off her T-shirt and was down to her sports bra, shorts and tanned arms and legs. “I'm going to swim in the rain!” she informed all the creatures of Villa Pacifica, and ran down the veranda steps to the shore. Carlos sat a few moments longer, unaware of Ute's presence on the path, just behind the huge plant with the baby iguanas. Then he got up without rushing, the muscles of his arms moving like those of a predator sure of its prey, and walked down to the shore and out of view.

Third, a powerful lightning bolt ripped the darkened atmosphere, and Ute had a sense of foreboding – as if this was a cue for something she didn't want to happen but knew was going to happen. The unleashed elements took all responsibility away from her, from everybody. It was all up to nature now. The jaguar confirmed this with a ripe roar from across the river.

There wasn't a soul at the main house, and the garden seemed equally deserted. The Mexicans and Eve hadn't returned – their 4x4 wasn't in its usual spot outside the gate. Ute stood inside the dark reception room for a moment, distracted by cinematic images of Carlos and Liz rolling and kissing on the sand… Ute grabbed a piece of lemon cake from the tray and stuffed it into her mouth.

She then had a desperate thought and ran up the stairs to the “music and games room”, stumbling as she went. She hated feeling out of control. You could say that her life until this point had been a struggle to control her emotions. But the truth was, from the large bay windows upstairs, you could see down to the shore.

“Hello!”

Reclining on the cushioned banquette along the window was Tim.

“Oh… Sorry!” Ute said, startled.

“Sorry to give you a fright,” Tim smiled languidly. “I came up with my book earlier this afternoon, cos it was really quiet and there's much better light here than in the cabins, then I fell asleep and then the rain woke me up and those two downstairs chatting. Honestly, Liz is…” He rolled his eyes and exhaled in frustration. “She's a sweetie, but she's
so
on the rebound. She snapped up the cowboy before I had a chance to say ‘Nice hat'.”

Tim looked out to the bank. Ute looked too, the unfinished piece of cake sticky in her hand. The bank was partially obscured by plants and by the rain that fell in heavy curtains. The ground and the plants were exuding primeval vapours – any moment now, some dinosaur would poke its snout from behind a bush. She could see two blurry figures by the water, one of them rowing away, and the other one moving back towards the house and out of view. She sat down on a cushioned chair and finished eating her cake.

“Wow,” Tim said. “This rain is unbelievable, listen to it.” They did for a moment. It crashed onto the thatched roof like the Niagara.

“I don't know if these roofs are made to hold up in heavy rain like this,” Ute said.

“I guess we'll find out.” Tim picked up his tatty book. “What are you up to tonight? Going out on the town?”

“No, there's nothing to do in town,” Ute said.

“I was joking.” Tim smiled. “I figured Puerto Seco's a hole,” he added. “So, I didn't bother checking it out today. Anyway this place is just amazing, why would you ever want to leave paradise?”

“Yes,” Ute said. “I think a lot of people feel this way. Have you seen the visitors' books?”

“No, what visitors' books?”

“Oh, they're downstairs, there's a whole shelf of them. Just… guests of the Villa writing down their comments. Apparently, everybody who stays here writes something down. Those who don't, either never arrived, or never left.” She tempered this with a sardonic smile.

“Oh, I like the sound of
that
,” Tim said in a dreamy voice. “Never smell another reheated airplane meal again. Never have to be insulted again by drunk redneck pigs in economy class… I mean, don't get me wrong, I love my job, it's got a lot of perks, but sometimes I dream of escape. I guess everybody does.”

Suddenly here was Liz, coming up the stairs.

“Oh my God, have you seen the rain?” She shook her hair.

“No I haven't,” Tim said. “So how was your skinny-dipping with the gaucho?”

“Oh, you're just jealous, Tim!”

“You bet I am.”

“Well, it didn't happen. He had to go across to take care of the animals. Something about the lion pit getting filled with water. I offered to go with him and help, but he wasn't interested.”

“You know, I hate to disappoint you, but I think he's the lone-wolf type,” Tim said.

“Bummer.”

“I wish,” Tim sighed.

“I better go and change. See ya later.” She waved and was gone.

Ute walked to
la tortuga
, soaking up the warm rain like a moving sponge. The water was soothing on her inflamed face. Through the netted window, she saw that Jerry was sitting on the bed inside the netting, scribbling something.

She took off her sodden shoes and pushed the door open. “Hi. Are you all right? Have you been lying here all day?”

“
I'm
all right. Where have
you
been all day?” He got up, stepped out of the bed netting and put his arms around her, as if he knew that she needed soothing. She embraced him back. It felt like they hadn't touched for ages.

“Just to Puerto Seco and back,” she said. “What's the time?”

He looked at his laptop. “Coming up to five.”

“I don't know where the days go here. Do you?” Ute was taking her clothes off and looking for somewhere to hang them to dry. But there was nowhere dry inside or out.

“We're on holiday. That's what happens when you're relaxed and enjoying yourself,” Jerry said breezily, and ducked back inside the bed netting.

“Speaking of which,” Jerry continued, “why don't you come and join me in here?” He started removing his own clothes. “In this biblical deluge, we may as well get biblical.”

Ute smiled. She was tired and clammy inside and out. And yes, vaguely, distantly aroused. She stepped inside the netting. Jerry was reclining on the bed, naked and white, so white he was like a glow-worm in the darkened room. His middle was slightly thickened, despite his slender boyish physique. Even boys hit forty, eventually, and became soft and doughy around the waist, and Jerry was about to hit forty. Some men – Carlos, for example – held up well and would look powerful all the way into their seventies, she suspected, but Jerry was a desk worker and wasn't going to be one of them. It wasn't that she cared much about that, but she was suddenly filled with sadness for him.

He drew her to him and she closed her eyes, feeling Carlos's hands over her breasts and back and buttocks, Carlos's hard panting body and urgent weight on her. When she reopened her eyes, the fantasy vanished. She was herself again, and for a moment she was afraid that Jerry could see the betrayal in her pupils. She listened to the impersonal rain.

Jerry's hand was stroking her back in that affectionate, therapeutic way he had. She disliked it, but had never found a way of letting him know.

She had never been unfaithful to Jerry, except for a short, drunk, non-penetrative tumble in the sheets of a dingy hotel on a starless Bolivian night. There were mitigating circumstances – namely that the Norwegian was very insistent, which was flattering; she had felt achingly lonely and far away from Jerry, and not sure whether he really loved her – and besides it was years ago, at the start of her guide career, so long ago it almost hadn't happened. She had been unfaithful in her mind before, but never like this. Still, she had no doubt that Jerry had been fantasizing for years about having sex with beautiful women – well turned-out university colleagues, young students, perhaps even random passers-by or foreign waitresses. Beautiful women were everywhere. It was only natural.

“Ute, are you crying?” Jerry propped himself up on an elbow behind her turned back and put a hand on her tense shoulder, trying to peer at her face. “Ute, what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ute whispered, and turned her face into the pillow. She never cried in front of Jerry, why start now? She never cried full-stop. Jerry switched on the dim bedside lamp.

“It's the rain.” Ute cleared her voice and pulled herself together. This was true, in a way. It was everything else
and
the rain. Jerry massaged her shoulders.

“Has someone upset you?” he said gently.

“No. It's… all this stuff, coming up to the surface. Out of nowhere.”

“What stuff?”

“Just stuff. Dreams. Memories. Stuff I never think about. Like my whole life is flashing before my eyes.”

He continued massaging her shoulders as she spoke, and she wished he'd stop. It made her feel like a sick dog about to be put down by a kind animal-shelter worker.

“Your parents. Childhood stuff,” Jerry guessed.

“No, it's not just that.” Tears made the eczema on her eyelids burn, so she dabbed her eyes dry with a corner of the top sheet.

“Maybe it's just the… I don't know, the stillness? Being still?” Jerry guessed again. “After being on the move for a few weeks, you know, you suddenly find yourself alone with your thoughts.”

“Yes, I know you think I'm not introspective enough,” was her brittle reply, and she sat up.

“Nonsense.”

“But you do. You think I'm addicted to travel because it's a way of escaping from myself.”

“Well, isn't all travel an escape in some sense?” He had stopped stroking her. They were now both propped up against the pillows.

“Isn't
writing
an escape in some sense?” she said.

“Sure. But it's an escape into a world you yourself have created.”

“I don't see the difference.”

“Well, maybe there isn't a difference,” he said irritably. “I suppose one is more passive than the other.”

“So sitting at your desk is somehow more active than taking a trip around a foreign country.”

“Well, perhaps not more active, but I think it's more imaginatively involved. But so what? I don't see why we have to compare. Why are you so defensive anyway? There's nothing to be defensive about!”

“Anyway,” Ute said. “I don't think it's being still. I think it's this place. Even this smell… There's something about it.”

“The incense you mean?”

“Yeah, the
palo
santo
bark. It's supposed to have cleansing and anaesthetic properties, but it's having the opposite effect on me.”

“Really? I rather like it. It's quite… exotic. Look, if you're not happy staying here, we could just leave tomorrow. I mean… I don't mind.” He did mind. He was loving it here. If they left tomorrow, he'd be sulking for the rest of the trip.

“No, no, we don't have to leave,” Ute roused herself and sat on her edge of the bed, her back to him. “Besides, I haven't done my research yet. I've just been so unproductive here. I don't know what I've done with my time.”

“Just relax. We've only been here three days.”

“It feels like three weeks,” she said, and scratched the angry eczema patch in her elbow. She wanted to tell him about Consuelo, about the paintings, her theories on this place and its inhabitants. But the moment for it had passed.

“Well, funny you say that, because I've done more writing here in three days than I normally do in three months – it's amazing. It must be the
palo…
the incense thing.”

“The rain has stopped,” Ute said.