Villa Pacifica (5 page)

She tripped over the doorway step of the sleepy little office and almost tumbled inside. There was an elevation fifteen centimetres high at the foot of the door, as if specifically designed to trip up visitors. The swollen-bodied guard dozing on a chair inside the dark room woke up when she entered.

“
El Niño
,” he pointed at the doorstep by way of an excuse. “We have valuable exhibits in here. We can't afford damage like last time.”

The only exhibit Ute could detect was him. She bought two A5-sized tickets to the park, plus an extra one to “swim with the fishes of Agua Sagrada”, as the guard put it, and for a moment Ute stared at him. Then she realized what he meant and smiled. “Swimming with the fishes” was a local expression for drowning, but of course it also meant snorkelling. She asked him how to get to the other side of the inlet, where the cloud forest was.

“The other side? There's nothing there. The Agua Sagrada beach isn't accessible from there anyway, you have to go onto the main road, and the official entrance to the dry forest is there. Or you can go swim with the fishes from here, and go to the beach as well. By boat. From here.”

She was confused. “There's no way across the river further down?”

“You go along the road,” he insisted again.

“And what about the community of Agua Sagrada, can I visit them?”

It was the sick painter she was suddenly curious about.

“They are too far up the hill. It takes two days to get there on horseback. And anyway, they don't like visitors.” He then added, as if it was somehow connected, “They make pottery.”

“Careful,” he mumbled as Ute headed outside, just in time to prevent her from tripping again over the crazy door stopper. A hundred metres down the street, she realized she'd forgotten to ask about maps, and the exhibits. She was having a forgetful day. She turned back.

The clerk was already dozing on his chair. She looked around for maps or any other information, but there was nothing, except a wad of US dollars behind the glass counter and a wad of tickets.

“What do you want now?” the clerk grumbled. He'd risen from his chair and was attempting to tuck his shirt into his trousers.

“I'm looking for a map.”

“What for?”

“Well, to get… oriented.”

“If you need information or orientation, you can ask me.”

They looked at each other for a dumb moment.

“You are the official agency that sells tickets to the park, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“This is a newly established national park.” Ute stepped towards him to impress on him the difference in their heights. But clearly he'd seen tall, aggressive gringas before and he wasn't an impressionable type. He just watched her indifferently, waiting for her to finish and leave. His gut hung over his belt.

“You charge twenty dollars per ticket, which I'm happy to pay,” Ute continued. “A map and some additional information is not that much to ask for, is it? In a park that's… I don't know how many thousands of square metres, and comprises several microclimates, endangered flora and fauna, beaches and marine life?”

“We do not have the means to provide visitors with maps,
señora
. We have been a national park only for two and a half years, and
El Niño
hit us hard. As I said, whatever information you need, just ask. That's why I'm here. For example, I can tell you that the park is twenty hectares. It's the biggest park of its kind along the coast, and the only one.”

There was a flicker of enjoyment in his eyes now. She had brought a bit of action into his afternoon. “If you'd like to know more about the flora and fauna, just ask the guide when you take the boat trip. And also, you can use these tickets for up to seven days. You can go in and out of the park as many times as you like.”

“OK. And can I see the exhibits?” Ute said, resigned.

“Unfortunately, some work is being done on the exhibit room just now. It will be open to visitors in a few weeks. Where are you from?”

“Finland,” Ute said.

“Like the vodka,” the man said, and smiled lecherously.

“Yes.” She felt woozy and aggravated by everything and nothing in particular. It was very unlike her. On the way out, she tripped over the step again.

“Watch out for the step!” a belated drawl followed her out.

W
hen she got back to Villa Pacifica, she discovered that her watch had stopped. It wasn't two-twenty, as it showed, but five-twenty. Somehow, she had spent the entire afternoon in Puerto Seco. She'd also missed the afternoon crossing to the animal shelter with Pablo, or was it Jesus? She'd have to wait till the morning.

The young receptionist-cum-waiter conveyed this to her in a low, confident voice meant to sound respectful, but the thread of mockery in it didn't escape her. He had slicked-back hair, and his slightly hooded lizard's eyes gave him a sly expression. It said, “I'll take your breakfast order no problem, but I'm also taking your measure, all you gringos who've washed up here, with your self-delusions and vanities.” It didn't surprise her. They were, after all, vaguely despicable, Ute thought. Had she been him, she'd despise gringos too. In fact, she already did, a little.

His name was Héctor. He called her
señora
, which made her feel old. “My name is Ute, by the way,” she said to him, and he said, “
Bueno, señora
.” She must have looked huge to him, with her practical cargo trousers and broad shoulders. But she was used to feeling this way in South America. Sometimes it even gave her a pang of dull satisfaction, a friendly giant's glee, to see the curious, alarmed looks of the locals. The worst places to be unfeminine in South America were Rio and Buenos Aires. The beauty of the women there was so commonplace that society as a whole took its absence as a public insult. Walking down the streets of Buenos Aires, Ute had actually felt the judgemental looks of passers-by, both men and women. How dare you look like that, they seemed to say. How dare you show your disfigured face, how dare you uglify our city. She had declined the offer to update the Argentina guide.

Ute went into the lounge and took a look at the furniture. It was made from a light wood, the design simple and sensitive. She already liked Oswaldo the artist. She imagined him as a silver-haired man with a suffered-in face, and wondered if she could meet him, up in his cloud forest. Héctor stood by, watching her.

“It's nice work, isn't it?” he said eventually, nodding at the tables.

“Yes, beautiful.”

“It's the work of a local artist, Oswaldo Joven. This is by him as well.” He pointed to a large painting in the dimmest corner of the room. Ute went closer and recognized the style of weaving words and shapes in a seasick way. It was hard to say just what it meant to depict, but the overall impression was one of rolling hills and bays, or perhaps clouds and waves. It was as if a malevolent God had run its hand through this landscape and spiritually deformed it. She managed to decipher the poem, which undulated with the landscape, but the letters were too warped, and all she could make out was:
welcome… end of the world… and the world will not… you and the world will not… you…

“This painting used to be in a café.
Señor
Mikel bought it and put it here.” Héctor explained. Ute didn't mind him so much any more.

“Are there other paintings by
Señor
Oswaldo here?” she asked.

“Yes. Many.”

“Where are they?”

Héctor shook his head. “There are too many, there's not enough space for them here.”

Just then, a man and a woman arrived. They were Hispanics, but from the man's clear Spanish, Ute gathered they weren't locals.

“Where can we park our car?” the man demanded, dangling a large bunch of keys. “It's a four-by-four, so we need space.”

He had the imperious manner of rich Latinos speaking to those with less money, which meant most other Latinos. The woman – she was a girl, really – glanced around with studied superiority, making sure the place was up to their standards. They said a smiley, friendly “
Hola
” when they saw Ute. Héctor got on with the business of registering them. His manner had stiffened again.

The man was youngish, perhaps in his mid-thirties, but his tall frame had already slumped into the softness of a prosperous middle age. He wore a heavy gold watch, Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt with an open collar – the kind of gear affluent American men wear to signal they're outward-bound. In his earnest shorts, pulled-up socks and pristine trainers, he looked like a fat rich kid keen to join the cool kids' party. The woman was long-haired, bejewelled and tiny, with a bird's face. She looked to be in her twenties and carried a small crocodile-skin handbag. Her stick-insect figure somehow supported a pair of disproportionately large breasts in a white sleeveless top with a high polo neck. She looked like Barbie. Ute stared involuntarily. The woman smiled back blankly. Ute couldn't imagine her either loving or hating her husband.

She dragged herself back to the cabin. Back at
la tortuga
, she found Jerry lying in the hammock, asleep, the ridge of his nose marked by his glasses, which were neatly folded on his crotch, his closed laptop resting on his stomach. The door of their cabin was ajar. Ute stepped inside, anxious. What or whom did she expect to find in there, apart from mosquitoes? There was no one there, of course, though the earthy incense aroma of the previous night hung heavily in the air, like a presence. Her half-unpacked stuff was just as she'd left it that morning. After a cool shower, she felt slightly more alert.

She came out, and Jerry gave her a vivid smile from his hammock. She sat on the doorstep.

“You look very awake for someone who was dozing just five minutes ago. Nice siesta?” Ute said.

“Brilliant siesta. Possibly the best siesta I've ever had. How was Puerto Seco?”

“It's a dump. But I got us tickets for the dry-forest park tomorrow. Looks like we'll have to set the day aside for it. It's huge.”

“Have you been across to the animals?”

“No, I missed the afternoon crossing.”

“You're joking! You've got to see them! Stuff the dry forest.”

“Yeah, I'll see them tomorrow. There's wet forest too, you know, above sea level.”

She wanted to tell him about Consuelo and Oswaldo, about the painting, the sad kids on the beach, but it all seemed too complicated. She didn't have the energy.

“Ute,” Jerry shifted heavily sideways in the hammock and blinked at her in that ingratiating, puppyish way he had of signalling that he wanted something. “Would you mind if we stayed here longer? Say, a week?”

“A week!”

“Yeah, I know, I know. We said only a couple of days. But I'd be happy to spend my whole break here, and you'd still have time afterwards to cover the rest of the coast. I mean, you've already covered it, this is pretty much the end of the line, as it were.”

Ute shrugged. “But why?”

“There's something about this place, an energy. Last night, I didn't blink. I felt incredibly alert. All my tiredness went. I just sort of prowled around the place. I went down to the shore and I knew there were wild animals on the other side, I just knew it though only the birds were making a noise. Then I lay in the hammock and, you know, listened to the jungle, as it were. I took some notes. A lot of notes actually. To be honest, I'd like to do some writing while we're here. I've got the time off now, you know how it is. When I go back to teaching in January, my time won't be mine any more…”

“I don't mind. As long as we can stay away from that guy Max,” Ute said.

“Oh God,” Jerry rolled his eyes, “where did
he
come from! Big baboon. The first thing he asked me when we met, he goes,” Jerry put on an exaggerated American accent, “‘How much do you earn teaching lidereture at callege?'”

“What's his wife like?” Ute asked, swatting a mosquito on her arm.

“She's all right, actually. Not much to her, but at least she's not obnoxious, I suppose. God knows what she's doing with that dickhead.”

“Breeding, by the sound of it,” Ute got up.

“What, you heard them?” Jerry cracked a little smile.

“No,” Ute said. “Max told me about it.”

“A subtle operator, isn't he?” Jerry shook his head and yawned. He knew how talking about procreation made her feel. Poor Jerry – there wasn't much he could do about it, except perform dutiful sex and remain optimistic.

“There are new arrivals,” Ute said. “South American couple, rich fat guy with trophy girlfriend.”

“Oh good. At least that'll put some insulation between us and Max. Literally.”

They smiled conspiratorially. It was nice to feel conspiratorial again. Jerry's face was lit up by the slightly euphoric light he radiated when working on something new. The change had occurred overnight, and his sudden muse, wherever it came from, had transformed the grumpy, beleaguered tourist into someone inspired, lit from within. She knew how much this transformation meant to him. This could be it, the story or novel that would be his breakthrough – finally, finally.

Three years earlier, he'd been battered by a tidal swell of rejections for a collection of stories he'd taken ten years to put together. He'd sunk into a borderline depression state after that. So all she could do was let him write when he felt like it. And he felt like it now.

She smiled at Jerry, and he leant back in his hammock and closed his eyes. She didn't understand, not really, this urge to write down made-up stories about made-up people. And she wasn't sure how good his stories were. Jerry, in turn, didn't understand the point of travel guides. He couldn't even use them. And the academic in him couldn't see the point of any text that was less than fifty years old. Guides went out of date within a couple of years.

Sitting on the steps of their hut, Ute looked at her unlacquered toenails, which she vowed to polish at the earliest opportunity. She listened to the plant sprinklers, and her mind wandered back to the morning encounter with Max. She didn't want it to, but couldn't help it. And to that horrible feeling of shaky legs and lurching innards, that readiness to run, throw a stone at something. And suddenly, without warning, she thought of the first time she'd ever felt out of control like this. It was around that time that she got her first attack of eczema.

She was seven or eight when her mother had her first nervous breakdown. They visited her in hospital. Ute held a wilted little tassel of nameless flowers that her father had bought. It was winter. It was always winter in her childhood. Her mother sat in bed and had white bandages over her wrists. Ute held out the flowers to her, and when she took them, her mother started crying. It was a noiseless, dejected crying, an apology of tears. Not an apology for what she'd tried to do, but for failing to do it well. For being there at all. It was as if she wanted all of them to cease to exist, but there she was, and there they were, and it was unbearable to be there, it was all a terrible mistake.

Ute's father placed his big, helpless hand on her head. That first time had broken her childish heart, which is why she willed herself into a numbness of the heart from then on. She numbed herself against… well, she didn't know what. At first it was against her mother's pain, of course, which even as a child Ute sensed was somehow bottomless. Then against anybody who might hurt her in the future. She didn't want this sort of pain to ever reach her again.

When, three years ago, she had walked out of the hospital after her near-fatal ectopic pregnancy, hand in hand with Jerry, she had willed herself not to feel. She could do that, she had a lifetime of practice. When she checked out of the unit, she saw that Jerry had cried. Your glasses are smudged, she said to him, and he hugged her very tight, and she felt as if she was comforting him, as if he himself had had the ordeal. She didn't shed a tear. True, her body had rejected their child. Their child was dead. But she could see no point in crying. Crying was something to avoid at all times, because once you started, you might not be able to stop at all, and who knows what might happen next.

Go away, she said, to these unwelcome memories. They were in paradise right now, weren't they? Ute breathed in the fragrance of orchids and humid earth, full of lazy naps and long afternoons. And she willed herself to feel good about it, to hope for the best.

She willed it because she was afraid here. She didn't know what exactly she was afraid of, and this was the worst kind of fear.