Villa Pacifica

by Kapka Kassabova

  “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 Guides went out of date within a couple of years.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.

  ‌6

  Creativity had made Jerry ravenous, and Ute joined him for dinner, even if she wasn’t hungry. The other guests were already there. She heard Max’s loud voice and another man’s high-pitched laughter before she saw them. Max and Eve were occupying a table in the centre of the veranda, and the new couple sat at a table next to them. Max was sprawled over two chairs, his legs spread out, leaning towards the new couple as he regaled them with some story in Spanish.

  “Hi,” Eve chimed. Ute waved hello and headed towards the far end of the veranda, away from them. But Eve wanted to chat to Jerry, and he stopped to attend to her. It was against his nature to be rude to anybody’s face.

  “Hey Jerry!” Max turned his attention to him and pumped his hand. “Where’s your Tom?”

  Eve chuckled, but it was a good-natured chuckle. She was a good-natured woman. She wasn’t bad-natured anyway. The skin of her olive face was thick and sturdy – the kind of skin that sees you off into old age.

  “Where you going, Uddar?”

  She forced a smile. But he was moving on already.

  “Jerry, this is my buddy Alejandro, and his new bride Alma. They’re from Mexico City. They’re on their honeymoon.” He winked at Alejandro, who laughed that grating, eunuch-like laughter again.

  “Call me Alex.” The Mexican put out a podgy hand, and Jerry shook it.

  Ute still stood on the other side of the veranda, but soon realized that she had no choice – she had to sit with them. Already Max was pulling up a chair and gesturing for Jerry to sit down.

  “We met this afternoon,” Ute said, smiling at the Mexicans.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Héctor stood by, ready to take their orders.

  Jerry went for the arroz marinero, and Ute asked for a salad.

  “One mixed salad,” Héctor confirmed, and looked Ute in the eye for a second. It was just a casual look, but she sensed it was more than that.

  “Give me the steak with chips,” Alejandro commanded in Spanish, and snapped the menu shut. “And a beer.”

  “A mixed salad for me too,” Alma said.

  “Very well.” Héctor strode off.

  Ute glimpsed a broad back in a floral short-sleeved shirt, and a twitchy cracked heel in a flip-flop inside the lounge. Next to it, the furry tail of a collie twitched in agreement. Mikel and Lucía were quietly sitting inside, eating dinner, out of view.

  “So,” Jerry said, clearing his throat, “how come you guys speak Spanish?”

  “My parents are Colombian,” Max said. “I was born in the US, I have two brothers and one sister. I grew up in Miami. But I go to Colombia from time to time to keep an eye on some lands and plantations I own there. I’ve also got properties in Costa Rica, cos Eve’s parents are from Costa Rica. My dream is to retire there by the time I’m forty-five. Play golf, live in a big house by the beach with all my concubines. And get rid of them when they’re no good no more.” He nudged Eve and added, “Joking, honey.”

  But she wasn’t laughing. It looked like she wasn’t even listening.

  A few minutes later, Héctor brought dinner. Max and Alejandro dug into their steaks. Ute picked at the artistically arranged

  salad.

  “And what do you do, Alejandro?” She turned to the Mexican.

  “Call me Alex,” he said again, a little too eagerly. “I work for a media firm in Mexico Cit
y and—”

  “Alex here is wasting his time in an office, is what he does,” Max cut in. “I’m telling him he should go into business.”

  “Yeah,” Alejandro nodded, chewing his steak. “I’m workin’ on it.”

  “And what do you do?” Jerry turned to the bride. She was wearing an open-fronted, white-linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves, beach-style.

  “I? I am…” she looked at Alejandro, flustered, and asked him, “Cómo se dice secretaria?”

  “She is a model,” Alejandro translated. “Fashion model.” Then, realizing that some of the other people understood Spanish, he added: “And she takes care of administration in my office…”

  “Hey,” Max interrupted again. “Wanna play darts after dinner? No, wait, wait, wanna go see the animals? Have you guys seen the animals?” He turned to the Mexicans. They hadn’t.

  “Los animales!” Alma chirped.

  “Are we allowed to see the animals at this time?” Jerry started, but Mikel’s voice boomed behind him.

  “You’re not allowed to see the animals, because it’s going to be dark,” he said. He was standing in the doorway between the veranda and the lounge. His right hand twitched at the chain on which his glasses hung. “We only allow visitors two times per day. You can go tomorrow morning. OK?”

  Everybody knew this was directed at Max.

  “All right,” Max nodded. “No problem. I’ve already seen the animals, it’s for these guys, I wanted to go and show them.”

  “No, you don’t show anybody anything round here,” Mikel said. “Carlos will be there tomorrow morning. He’ll show them.” He patted the collie, which was standing next to him now. Mikel exuded a sort of flaky authority, in his worn-out flip-flops and preposterous Hawaiian shirt. His legs were as furry as the dog’s.

  “That’s cool with me,” Max said. “You’re the boss.”

  Mikel lit a cigarette and leant against the door frame. He looked at his guests, as if waiting to be asked a question. He was the boss.

  “How long have you been in this place?” Alejandro asked.

  “Fifteen years,” Mikel exhaled.

  “How you gonna sell this place one day? Who’s gonna buy it?” Max asked.

  “We won’t sell it,” Mikel said in English. “We’ll stay here.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Max snorted.

  “You’re kidding yourself,” Mikel grimaced, his eyes ironic slits. “We came here because we searched for the perfect place. We created the perfect place. We live here and we’ll die here.”

  “But this place isn’t making money,” Max declared.

  “We make some money.”

  “How much do you make, come on, what’s your turnover?”

  “It’s not your business. We make a living.”

  Ute liked Mikel, despite his rants. She was prepared to like anyone who could stand up to Max.

  “No no, buddy, you don’t get it,” Max said. “You could be making heaps out of this place. You could be running the animal refuge like a zoo – charging, say, five bucks per visitor. Bring in busloads of kids from the cities to see endangered species and all that – ecological stuff, educational visits. You rent out the cabins to school groups, pack in the kids, four per double cabin, fifteen dollars a head, ten kids per family cabin, eight dollars a head…”

  “What are you talking about?” Mikel’s mocking snort interrupted him. “We don’t want school kids here…”

  Lucía came up behind Mikel and put a calm hand on his shoulder. He visibly relaxed at her touch, took a drag on his cigarette and went quiet for a moment.

  “And you need to change the name,” Max rattled on. “You can’t go on calling yourself Villa Pacifica, that’s just… wrong, it’s… neither here nor there. No buddy, you need something snappier. Like Paradiso, Los Tigres, something sexier like that.”

  Mikel kept shaking his head.

  “Listen, pal,” Max went on, “we can strike a deal here. Let’s talk about it later, but here’s my offer, go and think about it. If you give me fifty per cent of this place, I’ll take it off your hands and turn it around. I’ll get my guys to build more chalets, bigger ones, luxury ones, expand. I won’t touch the animals, just make it more, you know, attractive to visitors. No school kids. Put some signs along the road. And don’t get me wrong, it’ll stay eco-friendly, green and clean and all that, no two ways about it, cos that’s the way of the future, that’s what people want these days. ‘Exclusive eco-resort Los Tigres… See the Galápagos without leaving land…’ Get the local community to make snorkelling products. Hell, get them to make ice cream. ‘Organic ice cream from Puerto Seco… Flavoured with palo santo, for inner peace…’ Yadi-yadi-ya.”

  “What’s he on about?” Mikel turned to Lucía in Spanish. She maintained her patient smile, her hand on Mikel’s shoulder. It was as if Max’s words were washing over her like ambient music.

  “Listen to me,” Mikel said, turning again to Max. “You’re welcome to stay here with your wife. You are our guests. But don’t try to sell me your business plans. I’ve had the likes of you before. They wanted the monkey. They wanted Jorge. They wanted a swimming pool. They wanted to poison our animals. I’ve been offered thousands. You know what I did? I kicked them out. Simple as that. Me entiendes?”

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Max was getting heated now. “I never met anybody who don’t wanna make money! Are you hippies or something?…”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I am,” Mikel snapped back, pointing at Max with a burning cigarette for maximum impact. “A socialist. That bother you? I believe in treating the earth we live on well. I believe in treating people like people and not like sources of capital. Do you know how much rain we got last year in the wet season? Five days! Do you know that the tropical forest has shrunk to ten per cent of its original size because of climate change? Do you know that America has fucked its neighbours in the south with aggressive foreign policy and backing up military regimes for decades? Do you know that globalization is making the rich richer and the poor poorer?…”

  The tirade went on for a while. Mikel sprayed the guests with cigarette ash until the cigarette in his shaking hand burned down to his fingers and he tossed it away. Lucía was gently clawing at him, trying to calm him down, but without success. In the end she gave up and went back inside, leaving him to exhaust himself – and everyone else. When he finally did, Jerry was the first to react.

  “Absolutely,” he said. He looked at Ute with mock seriousness, for confirmation.

  Max had calmed down a bit in the face of Mikel’s outburst.

  “Look, buddy,” he offered to Mikel, “I’m not in politics. But I will be soon. I’m gonna run in the local elections in a coupla years. And anyways it was the Spanish that came here with their guns and diseases and wiped out the Incas, the Mayas and all those dudes…”

  “I’m not Spanish, I am Basque,” Mikel announced – then, in a moment of house-keeping repentance, he bent down to pick up the fag he’d just discarded, and placed it in a table ashtray. “I haven’t been to Spain since 1988, for your information.”

  “Goodnight,” Lucía waved from inside the lounge and headed off to their bungalow.

  “Goodnight,” mumbled a few voices.

  “OK,” Mikel said abruptly, and frowned at his guests in an unsuccessful attempt to smile. “Goodnight.”

  Max sprang to his feet.

  “All right, buddy?” he said, his hand outstretched as if about to strike a deal with him.

  “I’m not your buddy,” Mikel said and hesitated, but then took the offered hand for a second, withdrew quickly, and was gone down the white pebbled path. The thatched roof of the master bungalow showed above the high plants. The collie got up, shook its furry coat, and padded off behind him.

  They were all quiet for a moment, sipping wine.

  “So, anybody wanna swim across to the animals?” Max grinned at the company.

  “Didn’t you hear what he said?” Eve
snapped at him.

  “Sure I did.”

  “So,” Jerry said, turning to Ute, “what was all that about? What was he saying? There was a lot of references to America in it.”

  “He’s Basque,” she summed up. “And he doesn’t like the US.”

  “What, a retired ETA terrorist?” Jerry sniggered. “South America cracks me up. It’s full of retired Nazis and weirdos.”

  No one responded. This was sharp language for Jerry. He seemed a bit drunk, though half a bottle of wine couldn’t possibly account for it.

  “All right, you losers.” Max stretched lazily across his chair. “If you don’t wanna play, you don’t wanna play. I’m bored. What are we gonna do. Let’s go have a game of darts. They have games upstairs. Alex?”

  Alejandro seemed a bit lost. “All right,” he said, picking himself up. “Alma, you want to play?” She did. Eve didn’t. She yawned and announced she was off to bed. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, but Ute felt shattered too, as if she’d walked through the national park all day, all twenty hectares of it.

  Just then a feline roar ripped through the silence. Everyone froze and looked around. Night had fallen – a deep, equatorial night.

  “Jesus,” Jerry said. “That sounded close. Must be the lion cub.”

  “She’s lonely,” Max said. “She’s a girl. Girls need company. Ain’t that right, Alex?”

  “Yeah,” Alejandro chuckled uneasily and took Alma’s bird-like hand in his and rubbed it.

  Jerry and Ute exchanged looks. It was time to retire. They got up and bid everyone goodnight. The lion’s sorrowful roar followed them down the ghostly white path all the way to la tortuga. The humid darkness seemed to magnify sound.

  “Sounds a lot closer than it is,” Ute said.

  “It’s not that far, really,” Jerry said. “But I’m surprised the sound isn’t muffled by all the vegetation.”

  “I’m exhausted,” Ute said. “I think it’s Max.”