Villa Pacifica

by Kapka Kassabova

  “Since when do you believe in class?” Ute said.

  “I don’t mean class in that way – and you know it.”

  “Are you really writing a story about here? Or did you just say that to get their attention.”

  “Both, I suppose. I don’t know myself what I’m writing yet. Keeps morphing. But whatever it turns out to be, it’s definitely coming out of this place. I suspect it’ll be a short story. Or a novella. I want to stay till I finish it. Shouldn’t be more than a couple more days. Why is it called El Niño anyway?”

  “Because it always comes in December, around Christmas time. Niño means child, like the baby Jesus. You know” – Ute fell backwards onto the bed – “it’s like this place is feeding off me.”

  “It’s strange.” Jerry swatted at a mosquito and started peeling off his clothes. “I feel the opposite – like I’m feeding off this place. You know what’s funny? That chap Luis has just lost his brother, his father died when he was three, his wife is a grumpy cow with a moustache, his mother’s not exactly a bag of laughs, but he’s such a happy chap…”

  But Ute didn’t hear. She was fast approaching her first bad dream of the night.

  ‌16

  It wasn’t a bad dream. It was worse.

  Ute lay on her back somewhere between the floating bed and the afterworld, and knew there was a presence at the foot of the bed that wasn’t Jerry. She couldn’t see it, but she could sense its vegetal breath, its evil humanoid intentions. It almost touched her feet, it was almost advancing towards her face, and she wanted to scream or whimper, but her voice was paralysed like the rest of her body. There was something not quite right with the creature – it had an animal’s head and a human body, or perhaps vice versa. It chuckled and hissed and gurgled, and she could almost understand it. It wanted to tell her something she didn’t want to know, the answer to some essential question, the secret of life and death itself perhaps, after which nothing would be the same. It was more than Ute could bear to know, although she’d spent her life looking for it. It would give her knowledge, and it would destroy her.

  Then she fell off the cliff of the bed and into the abyss of wakeful-

  ness.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jerry’s bespectacled head was poking in through the door.

  Ute was surprised to find herself on top of the bed. She hadn’t moved at all. Rain battered the night roof.

  “You were whimpering,” Jerry said.

  “What’re you doing?” Her tongue felt unfamiliar.

  “Just doing some writing out here in the hammock. You were out like a light.”

  “Something was here,” Ute said.

  “What thing?”

  “I saw it.”

  “That would have been me.” Jerry smiled. “I’m the only thing around here. I’m right here, OK? Call me if you need me.” And his head disappeared again.

  She got up carefully and took off her wet trousers, bra and undies. Despite the oppressive heat, her feet and legs were tomb-cold, as if she’d begun to die in her sleep from the feet up and was interrupted. She turned on the bathroom light, and the mirror reminded her that the only scary thing in the cabin was her. Two new itchy red patches blazed on her cheeks – but the good news was, the clown’s muzzle around her mouth was fading. She applied some cream, combed her hair and went back to bed in her cotton boxer shorts and a long-sleeved sweatshirt to cover up her itchy arms. She closed her eyes. The only antidote to the apparition was to think about safe and ordinary things.

  She couldn’t think of anything safe and ordinary though. All her thoughts were dangerous. All her thoughts veered back to the creature and what it had to tell her. Eventually, she settled on her sweatshirt, which said “One Tribe, One Earth: Love It or Leave It”. A Christmas present from Jerry’s well-meaning parents, who’d never gone beyond the wines of France and the tapas of Spain, and thought of Ute as a professional hippie to whom words like tribe and earth would appeal.

  Ah, to belong to a tribe, like Luis. It was a prison, for sure, but you could “love” it even after you “left” it. Luis had “left” it, and he still belonged to the tribe. Even after his brother’s death, even with an Austrian wife and child, he was one of the tribe. Even after sixty years in Europe, he would be an Achuar. He could say we do this, we think that, even though he personally didn’t.

  If only she could have something akin to a tribe. Somewhere to remember, some land to return to, some thatched hut in the forest.

  Something, anything… but no, she had the whole world instead. One earth, one tribe – that suited her better. That’s the way she wanted it, because she was a free spirit – unchained, unburdened, unanchored, unbelonging. Un-everything.

  She pictured Carlos’s rough hands squeezing and moulding her body like soft clay, as if he was going to make something out of it.

  She slept, and in her new dream she found herself climbing a steep, slippery hill, at the top of which she knew that everything would be resolved. But it was urgent, there wasn’t much time, and she was in a rush, sweaty, scrambling among the sticky plants under the burning sun, parched with thirst and anxiety that she should get there before the sun went down.

  The morning was fragrant and heavy with cloud and promise, but the Mexicans had decided to leave.

  “We’re too lazy. We’re not into walking or snorkelling,” Alma explained to Ute and Jerry over breakfast. Alejandro was writing a message in the guest book.

  The monkeys across the water were arguing about something.

  “And what are your plans?” He turned to Ute.

  “We’ll go snorkelling, if it doesn’t rain,” Ute said.

  “Did you hear the American couple are leaving too?” Alejandro switched to English for Jerry’s benefit.

  “No, but I’m very glad to hear it,” Jerry said.

  He looked pale after another late night of writing. Pale but happy. He had the glow of creation that lights us from within and makes us feel indestructible. It’s very similar to being in love, he had explained to Ute once. Anything seems possible, life explodes with flavour and meaning, something vital clicks into place and you want to hold it there for as long as possible. Ute thought she understood. Writing text for the travel guides didn’t do the same for her, but travel did. Or used to anyway.

  “Hola.”

  Carlos appeared with an espresso cup and a slice of buttered walnut bread. Everyone greeted him, except Alma, who didn’t bother. My God, Ute thought, here is a woman who doesn’t actually fancy him.

  “How are things over on your side?” Jerry enquired. “Are the animals OK after all the rain last night?”

  “Yes.” Carlos leant against a table. He wasn’t wearing his hat, and his sun-baked forehead glistened with sweat. “They’re surprised because it didn’t rain for a long time. We had some small problems with the lion. The… how do you call it” – he switched to Spanish – “the new pit drain didn’t work, so the pit filled with water during the night. Pablo and I had to go down and try to unblock the drain. When it rains again, it will be a problem. We’ll have to move her back.”

  “What problem?” Max said, appearing onto the veranda like a heavyweight wrestler jumping into the ring. He placed an empty plastic bottle on the Mexicans’ table and clicked his fingers for Héctor, who was busy carrying trays back and forth. “Eh, amigo, one cooked breakfast and one americano! I’m starving.”

  He was red-faced and drenched in sweat.

  “If I can feed the lioness,” he went on, “I can do anything round here. You’re gonna need men round here if there’s a storm, to help you guys out.”

  Carlos sipped his coffee. He was still standing.

  “I hear you’re leaving today,” Jerry turned to Max between mouthfuls of muesli with yogurt.

  “Who told you that? Nah, we’re staying. I said to my wife, ‘Go ahead honey, you do what you like.’ But I know her, she wouldn’t go without me.”

  Carlos swallowed the last p
iece of walnut bread, his impassive Indian eyes fastened on Max, then he took his empty espresso cup to the kitchen.

  “Did you hear that, honey?” Max said.

  Eve was on the veranda. She wore a khaki hat with a string under the chin, colonial-style shorts full of pockets, and a too-small one-piece bathing suit.

  “Hear what?” Eve said.

  “Jesus, are we going tiger-hunting today or something?” Max said.

  “Get out of here,” Eve said, and sat down at an empty table.

  “Morning.” Liz came up the veranda stairs. “What’s the forecast?”

  “Nice weather today,” Héctor said, and served Max a big plate of toast, eggs and bacon. “Maybe some rain tonight.”

  “Great!” Liz said.

  “Bye,” Carlos waved from the path.

  “Oh, hi Carlos,” Liz chimed and leant on the veranda balustrade, “you’re not gonna join us for breakfast?”

  “No, thank you.” And he was gone.

  “Tough luck,” Max said to Liz, his mouth full of eggs. “He fucks off when he pleases.” He snorted.

  “Continental for me, thanks,” Eve said to Héctor.

  Something in the group dynamic had shifted since the day before, but Ute couldn’t put her finger on it yet. Then she suddenly realized what had changed: nobody was pretending any more, those who were leaving or those who were staying.

  “Guys!” Liz shouted. “It’s nine a.m., it’s gonna be a beautiful day, no rain, and we’re going snorkelling!”

  “Let’s go,” Ute whispered.

  She and Jerry got up to go just as Tim arrived.

  “It’s amazing,” Jerry mused on the way to the tortuga, “that nobody has punched Max yet.”

  “Give it another twenty-four hours,” Ute said.

  “That guy Carlos really puts his back up, I can tell.”

  “You don’t like Carlos either though.”

  “Oh, I don’t have anything against him. He’s all right. But what’s that stuff about murder that Max keeps mentioning?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, well, Héctor told me a bit. It wasn’t a murder. It was a suicide. Or an accident. Max is just a trouble-maker.”

  “When’s the snorkelling?” Jerry asked. Because he wanted to do some writing beforehand. He was already in the hammock, with his laptop. There was nothing left for Ute except to walk to Puerto Seco ahead of the others and hang out with Consuelo for a bit.

  After the night’s rain, the sand was wet and hard like concrete. She walked along the waterline barefoot. The tide was out, and the sea was its usual murky colour.

  Being here already felt like a faded memory. The woman – now reaching the malecón, now looking out to the open sea for signs of something, anything – was a distant recollection of Ute.

  But Ute wasn’t seeing all this from the future. No, she couldn’t picture her future at all. It’s as if she was seeing herself from someone else’s eyes. As if someone was watching her, some presence at the foot of the bed, some faceless shadow that came from the ocean and engulfed everything on the land.

  ‌17

  A few people mooched along the malecón. The kids darted about. This was the busiest she’d seen Puerto Seco. On the beach opposite Café Fin del Mundo, Luis played football with the kids from the day before and those from the day before that, or however many days had gone by.

  Outside the café, Helga nursed the baby, and Luis’s mother nursed something invisible, perhaps memories of happier times when her own sons were little. They both nodded at Ute without enthusiasm. Evelyn and Ricardo had spotted her and were running towards her. Their brother, the boy without a name, walked behind them. “You came back!” Evelyn said, beaming.

  “Yes,” Ute smiled.

  “We’re playing football.”

  “And who is winning?”

  “Our team’s winning.” Luis came over on short, muscled legs. “Are the others coming for eleven o’clock?”

  “They should be.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the guys who run the snorkelling trips. They weren’t so keen on it, with the weather forecast and all, but I talked them into it. Said there’s ten or so of us going.”

  “Bueno.” Ute looked at the café. Consuelo must be somewhere at the back making breakfast for her two customers.

  Ute felt distracted. There was something at the periphery of the visible world here. She sat down on the salt-eaten remains of a beach bench.

  “I’m still trying to convince my mother though,” Luis was saying. “She’s scared of the ocean. She’d never seen it before. And in Achuar folklore, the ocean is where the tsungki live.” He looked at Evelyn and her brothers, who were transfixed by the strange visitors. “The tsungki are beings like us, or almost like us, who live on the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Can we see them?” Ricardo asked.

  “No, we can never see them or talk to them. Only shamans can, when they smoke special herbs. But they’re not bad, they don’t want to harm us. They are the lords of the fish in the sea.”

  “My father says the fish in the sea have died this summer,” Evelyn said. “Were they eaten by the tsungki?” She giggled at the unfamiliar word.

  “No. The tsungki don’t eat fish. It’s El Niño. El Niño brings warm water, and fish don’t like warm water.”

  “I like warm water,” Evelyn said.

  “Your boyfriend is a tsungki,” Ricardo teased, and she pushed him away.

  Luis waved at the café, and his mother waved back vaguely.

  “Actually, not much scares my mother,” he said. “She’s been through so much.” He looked at Ute. “And did you sleep well?” he enquired.

  Ute didn’t know what to say. There was a sinister presence at the foot of my bed? As if reading her thoughts, he smiled.

  “In Achuar, this is a regular greeting. How did you sleep or how were your dreams, same thing. Dreams are very important to us.”

  “Do the Achuar have a system of interpreting dreams?”

  Evelyn, Ricardo and their depressed brother listened with their mouths open.

  “Dreams influence your actions during the day. There are omens. For example, will you go hunting or not, will you leave the house or not… And then it gets more complicated when you’re going on a vision quest. Then the dream is all-important.”

  “What is a vision quest?” Ute asked.

  “It’s when you go up into the mountains, drink special medicinal potions and feel compelled to go and meet the spirit world. There, you might meet the spirits of your ancestors, which sometimes appear as animals or birds. And if your quest is successful, the spirits pass on their powers to you. So when you return, you are stronger.”

  “And if it’s not successful?”

  “Then you return from the mountain with nothing. Anyway the apparitions don’t always manifest themselves. But when they do, you must overcome your fear and approach them until they vanish. My younger brother, the one who died, he went on a quest, and a spirit in the form of a boa appeared to him. The boa is a very powerful animal in our mythology. But he was afraid and didn’t approach the apparition. Therefore he wasn’t empowered by it. My other brother had a successful quest. He became a shaman.”

  “Do you believe this yourself ?” Ute asked. “I mean, have you seen such… apparitions?”

  “I’ve never been on a quest like this, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I mean, do you believe that this is what happens? Or do you think it’s hallucinations?”

  “Of course it’s hallucinations!” Luis smiled. “That’s why you take those potions. Doesn’t mean they’re not real. But I understand your question. You know, I’ve lived in Europe for ten years, and I understand the rational mindset of Europeans. You always want to know what’s real and what’s not. But for us, it’s not so clear-cut. I think there are things that can happen only in some places. Things you can see and know only in some places. Just as El Niño only strikes along this coast, so the spirits of our ancest
ors can only be glimpsed in the hills of the Amazon. Not here or in the Andes, or Paris, or Berlin.”

  Evelyn and Ricardo had fled back to the boys and the ball, but their brother was still listening intently.

  “Do you want to see Paris and Berlin one day, son?” Luis asked him. The boy looked terrified at the prospect. “If you do, you mustn’t drop out of school.”

  “I think they already have,” Ute said quietly. The boy went and sat on the chipped steps nearby.

  “See, that’s exactly why I won’t come back to live here.” Luis shook his head. “I want my son to have a good education. I want him to have the things I didn’t have in the jungle. Not material things, but riches of the mind. Knowledge.”

  “But isn’t this knowledge somehow linked with where we come from, going back to our roots and all that?”

  “That’s self-knowledge. I think that takes longer, and you have to be in the right place for it. I think many gringos, like the couple from Villa Pacifica, they’re nice people and everything, but they come to a place like here and expect to find something in themselves. Maybe they do, after many years. But I doubt it. I left the jungle at sixteen, and I left the country at eighteen. I joined a Peruvian band – actually there was only one Peruvian in it – and we busked our way across Europe. And it’s only now that I feel I’m getting to know myself and my roots. Only now, and only because I’ve been away and returned.”

  “How old are you?”

  They turned around, startled. Max was there, sitting on a chewed-up bench facing the malecón, back to back with their own one.

  “Twenty-eight,” Luis said.

  Helga was gesturing for Luis’s attention. He got up and walked over the road.

  “Did you walk here?” Ute said.

  “Yeah. I was gettin’ dead bored with that bunch. Just as well we’re goin’ snorkellin’.” He turned to the boy. “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Pedro,” the boy whispered, and avoided Max’s gaze.