Free Villa Pacifica by Kapka Kassabova

strong incense. It was as if a malevolent spirit dwelt here with them, in the heavy drugged air of the cabin, and seeped into their days and nights.

‌ 7
    T here was nobody on the terrace or in the lounge, but the kitchen sounded busy. Ute peered inside. A squat woman in an apron was extracting juice in an industrial-sized juicer, and Héctor was pouring it into two large glass bottles. They had their backs turned to her, so she had time to look around the kitchen. It was clean and modern, with gleaming surfaces. On the wall, above the tall fridge, was a large board, which, instead of a menu, contained a single sentence in Spanish:
We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it. El Che
    â€œWould you like some breakfast, señora ?” Héctor had seen her and was shouting over the roaring motor of the juice extractor.
    â€œYes, thank you.” OK, so she was a señora – what else was a married woman in her late thirties? When she first travelled to South America, thirteen years ago, she was a señorita .
    â€œThat’s an original place to put Che Guevara,” she pointed at the board.
    â€œ Señor Mikel is an original man,” Héctor said. “Continental breakfast?”
    â€œYes please.”
    She walked around the lounge. There were shelves full of well-thumbed books. There was The Beach , Bruce Chatwin, South America on a Shoestring , Jules Verne, Alberto Moravia, a German-Italian dictionary, the poetry of Pablo Neruda, a biography of Che Guevara in Italian, Harry Potter in Dutch. One shelf contained several large, wood-bound, recycled-paper guest books, arranged by year. Ute opened the one from 2004 at random.
    â€œI wanted to leave on the fourth of December. Then I aimed for the sixth. Today is the tenth,” said Ben from Perth, Australia.
    â€œThis place is impossible to leave, and impossible to forget,” said Saskia and Frank from Holland.
    â€œI will be back at least one more time before I die,” declared Diego from Buenos Aires.
    â€œWhat juice would you like?” Héctor deposited a wicker tray laden with breakfast on the table.
    â€œI’ll have whatever you were making just now.”
    â€œAh, that’s a special preparation for Señora Lucía.”
    â€œGuava then, please. Are you from here?” she asked casually.
    â€œYes. From Puerto Seco.”
    â€œAnd have you been working at Villa Pacifica long?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWill you stay here?”
    â€œProbably,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. She felt awkward sitting down like this and interviewing him while he stood holding a kitchen towel. He helped her out by saying “I’ll bring your juice in a momentito ” and turning on his heels.
    Breakfast was crunchy muesli with yogurt, home-made multigrain bread with home-made jam and an exotic fruit salad. All served with a mug of locally produced cocoa.
    When he came back with the juice, Ute asked: “So who did you vote for in the elections this year?”
    â€œYou mean last year.” Héctor looked at her. “We have elections here every three years.”
    â€œBut there was an election just a few months ago…” Ute smiled. “And they re-elected Gonzales.”
    Héctor sighed.
    â€œGonzales won last year, and I hope he wins again next time. I voted for him, you know. I was going to vote for the university professor, what’s his name, Ramón? He seemed like a decent guy, but he’s an atheist. I couldn’t vote for someone who doesn’t believe in God. A person without faith can’t guide our nation. Where would he get his principles from?”
    â€œAha, that’s exactly where you’re wrong, my friend.” Mikel’s voice startled them. Mikel had a way of always being around. And here he was behind Héctor, his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over the grey carpet of his chest.
    â€œSome