Free Villa Pacifica by Kapka Kassabova Page A

of the biggest bigots are self-professed men of religion,” Mikel was saying. “Look at that banana-baron bastard, Nortega. He stood for president, and nearly got in, that sonofabitch. Do you know what his election campaign consisted of? Going around the country in a black frock, waving the Bible around and saying he was the son of God.”
    Mikel had glasses perched up on his nose, a pen in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, and he was waving both of them around. Héctor stood still and expressionless.
    â€œHave you seen his theatrics? He falls on his knees with a microphone and screams, ‘I love the poor! I love you!’” Mikel spat out onto his finger a piece of tobacco leaf. “Like fuck he loves the poor. He owns seventy per cent of the banana plantations in this country. And during his election campaign, while he wooed the poor, his workers went on strike. Have you been to one of these plantations, Ute?” She had, but this was a rhetorical question. “We’re talking people sleeping ten to a shack, going hungry, hungry in this country of plenty, being paid peanuts… So they go on a strike, and do you know what the banana baron and friend of the poor does? He sends in his private militia to deal with it. And they beat them to a pulp. The good Catholic that he is. So you still think a good Catholic has principles, my friend?”
    Héctor was thinking about it. And so was Ute – about this strange anomaly in the elections calendar. Either these people were completely out of touch with the rest of the country, or she had well and truly got her wires crossed.
    â€œAnd yet,” Héctor tried, “people said they were gonna vote for Nortega because he’s already so rich that he can’t become corrupt.”
    â€œAh, that’s where they’re wrong.” Mikel raised a finger. “How do you think he got so rich in the first place, huh?”
    â€œWell, I voted for Gonzales anyway,” Héctor said, looking at the wooden board floor.
    â€œAh yes, Gonzales, another friend of the poor. And of Hugo Chávez. You all voted for him, and he’s slapped huge taxes on us, and now he’s trying to drive small businesses into the ground, nationalize everything. Great! That’s exactly what this country needs. More state control, a nepotistic kleptocracy, all in the name of ‘the people’… Another modern Venezuela. The Cubans must be laughing themselves sick.”
    â€œI thought you were a socialist,” Ute ventured.
    â€œOf course I’m a socialist! But this is socialism gone mad. This country is not ready for socialism of this variety. It doesn’t have enough capital. It’ll just become a banana republic without bananas, Cuba without Castro… Don’t get me started…”
    Héctor shuffled off to the kitchen.
    â€œBut Gonzales was re-elected this year, so he must be doing something right,” Ute said.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Mikel looked at her distractedly, like he was seeing her for the first time. “The elections were last year, my dear. And I hope like hell that Gonzales doesn’t get re-elected, because if that happens we’re fucked. Shit, is that the time?” Mikel looked at his battered watch. “Gotta go.”
    â€œWhere are you going?” Ute asked.
    â€œGoing to have a look at the mangroves down south. We own some land. The officials from the national park are trying to take over. I’ve gotta make sure they’re not building anything there.”
    â€œAre you going by yourself ?”
    â€œYep. Lucía doesn’t like camping down there. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Will you be here?” He was off already before she could answer.
    â€œYes,” Ute said to his back. “We’ll be here.” A minute later, she heard his jeep rev out of the compound.
    In the dark interior, Héctor was leaning in the kitchen