Free Villa Pacifica by Kapka Kassabova Page B

doorway with an empty tray, looking at her.
    â€œHave you seen Jerry?” She got up and walked towards him. “My husband?”
    â€œYes, he had breakfast early and went out.”
    â€œDid he say where?”
    Héctor shrugged. “He went out that way,” he pointed in the direction of the main entrance. That meant Puerto Seco.
    â€œThe American lady went with him,” Héctor added.
    â€œThe American lady,” Ute repeated dully.
    â€œYes.”
    Ute wasn’t jealous by nature. She had never been jealous of Jerry, and he’d never given her any reason to be. He wasn’t the flirtatious type, though he was very affable, and very vain – but intellectually rather than sexually. And anyway Eve was the last kind of woman Jerry would go for. But then he wasn’t quite himself around here. The comments last night, his spontaneous desire to stay longer – he never had spontaneous desires, or if he did, he never acted them out spontaneously… Perhaps Eve was another such anomalous spontaneous desire?
    â€œAnd have you seen Max, the American?” she asked Héctor, who was now behind the reception counter. He lifted his head.
    â€œHe went running in the forest. Like every morning.”
    She couldn’t picture Max running. But things and people here went well beyond her imagination.
    â€œDo you have an internet connection here?” Ute asked. She suddenly wanted to check the elections, to make sure she wasn’t losing the plot.
    â€œNo,” Héctor said. “We have mobile phones, but no radio, TV or internet. It’s Señor Mikel’s policy. Do you want to see the animals? I’ll take you across if you like.”
    â€œSure,” she said. “But are we… allowed?”
    â€œSure we are, if I say so.” He smiled at her, popped his head into the kitchen for a quick word with the cook, and they were off. Perhaps he was looking for diversions in his dull morning.
    They walked down to the shore and got into a rowing boat moored to a small jetty. Héctor uncoiled the rope, took hold of the oars and competently rowed downstream.
    â€œWhy are we going this way?”
    But she could already see why: there was a sharp, steep, rocky bank on the other side, about a metre high and with no access.
    â€œThe entrance is that way. Señor Mikel has talked about moving it just across from the cabins, but he likes talking and it often doesn’t come to anything. Also, it’s not that easy to make an entrance there, cos there’s no natural shore. Very expensive.”
    They were gliding through the overcast day. Dull light leaked through milky ocean mist. There was a bend in the river, after which they left the tropical compound behind. The greyish mass of the Pacific was behind them too, like some somnolent beast – humming, breathing, waiting. They were now moving into a different ecosystem, and the snaking course of the river seemed to lead them into a deeper silence. The knotted trees of the dry forest along the banks had grown aridly, grimly, as if despite themselves. It was like entering a petrified forest.
    â€œHow come the animals are so quiet most of the time?” Ute asked.
    â€œThese are not ordinary animals,” Héctor said. “You’ll see in a momentito .”
    After a few minutes of silent rowing, Héctor asked: “Are you a journalist?”
    â€œNo. I write travel guides.”
    â€œLike the Lonely Planet ?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI have seen them. Some tourists read them all the time. Will you write about Puerto Seco?”
    â€œI don’t know yet,” Ute said.
    â€œIn my opinion, you should. And you should include Villa Pacifica. There are interesting things here.” He didn’t say cosas , things, but cositas , little things. Interesting little things.
    â€œLittle things like what?” Ute probed.
    â€œWell, I’m not qualified as a guide,”