The Navidad Incident (17 page)

But just as he reaches the stairs, the strangest thought comes sailing at him like an arrow:
What if he's doing exactly what Cornelius once did?
What if Cornelius didn't really have a clue what was going on either? What if he was doing the bidding of some external power?
Behind this painted backdrop reality, maybe some stage director and props men and all kinds of mechanical contraptions are moving things about? How does he know there's no puppeteer pulling his strings? Suddenly he gets the distinct impression that every joint in his body is tangled in invisible threads. He sweeps them away and hurries downstairs to the office.

Heinrich does not return by noon. The President leaves instructions with the staffer on duty that Heinrich's passenger is to be shown to a waiting room; he himself is going to the canteen for talks over lunch as scheduled.

The prospective lunchee is a heavyweight legislator from Baltasár Island who's fairly close to the President. He'll be accompanied by several junior legislators from his camp, so Matías has asked Jim Jameson and a middle-echelon official from the Foreign Office, nobody especially prominent, to join them. A year ago, Matías disbanded the legislature as an emergency measure in response to the uproar when former President Tamang died under unusual circumstances. All authority was reeled in to the Executive Office, ostensibly as a three-month or half-year stopgap, though in fact the clamps are still on now over a year later. The only reason one doesn't hear legislators grumbling is that the President has co-opted all avenues for complaint, inventing pretexts for a lunch or dinner invitation especially to hear them out.

Thanks to his previous eight-year double term, he is up to running the country with no legislature
and
virtually no complaints. A legislature has its role in breaking in a new president, but beyond that—just to reflect the will of the people? Who needs it? His dictator-in-mediator's-clothing stratagem has worked remarkably well. At least no disgruntled noises ever reached his ears, no dissident movement has reared its head. Until recently, that is—the
torii gate, the handbills, the burning flag … Signs were surfacing.

The topic of discussion at lunch is how to solicit ODA funds from Japan for road improvements between Colonia city and the village of Tabagui. The heavyweight legislator's clan sell imported cars and gasoline in Colonia, as well as do automotive servicing. Gaspar's surfaced roads have long been a source of envy to them, as Baltasár Island has yet to be blessed with any such incentives to motoring, save for a few paved streets in Colonia itself. But run blacktop the length of the island, and who knows?—they might conceivably bring in tour coaches, maybe even rent cars. Or better yet, receive the contract for public buses. That would be a big boost to the local economy,
their
local economy.

The President dishes out comments that could be taken for either yes or no as he spoons up his octopus curry. A Creole dish introduced after the war from across the Indian Ocean, it made quite a hit with the Navidadians, who love octopus, and now serve it not only in hotels and restaurants but also in ordinary homes as everyday fare. As luck would have it, the Japanese had already paved the way for acceptance with their version of “curry rice” during their years here. The trick is to tenderize the raw octopus meat by pounding it before simmering; you don't have to be a chef to know this—every housewife in the islands does as much.

The big man in Colonia fills Matías in about local goings-on, but stops short of broaching the subject that everyone's talking about—the disappearance of the bus—for fear it might upset the President. Matías himself, however, is thinking about the Melchor Island maid he's impulsively invited to the villa with no explanation. No clear answer issues forth on the road improvement plans, not out of political gamesmanship, but simply because he has other things on his mind.

“How about it? Sound possible?” asks the legislator.

“Fifty-fifty I'd say,” comes the classic noncommittal politician's response. “It'll be easier to push this ahead as a direct request from your people once the particulars become clear. Let the public know the petition system isn't just for the outer islands; main island folk can do their bit too. Wouldn't be such a bad thing to create a precedent.”

Even so, there's no guarantee of paved roads. It's not clear whether the President means to use such petitions as a basis for ODA negotiations with Japan or take other budgetary measures, or if he means anything at all. In the end, the legislator refrains from mentioning the missing bus and leaves the table talks without any solid promises. The President sees the group to the end of the corridor. As they walk across the circular drive to their waiting car, the Foreign Office man confides that “the President's tone sounded fairly reassuring.” Little consolation, when what the legislator really wanted was a firm pledge he could promise to his constituency. Looks like he'll have to dig in a little longer; this issue will take more canvassing than he thought.

After lunch the President returns to his office and immediately calls in the villa steward to ask the whereabouts of Heinrich's passenger.

“Waiting in room 117 is the word from Administration. Shall I have the visitor sent in?”

“One seventeen? Is that a meeting room?”

“Yes, I believe so. Not a room that sees much use. But with so much paperwork to go over today, the staff just spread out to whatever rooms they could find. So that was the only available space.”

“I'll go myself.”

The steward is surprised; the President never goes to meet a guest, conference room or not. The entry in the agenda he received this morning reads only
Presidential guest, Rm 117, 12:25
—no name. The President leaves the puzzled man behind and walks off down the corridor.

Number 117 turns out to be at the east end of the main building, just around the corner from the wing leading to Matías's private quarters. The President knocks first, then opens the door. The room is dimly lit, the curtains half drawn. The maid is sitting on one of two white-dropclothed sofas, her face an indiscernible silhouette against the scant northern light from the window. She turns, rises, and bows demurely as he enters the room.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” says Matías, taking a seat on the sofa opposite her and gesturing for her to sit. “I believe you know me, we met at Madame's place.”

The young woman nods. She is wearing a white blouse, her slightly wavy hair tied back in a ponytail. As his eyes adjust to the half light, Matías can make out the proportioned features he's seen before. Not striking especially, but certainly a Melchor face, one that betrays no emotion. She looks at Matías because he happens to be sitting there before her, but otherwise her eyes show neither curiosity nor dislike, no interest whatsoever. She doesn't even seem concerned that it was the President himself who brought her here. Maybe she could see it coming. Maybe she knows she has a role to play. Or then again, maybe she's just a dimwitted country girl. A voice in his head is telling him he's made a mistake in bringing her here.

“You're from Melchor, aren't you?”

Another nod.

“My mother was from Melchor. Died decades ago,” begins Matías, for lack of any other way to launch into what he has to say. Just how long ago was it she died? Fifty years? Sixty? Seems like ages … when out of nowhere he recalls her face. How's it possible? A face he couldn't remember for the life of him, now suddenly clear as day. And the woman before him doesn't even look anything like her.
No, better stick to business
. He collects his thoughts.

“I'm thinking to have you work here for a while,” he adds quickly—and his mother's face disappears. “What's your name?”

“You call me what you like.” Her voice is low, all undertones, but straightforward and clear, a voice that carries well. He could enjoy listening to this voice, though the gist of her reply catches him by surprise.

“But you must have your own name, from when you were born.”

“New job, new name,” says the voice.

“At Angelina's—I mean, at Madame's—what did they call you?”

“María. María the maid. There were two other Marías in the house.”

“They say all women are Mary,” he observes. “So let's not use María.”

“No, better something else.”

“Well then, how about my mother's name?” Once again, his dead mother's face floats into view. “Her name was Améliana.”

“A good name. Please use it,” says the young woman.

“About the work here,” the President continues, “I want you to look at people. Once a day, for maybe an hour or two, when I meet with someone I think is important, I want you to come along. Then afterwards, you tell me what you make of him. While we're meeting, you don't say a word. You just pick up on what sort of person he is, what he's thinking.”

Matías never intended to spell it out like this right from the outset. He thought he'd let her get used to helping out in his private quarters under Itsuko, but after seeing her face, hearing her voice, something tells him to put her in an advisory role, appraising people, even though he's not sure she really has that sixth sense.

“The rest of the time, you can relax back here. There's bound to be chores to do, but don't feel obliged to do any if you don't want to.”

She nods slowly. Brought to a new workplace, given only the haziest job description, she accepts. There are scores of women public servants here in the capital and surely a good hundred more schoolteachers counting all the outer islands, but none has been given similar duties. Probably not one woman in all the world has been offered such a non-assignment.
So what am I doing?
thinks Matías, when just then he notices the young woman's face starting to flush with color. A faint glow rises through her tawny complexion, her eyes shine, her lips part slightly. This is a completely different face from only five minutes ago. Her expression—or rather her impassive lack of any—remains unchanged, but that tentative drifting air has given way to some strong sense of grounding, of arrival, a transformation that plants her right here in place. Her very presence can now draw attention and halt one's thoughts. The astounded President takes a moment before he regains sufficient composure to pick up the interdepartmental phone on the coffee table and ring Itsuko's extension. He gives the room number and tells her to come quick. Rarely does he ever summon Itsuko to the main building.

“These next few weeks,” he tells his new assistant, “I have a lot of important people to meet and important decisions to make. Of course I can get advice from specialists, but I'd like to ask you for advice of another sort. All you have to do is say what you sense. Whatever you say about someone won't be your responsibility, just tell me when no one else is around. I hear you have powers to see other people's worth, their plans and ambitions. I'd like to test those powers.”

“I can only see so far,” whispers the newly christened Améliana, reverting to her quiet former self. “There are limits to everything.”

“I know, just tell me what you can.”

Having said that much, the President realizes there's nothing more for him to say. And this is someone who has no inclination for small talk—she as much as told him so. For the very first time, Matías considers objectively what others must make of him bringing this young woman into his inner circle. Ordinarily it'd be some sex story, and if that's what people want to think, fine, that interpretation serves his purposes well enough. Though actually, looking the woman in the face, he feels no desire to take her to bed.

With any luck, it will take them a good long while to work out who she really is. If the clerks and secretaries want to talk, let them talk. Better than him trying to invent some plausible job title. The President stares out the window and continues to turn things over in his mind before Itsuko shows up; the girl is silent. Matías rises abruptly and opens the curtain. Bright light comes streaming into the room. Outside, the lawn is dotted with petitioners sitting and lying on the grass, waiting for those in charge to summon them inside. A car drives away, most likely the Colonia legislator and company.
They've taken their time
, thinks Matías.
Probably means they've been talking to someone else here after lunch. Now who could that be?
Dictators are always seeing conspiracies everywhere, doubting even the most reliable information. It's an occupational hazard.