The Navidad Incident (3 page)

Matías snaps back to the present. “Well, then, we can't hold tomorrow morning's ceremony for the delegation there.”

“Not necessarily. If we clean up the rubble, they won't know when the torii disappeared.”

“Okay, we'll consider it. But even so, something must be done. About those hoodlums.”

“Yes, something,” mumbles an uncharacteristically evasive Katsumata. “I did issue an alert.”

“No, we've got to act now. We don't even need to know who we're dealing with. Here we are, on the verge of improving ties with Japan and getting a major injection of capital. We cannot tolerate such outright anti-Japanese acts. How do we put that across?”

Matías thinks of countermeasures. He's not angry. This is a game of chess, a power play in which a show of anger may have nothing to do with actually getting angry. If he can't hit these unseen enemies where they live, then he has to do something visibly forceful. The point is the punch, not the punching bag. Anything can be the target. Irrational, maybe, but effective. That's how politics works, at least his politics, his way of maneuvering the pieces on the board.

“Katsumata.” Matías stares straight at him and lowers his voice. “Burn down a house!”

“A
house
? Whose?”

“Anyone's. No, let's see … a distant relation of Bonhomme Tamang. Somebody ordinary people wouldn't know, but as they catch on they'll come to suspect, yes, he's the ringleader. Find me that somebody and set his house on fire. In the dead of night. I want a real blaze. Pretend we know exactly who our enemy is. That should do the trick.”

“Yessir, right on it. And uh, about the slogan?”

“I
told
you, it's not a
slogan
! Gibberish, that's all it is. Just make sure not one of those handbills remains up around town. Meaningless or not, they're an eyesore.”

The Nissan slowly descends the slope toward the airport. The limousine was a “little something,” a personal gift to Matías nine years ago, only two months after he took office, during final negotiations with Japan over the war. Japan had no qualms about laying out a sizeable sum, but refused to acknowledge the payment as compensation for wartime occupation and conscription of forced labor. No, it was “goodwill aid.” In the end, newly elected President Guili relented; it was his first big job as leader, his first gift from Japan. He regarded it as a personal handout, but when he lost the third term, accountants started making noise and forced him to turn it over to incoming President Bonhomme Tamang. Now back in office, Matías takes renewed pleasure in the limo. It's an emblem of his career, this Nissan President. Could be the name, but he'll never trade it in. Heinrich the chauffeur has been at the wheel the entire nine years, despite the change in passengers.

The car pulls up to the officials and citizens lining the way to the airport—but where's the motorcade? Matías fumes in the back seat. That Jim Jameson isn't on the ball. Or no, this is Katsumata's turf. Didn't he allocate extra budget to Island Security for two motorcycles? Must have a word with Katsumata. No, wait, didn't some freewheeling Island Security rookie wrap one of the bikes around a tree? When Katsumata came to report the accident, Matías himself decided that one bike wouldn't look up to snuff, so they canceled it. Mind is going to pieces, crumbling away. Is he really getting so old? Maybe he doesn't recover all the particles of memory that sift away while he's asleep. Maybe his morning bath and dojo aren't enough. Like sand through his fingers, his strength is trickling away.

The whitewashed airport building is just up ahead, the very symbol of this island country's existence—built entirely with foreign money. Could we, he often wonders, get by without it? Shut down the borders and make a go of it? Just seventy thousand people, but in today's world no one can cut off all ties and look inward. No self-reliance, physical or spiritual. The earth's not big enough. No sooner would we say, “We're going our own way,” than the developed countries would insist, “Oh, but that's so hard.” Anything to “protect” us.

Granted, that's how he got to be president. If the job of a politician in a small country is to balance island ideology with pressures from abroad, then clearly he's the best qualified. Okay, so maybe he's leaned too much on Japan, and in ways he'd prefer not to tell his countrymen. Ah, the time it would take them to understand! He had no choice. Still, his self-confidence hasn't flagged, he's managed to keep things on course.

Why in this modern age is value always parceled out in monetary form? The airport terminal was built eight years ago with funds from Japan and the United States—and both have tagged along with Navidad ever since. Predictably, each gave construction jobs to their own contractors, who spirited the donated money back home. They even demanded that his presidential kickbacks be deposited in their own domestic banks, mere paper figures he has yet to withdraw. The airport may be here in Navidad, but it's really just a stepping-stone for America and Japan, a tangible promise of incursions to come.

But just how—with what?—is Navidad to repay those two great greedy powers for these runways scraped out of the jungle with Mitsubishi Caterpillar bulldozers, for the monstrous pseudo-ethnic terminal that dwarfs the surrounding coconut groves, the traditional “praying hands” roof beams clumsily mimicked in reinforced concrete? Lucky the locals don't realize how ugly it is; they probably think all airports in the world look like this.

To either side along the twenty meters to the terminal building stand Island Security corpsmen, chests out at attention. The limousine steers a slow progress between their ranks and stops before the main entrance. Heinrich gets out and walks around to open the back door, when up runs Katsumata. Like a faithful bird dog, he looks pleased with himself. His dark glasses reflect the sky and clouds and plantings of stunted palms.

“What is it?”

“Found twenty-four total, all around town,” he beams, holding out a sheaf of handbills.

“Don't hand them to
me
,” Matías growls under his breath. The man's gaffes are an embarrassment. He may be good at threatening people but is hopeless at investigating. “Get them out of sight and burn them. Or no, stash them. They're evidence. Are those the last?”

“Yessir, we combed everywhere,” crows Katsumata as the President strides up the paved walk to the terminal, the other officials a few paces behind.

And what if they tack up more?
Matías almost asks.

“Got men posted at key locations. Won't be a slogan stuck anywhere,” adds Katsumata, fielding the unspoken question, but Matías keeps walking. Even if they catch the scoundrels in the act, a whack on the tail won't make the problem go away. The real question is, who's the brains behind it all?

He reaches the terminal in ten steps and heads inside. The interior is air-con chilled. Prior to construction, Matías fought with the Japanese architects. Why the air-conditioning? What's so bad about arrivals feeling the heat? Just open it up to the breeze. Must make a mental note for when it comes time for repairs. If he can remind himself to remember, that is. As he follows Jim Jameson toward the VIP Lounge, he turns and glares at Katsumata.

“Just make sure no vet sets eyes on them. Can't imagine any of them can read Gagigula, but if anyone asks, just say it's a government motto. Meanwhile, find out if it's some old saying or what. Ask around, try some old folks.”

“Old folks never listen to us,” pleads Katsumata, as if he's been asked to do the impossible. Island Security isn't cut out for intelligence work. Just a bunch of juvenile delinquents from the villages. All muscle, absolutely nowhere in the head department.

“And another thing, about those punitive measures, get on them tonight,” says the President, lowering his voice.

“Oh, you mean the arson thing?”

“
Whatever.
Just hop to it!”

Katsumata nods and disappears.

The JAL Boeing 727 carrying the veterans delegation touches down at 14:45, right on schedule. Tourism is booming here. Nearly every flight is filled to capacity three times a week, bringing tourists to these crystal clear waters and coral reefs dazzling with tropical sun and colorful fish. But today's passengers are different. These forty-seven have little to do with the “tourist route”; the only money they spend will be a Japanese government stipend for bus charter and lodging at the Japanese-built Navidad Teikoku Hotel. All the ceremonial whatnot is to be paid out of Navidad's own diplomatic budget, making their visit a rather uneconomic proposition. They probably won't even buy any souvenirs.

Before reaching passport control, a Foreign Office minion swiftly diverts them from that endless queue for the one and only Immigration officer and slips them through a side door to a special waiting room. Seated there on the upholstered benches, they clearly do not resemble any breed of foreigner typically seen on the islands. An all-male group is unusual enough, but every one of them is wearing dark blue or gray wool suits despite the tropical heat. Each, moreover, has a big black leather bag and white hat marked with a single red stripe, an easy mark for the staffer to spot. All are in their sixties or upwards. All except two: one, young and restless, checking back and forth with the Navidad officials, a travel coordinator who packages special group tours; the other, middle-aged and calm, a liaison officer from the Japanese Ministry of Welfare. The old men sit mopping their faces with white handkerchiefs, whispering among themselves. Sharing remembrances from fifty years ago? No, one of them is unfolding a piece of paper and muttering something to himself.

Fifteen minutes later, after the Navidad bureaucrats have duly impressed the foreign guests with the officious propriety of the local system, the forty-seven veterans are shown to a plaza outside and there herded into rows. Facing them are two flagpoles attended by two tanned youths—police cadets?—in green
guayaberas
and black shorts, and a simple podium. To the immediate left and right, yellow-uniformed children of the Fife and Drum Corps stand poised with their instruments. Another twenty green-and-black youths fall into formation on the far left flank, balanced on the far right by a dozen government types. Front and center among these is a man of remarkably short stature, matched only by his girth.

Almost as soon as the forty-seven veterans are in position, out steps one very dark Navidad official. Dressed in light green, he ambles over to the Japanese delegation and, after brief deliberations, persuades Mr. Ministry of Welfare to go stand at a microphone on the lawn. He himself then mounts the podium, squints up at the sky while everyone gets quiet, and launches forth. He's good at this sort of thing.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Republic of Navidad. We extend our heartfelt greetings to you all. I am Jim Jameson, executive secretary to the President.”

He pauses and casts a glance over at Mr. Ministry of Welfare for a translation. The old men all plant their eyes on their compatriot chaperon; obviously no one understands a word of English. The liaison officer renders the executive secretary's self-introduction into Japanese, though his expression reads,
Couldn't they provide their own interpreter?

“Putting all past misfortunes behind us and seeking to lay new foundations of trust, we are pleased to open every part of our country to your veterans delegation.”

Another pause for translation. A total waste of time. Compared to this Navidadian's English, the Ministry envoy's rhetorical skills are far more bureaucratically polished. He could dash off a more proficient speech in Japanese without even listening.

“And now, to proceed with our official welcome: the raising of the flags and our national anthems.”

At that the secretary bows out, whereupon a largish boy from the Fife and Drum Corps trots up onto the podium and retrieves a conductor's baton. The green-and-black youth by the right-hand flagpole proceeds to unfold a flag, clip it to the rope, and slowly hoist it as the fife-and-drummers play an odd melody with no discernible chorus. Slowly, slowly, the flag ascends, filling out in the breeze to reveal blue-green and blue stripes with a coconut palm silhouetted in white on the middle green band. Even more slowly, it reaches the top of the pole in unison with the end of the national anthem. All forty-seven veterans take off their hats and stand at attention, respectfully observing the moment.

Another anthem begins, and the other cadet brings out another flag. Plain red on white, instantly recognizable before it's even unfolded. The cadet hauls it up, all eyes ascending with it. Reluctantly, the forty-seven Japanese begin to register that, just maybe, this bouncy tune they're playing could be their own national anthem … the very same
Kimi ga Yo
,
“Hymn to the Imperial Reign,” they sang each day on these very islands during the occupation, sang each time they saw off comrades-in-arms, and still sing unexpurgated in Japan today, even after losing the war. Reassured by the now-familiar passages, they begin to feel even a measure of admiration for the boys and girls who are mangling the melody so masterfully. If not for the serenely ascending Rising Sun, it might as well have been a Polynesian pop song.