The Navidad Incident (33 page)

“Or crap.”

“Right … or even crap.”

“They all bunk together, so they just do what they're told from the top down. It's a group-motivation thing,” says the schoolteacher, speaking from educational experience.

“Yeah, that group-motoration ain't no good.”

“Hell no. They get all pumped up with pep talk how they's so different from the lazy chickenshits outside, how the fate of the country rests on their shoulders. It's a boot camp for training them how to pick fights, so where'd they get off thinking they's so special? All brawn and no brain, they get nothing but drills day after day. It's all a trick to draw an us-and-them dividing line. If they'd let the boys go out and play, they wouldn't turn so nasty.”

“No, it's Katsumata. He's the nasty one.”

“Well, sure, he's the one brought the nasty-ing techniques from Japan. Hit first, ask questions later. Whack 'em up and down. Just waiting to get in their licks.”

“But maybe they did need submachine guns to get the legislators to behave,” says the radio station man, changing the subject.

“Legally, it
was
a declared state of emergency, wasn't it,” says the barber, changing the subject even further.

“Well, I heard the legislators got paid off to keep quiet.”

“By Guili?”

“Who else? Though prob'ly Guili was bankrolled by Japan.”

“Why? Because Tamang died?”

“Because Tamang had started prying, poking around in Guili's past, especially what went on with the hotel. That wasn't good for his health,” whispers the barber.

“So it was Guili's doing?”

“Like I said, Tamang's death just then was mighty convenient for Guili.”

“Since then he really become a dictator.”

“But not so bad as dictators go,” suggests the supply company clerk.

“You think?”

“Other countries got lots worse corruption and violence. You don't see Guili buying a thousand pairs of shoes, do you? Or dragging off all the pretty girls in the country to his own personal harem in the Presidential Villa.”

“No, he's got Angelina's for that. Fine little place it is too,” admits the schoolteacher.

“You go there?”

“Just once.”

“Hmph.”

“Nah, more than that, it's the scheming and book-fiddling I don't like. I mean, just how much funny money is Guili laundering for his pals in Japan? I just hope he's not planning to come up with some other big new stinker, loads worse than the hotel.”

“Yeah, it do seem like something's brewing,” says the housewife, “and it ain't fish sauce.”

“I'll say. There's big change in the air. The torii gate was a sign. That and them handbills.”

“Nice and nasty, those. Don't know who's posting them, though,” says the radio station man, nervously probing to see if there's anything more to be known.

“The handbills stick themselves,” says the schoolteacher enigmatically.

“That's right, them as wants to stick will,” echoes the building supply company clerk.

“So then they're yours?” blurts out the radio station man.

“Now don't go busting your coconut. Half wish they were ours, but no, when I say the handbills stick themselves, that's the honest truth. Same as the torii gate fell and the flag burned all by themselves. That's how it's always been in these islands.”

The following day, the President rises as usual, takes his customary breakfast, and is in the office by eight o'clock. His spur-of-the-moment absence has left him a backlog of work to deal with; it will be a busy day. Apparently there was no major problem in the interim, no Katsumata coup d'état (as if he could carry out a coup with only truncheons).

After a catch-up briefing with Jim Jameson, who looks relieved to see him back, Matías tackles his papers. Sitting high with his short legs crossed on the seat of his chair, he starts going through various bureaucratic reports when something flits across his field of vision. He looks up, but sees nothing, no stray mosquito or fly. He returns to his papers, skims over the lines of text assimilating the content, writes short queries on his notepad, and signs those items that pose no problem. There it is again, a butterfly. He looks up cautiously, but there's nothing there. Ignore it and just concentrate on business. But the butterfly returns to tease him, dancing at the very corner of his eye, disappearing when he tries to focus on it. He fidgets and can't seem to get back to work.

All right, then, he'll sit up straight, face head-on, and wait and see. Quietly the door opens. Améliana slips in and walks up to the desk.

“I'm back,” she announces in a low voice.

He doesn't respond, he can't find the words. He raped this woman. Wronged her. It was, in both senses, a violation. She'd been a virgin. Her white dress was stained with blood. Red on white: the colors of the flag he saluted as a child. The very same that blazed against the blue sky at the airport. But this was a different red and white, shocking in the secret sunlight through the blinds. The bleeding of a girl who said she'd already born a bastard by incest. Excitement and confusion and pleasure and fear—a riot of emotions swept over him. Guilt, regret, the wish to forget it all.

And now here she is, standing eye-to-eye in front of him. He's speechless; all he can do is stare at her. She looks the same as ever. She's come to announce she's resuming her duties, that's what he hears her saying.

“How was the festival?” he asks nervously, not even daring to say he was there.

“All over and done with.” Her tone suggests she has no recollection, either of what went on while she slept in that house, or that they'd met up on Melchor at all.

He lets out a long, slow breath. If that's where things stand, then they can talk. He can easily act as if it were all an illusion. His taking advantage of her defenseless state may have been wrong, but her lying about the child had overcome his hesitations—that's the truth of it. Had he known she was a virgin, he would never have done it—at least that's what he wants to think, but a voice tells him this too is a lie. Either way, saying nothing lets it all remain an unaccountable “incident.” Matías perks up immediately.

“That was a big responsibility you had, being a Yuuka.”

“Yes, but during the ceremonies, I really wasn't myself.”

And what about during what came later?
thinks Matías.
Wasn't that you lying on the sheets?

“You must be exhausted. For the time being there's no visiting VIP I want you to see, so why don't you just take it easy around the place for a while? I'll send for you if I need you.”

“Okay. Thank you for the time off.”

“The festival was much more important than your work here. Though I must say I was surprised when I heard you were to be the seventh Yuuka.” Even as he speaks, he notes the smarm in his own voice, though the mention of her title does acknowledge a higher order than any superficial ranking in this room. The game is on: can the President outwit his spiritual advisor, or is the priestess bluffing a mere layman?

A layman. Did he even believe that much in the Yuuka Yuumai? The excitement, the visitant spirits and the blessings they bring, the priestesses and vestal virgins and sacred barge that serve to guide them in, the holy object and holy man, the festival musicians. And even more, the crowds, the collective spirit. Did he really believe in it all?

“I have no say in it. The Yoi'i Yuuka decides everything.”

“Of course, quite right. But anyway, well done.”

As Améliana bows slightly and withdraws, he wonders—are those butterflies haloing her hair? He blinks, and they're gone. Just then, a question pops into his head, a secular matter that seems natural to ask her about.

“Oh, just one thing, maybe you can tell me.”

Améliana turns and takes two steps back toward the desk.

“What's that?” she asks quietly.

She seems completely at ease, no sign of anticipating any compromising query. Matías can surely forget all about what happened.

“The veterans delegation bus, it's been gone a long time now. I was expecting those old soldiers' angry relatives and reporters and cameramen and TV crews to come crashing in here, a big media to-do. But there's been no coverage at all in Japan. Can you say why that is?”

“The same powers that are hiding the bus are preventing a big commotion over there,” says Améliana quite simply.

Is that all there is to it? Case open and closed. The disappearance of the bus was a mystery to begin with; what's one more mystery? He's left as much in the dark as before.

“The bus is keeping out of sight of Japan,” she continues. “Their families and friends probably just imagine the men are enjoying being back in the South Seas. Their government isn't worried; it thinks the official they sent is busy doing his job. Or maybe they've all just forgotten about the delegation. No one says anything about it, no one is suspicious. The bus seems to have a will of its own.”

Two parallel yet opposite feelings assail him: acceptance and utter disbelief. How can this girl know all this? Maybe if he pinned down these vague clues of hers, he could force the bus out of hiding?

“And when will the bus reappear?”

“Whenever it wants to.”

It's no good. There's no catching her off guard, no breaking a Yuuka's
resolv
e
. Some other power is backing her up. Inside, she's just a woman—an ordinary woman he's had in bed. A Yuuka merely dances a role at a festival. Any stupid girl who can give the least bit serious response to inquiries about her background can be considered “spiritual” enough to become a Yuuka
.
Isn't that right? She drew on the mood of the crowd, the power of the place, the palpable presence of divine blessings in the form of the sacred barge. She took on the authority of the festival. Even his raping her, who can say outright that wasn't a trap?

“Very well, we shall wait,” says Matías with as much presidential aplomb as he can muster. “You take it easy in the back quarters here. You can probably use a nice, long rest after the festival.”

Améliana bows and says nothing, then exits, trailing her lilac butterflies.

No, it wasn't a trap, Matías has to think. It was just a case of her sleeping there, the place, the timing. No question about it. The girl hadn't even seemed enticing, nor was he particularly horny. He hadn't wanted to see her naked, or notch up another conquest, no ordinary sexual impulse. No, he didn't rape her; he simply gave in to some inner longing and delivered what was needed to where it was needed. His cock prodded firmly into that secret place and delivered an important message to a warm, well-guarded address. That wasn't sexual assault; that was discharging his duty to the future.

Oh, come off it. He must be dreaming—and a dumb dream too. Important message? He never had the father-stuff to begin with. His gun is empty, a fancy toy. A dummy, a prop. The booby prize at a kids' raffle. At the races, a losing ticket. The losing horse. A horse they can't even put to stud, the kind they just take out and shoot.

All right, so what? What matters is here and now. To do his duty as president and put this country on the right road, to foster an affluent society and, someday soon, train an able, hardworking successor. “Affluent society”—what a sad cliché that is! A dud of a political promise if ever there was one. Just like this pretentious folly of a Presidential Villa. And what a flimsy excuse for diplomacy! Mere begging masquerading as negotiating, presuming to hobnob with the big powers while the country can barely prop itself up on ODA. Kissing up to the lip-service notion that all countries might enjoy the same boons of civilization, even as the big boys use that posture to make the little guys knuckle under with treaties that guarantee nothing. Have they ever considered how humiliating it is to always be on the receiving end? Lee Bo had it better in his day. Or even a generation earlier, before everything started to go downhill.

Just maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he's glad the bus disappeared and those deluded old duffers haven't come back. Doesn't this make the first time ever Navidad has beaten its invader, Japan? Isn't he secretly applauding the bus? Though of course that means he's contradicting his own leanings toward Japan. Biting the yen that feeds him. What a mess! Probably he's just too tired to sort it all out. Yes, he's dead tired. Not physically, not even mentally—somewhere deeper. The most essential part that carries on as a bird when you die, that keeps Lee Bo talking: it's his “soul” or whatever that's so worn down. And him only sixty-four years old, not even really over the hill.

What has he done with his life? And what is he trying to do? Clinging to this chair as it drifts along, where the hell is he going?