The Navidad Incident (36 page)

3. Only once the above conditions are met, i.e. when Bonhomme Tamang has been safely disposed of without arousing any suspicions of foul play, shall Parties B be deemed to have fulfilled their duties as per this Agreement.

4. In return for the successful completion of those duties, Party A guarantees the following compensation:

a. Parties B shall be allowed to stay at the premises run by Angelina Lasan Carmena and there provided with room and board (not to include sexual services) for as long as they so desire.

b. During their stay, Angelina Lasan Carmena shall provide Parties B with as much beer and twelve-year-old I.W. Harper bourbon whiskey (not to exceed an average 32 ounces between both persons per day) for as long as they so desire.

5. For the duration that the above conditions are in effect, Parties B shall not take leave or otherwise vacate Angelina Lasan Carmena's premises without the prior knowledge and permission of Party A.

6. Similarly, for the duration that the above conditions are in effect, neither the contracted Parties A and B nor Angelina Lasan Carmena shall intentionally reveal the general or specific contents of this Agreement to any outside interests.

We, the undersigned, do hereby undertake this Agreement in good faith.

Along with the date are three signatures: one easily recognized as that of the President of the Republic of Navidad, Matías Guili, followed by two scrawls decipherable only to someone who knows the names Paul Ketch and Peter Joel. There is no indication of Ketch and Joel's nationality or any other particulars. Can an amateurish document like this be legally binding? Can Angelina, implicated by name but not her own hand, be held in any way responsible? No matter, that's not an issue at present. The main thing is that Améliana has what she was looking for; now she can take action.

“Thank you,” says Améliana.

“It's not my doing and it's not yours. Just things taking their course. I've lived a long time. First in my country, then in this one, I've had decades to observe the man from far away and close up. It's taken me years, but I think I finally get how things are with him. I may be standing on the bank of the river, but you're sailing down the middle. I hand this over, you take it and sail on. Natural enough, isn't it?”

“Yes,” is all Améliana can say. She'd have liked to ask Matías his views on the subject, but there's no time now. There will be another place for that, another time.

“You go now,” prompts Itsuko.

Améliana gets up, bows hurriedly, then leaves. Watching her swift exit, Itsuko mutters gleefully to herself, “Princess flees castle with secret missive in hand. House ransacked and plot uncovered. Ever-vigilant lady-in-waiting sees off princess … If only it were snowing outside, this could be a real kabuki play.”

That year, the village of Placia, a thirty-minute walk from Colonia, was plagued by a curious disease. Those afflicted would wander through the village, each via some fixed arbitrary path; some, known as “express” cases, moved at a faster clip than the others and went straight from one end of the village to the other without stopping; still others went back and forth to Colonia once a day. Obviously contagious, though no pathogen was ever isolated, the disease gave those afflicted a somehow “squared-off,” “boxlike” appearance with bright, gleaming eyes; hence the malady came to be known (reasonably enough) as “busitis.” Aside from running around and not working, however, there seemed to be no other noticeable symptoms or harmful side effects. And since most families typically had one or two slackers who never worked anyway, people may have talked, but no one took it very seriously. Moreover, the epidemic was very brief; according to the regional health authorities, the worst of it died down after only three weeks, and ten days later the last remaining case had completely recovered with no visible aftereffects.

Nonetheless, other reports claimed that even years later, certain of those afflicted still developed bright “headlight” eyes after dark. Likewise, rumor had it that several mothers who became pregnant during the epidemic gave birth to babies with ever-so-slightly “angular,” “blockish” features. Husbands in Placia are not normally known to be jealous, so the children were accepted and raised with love, though inevitably some of the womenfolk continued to whisper about that “sexy bus.”

Eleven
AM
. Angelina wakes for the second time. Ordinarily she drags herself to bed around four and sleeps until after eleven, but last night wasn't an ordinary night. Nice though it was to share her bed with Matías for two nights running, after plying him with champagne and hashish he fell fast asleep. It's not unusual for him to forego sex, but to simply conk out? Certainly, he's never slept through the whole night here before.

She felt a little uneasy leaving Matías alone like that, but once he dozed off she went downstairs to the salon. What a strange night it was. The young islanders who had arrived in twos and threes suddenly all found themselves partying together. Soon the girls were joining in the fun. The Americans and Filipinos had already withdrawn to private rooms with their chosen companions, but the remaining seven locals showed no sign of leaving. Even Ketch and Joel, who never mingled with the clientele, were drinking and chatting with everyone. At one point, Joel got up and started dancing
.
Others took partners and joined in. The place was hopping. Angelina sat watching from the sidelines until, satisfied that everything was happily under control, she returned upstairs to find Matías still asleep. He looked positively serene—a face she'd never seen on him before. She lay down beside him, not to sleep, but just to curl up for the rest of the evening.

Then, in the early morning hours, she hears Matías groaning in his sleep. He's sweating and batting at his head with one hand; he must be having a nightmare, seems to be in pain. Angelina tries to rouse him, but he just keeps struggling. She shakes him harder. It's like hauling up a drowned man from the bottom of the sea. Finally he wakes, looks around, disoriented, then sees her and is visibly relieved.

“What a weird dream,” he says. Though blurry-eyed, his voice is returning to normal.

“What kind of dream?” she asks.

“I was in a boat on a stormy sea, rocking this way and that, waves rolling over me … The ocean was so big, the winds so strong, the boat … ”

“It's okay, you're fine. No ocean here.”

“…like that boat, the sacred barge from the Yuuka Yuumai.”

“From the festival?”

“Hey, what time is it now?” he asks, suddenly wide awake.

“Five thirty. Want to sleep some more?”

“Did I sleep that long? Incredible. What's going on?”

“It's a first, all right,” agrees Angelina, noting the hint of anxiety in his voice.

“I'm going. Got things to do in the morning,” he says, and bolts out of bed.

Angelina also rises and helps him get dressed, then sees him to his limo parked in the deserted back lane. The cool night air is refreshing. Heinrich is asleep in the driver's seat. Matías gets in without a word and wakes his startled chauffeur, who promptly drives him home.

On the way back to the bedroom, Angelina pauses halfway along the corridor and peeks through the curtain into the salon. The young customers have all fallen asleep in their chairs, each with his arm around a girl sleeping by his side. None of them took private rooms, but still she finds this frieze—fully clothed fawns with nymphs en déshabillé—rather touching, really. It's as if the whole lot of them had been sprinkled with fairy dust. Ketch and Joel are nowhere in sight; they must have gone to bed.

Angelina closes the curtain and returns to the boudoir she shares with Matías. She could use a little more sleep herself. Just a few minutes, she thinks, and has barely lain down when whatever fairy strafed the salon sprinkles her with the last of the magic dust, and she's out like a light.

The next time she wakes up, it's almost eleven. She's been sleeping in the “Matías boudoir,” not her own bedroom? Lying there, she remembers the previous evening and all the odd things that happened. Matías conking out like that, so many local customers all at once—not that she can distinguish the various island facial types and mannerisms. The girls forgot all about business they were having such a good time. Must be more fun when the johns are their own age. And so much booze too. Did those island boys make it home? She just hopes somebody stayed sober enough to collect on the bills. Come to think of it, isn't it odd that she went to sleep so early herself? Usually she stays up to the very end.

A few minutes later, still half in a daze, Angelina toddles downstairs to learn from the girls that all the guests left a couple of hours ago, and of course, the tabs were squared away. Yes, paid in cash, no mistake. They sure were fun customers, good talkers too. Whereupon the conversation frays into individual recollections, each girl arguing with the others about the boy she liked best, wishing he'd come again. And not one of them even turned a trick. All fine and dandy, scolds Angelina, but this is a brothel, not a bar. Though secretly she has to admit that a few lively customers every now and again might be a nice change. So they're young and can't afford more than drinks, what's so bad about that?

By the afternoon, she begins checking the food and liquor stocks. The cold storage and pantry seem to be holding their own, so she talks to the cook about fresh market purchases for the following day and writes out a quick list of items to order from Guili's Super. Next, the liquor department: almost everything seems to be in good supply for the moment. She tries not to stock too much beer, just enough to tide them over until the next ship comes into port (in a pinch she can always buy San Miguel and Budweiser at Guili's). Plenty of scotch, cognac, gin, vodka, rum, and tequila for the moment; the cellar's full of wine and champagne. And the next ship's in three days, isn't it? Nothing to worry about. Just need to go over the receipts and figure out which drinks are selling, then draw up an order accordingly in the next couple of days.

Angelina prides herself on having the most comprehensive liquor selection in the country. No male bartender, but Joel has been training one of the girls intensively for a year and now she can mix cocktails with the best of them. No, a night of serious drinkers is not a bad thing. Anyway, liquor brings in the crowd. Puts men in the mood, ups the room rentals, makes the girls' work easier. She doesn't want to lose her reputation for keeping a well-stocked cabinet, doesn't want to hear that a customer ordered something she doesn't carry. That's why she takes pains with her stock. Last night's bunch must have put a good dent in those supplies, the way they were drinking. Didn't rent any rooms, okay, but they probably dropped a bundle. It's a wonder they could walk out of here at all. They must have terrible hangovers by now.

As Angelina continues checking the shelves against her inventory list, she discovers a glaring shortage. Impossible. How can it be? She searches the shelves again and again, but no, it's true. The case of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper is empty. She goes to look for more, but there's only that one case. Could Ketch and Joel have finished off the very last bottle? Last week when she looked there must have been at least a dozen. What's going on here? She was sure there was plenty until the next shipment; could last night's crowd have homed in on the Harper's? Would Ketch and Joel have sat by calmly and let others polish off their private reserve? Of course, they'd have thought there were many more bottles on hold for them in back. Maybe they even enjoyed introducing the island boys to their personal favorite. Be that as it may, who's responsible for letting the bourbon run out? Who brought out the last bottle to the salon?

What to do? It was the house agreement: she promised to provide Ketch and Joel with a constant supply of I.W. Harper. She can't just tell them there isn't any. “We're out” is not an acceptable answer. Should she call Manila and have them airfreight a batch? It's Friday, no flight today. No way to get it here by tonight. If she only had one bottle, she could somehow stretch it out. Is there really not one bottle in the salon bar? Angelina has a rare panic attack and runs to check. Bourbon she has: Jack Daniel's, Wild Turkey, and Old Crow, even five cases of regular five-year-old I.W. Harper—but not the square fake-crystal bottle with the clumsy stopper. Aside from a chilled mug of beer during the daytime heat, Ketch and Joel drink nothing else.

Would any place in town have it? Extremely doubtful. Navidadians aren't much for hard liquor; beer is all they ever drink. Hardly even any alcoholics here. No drunks causing trouble; the police never have to break up barroom brawls. Which is precisely why senior officials and businessmen who picked up drinking habits overseas all come here. The same goes for foreigners. There
is
no place else. Certainly no liquor store on the islands, only a token few random bottles in the supermarket “liquor corner.” Horrible rotgut for the most part: Sang Thip rice spirit from Thailand, Australian brandy (no reflection on Aussie wine, which is getting quite good, but she still can't trust something called “Kangaroo Kognac”), Vietnamese rum with a picture of a girl in an
aodai
tunic on the label, clear bottles stamped “gin” made in Bangladesh. The clerks don't even try to push the stuff, they know no customer in his right mind will want it.

No, there's not a chance of finding twelve-year-old I.W. Harper for sale anywhere in Baltasár City. So then, plan B. The only other likely place after here would be the bar at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel, though Ketch and Joel have told her they didn't have any there. Still, much as she dislikes the idea of supporting the competition, it's worth a try; maybe they got some in since then. She can't go herself; she'll have to send someone. How long can she go on pretending that nothing's amiss?