Hoffman strode quickly to his place and removed his
jacket. The taller officer rushed to take it from him, but he’d
already hung it on the back of the chair and sat down,
removing his collar pin and loosening his tie.
“Drink, Senator?” the officer said.
“Iced tea, Walt. Thanks.”
The tall man left. The red-faced man remained in place
near the door.
“Join us, Captain Ewing,” said Hoffman, motioning to one
of the two empty chairs.
Ewing removed his hat and complied, leaving lots of
space between his back and the chair.
“Can I assume everyone knows everyone, Elvin?” said
Hoffman.
“I know everyone by name,” said Ewing. “But we’ve never
met.”
“Mr. Creedman, Dr. Pam Moreland, Dr. and Mrs. Delaware,”
said Hoffman, “Captain Elvin Ewing, base commander.”
Ewing put a finger to his eyeglasses. He looked as
comfortable as a eunuch in a locker room.
The officer returned with Hoffman’s tea. The
glass was oversized and a mint sprig floated on top.
“Anything else, Senator?”
“No. Sit down, Walt.”
As he started to obey, Ewing said, “Introduce
yourself, Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant Zondervein,” said the tall man,
looking straight ahead.
“There,” said Hoffman. “Now we’re all friends.”
Emptying most of the glass with one gulp, he picked out the
mint sprig and chewed on a leaf.
“Are you traveling alone, Senator?” said Creedman.
Hoffman grinned at him. “Just can’t turn it off, can
you? If you mean do I have an entourage, no, just me. And
yes, it’s a leased government jet, but I rode along with the
base supplies.”
The sleek craft I’d noticed.
“Actually,” continued Hoffman, “there are three other
legislative luminaries assigned to this particular trip.
Senators Bering, Petrucci, and Hammersmith. They’re in Hawaii
right now, arriving in Guam tomorrow, and I can’t promise you
they haven’t been sunbathing.” Grinning. “I decided to come
early so I could revisit my old stomping grounds, see old
friends. No, Mr. Creedman, it didn’t cost the taxpayers
an extra penny, because my assignment is to assess facilities
on several of the smaller Micronesian islands, including Aruk,
and by coming alone I turned it into a cheap date.”
He finished the tea, crushed an ice cube, swallowed, and
laughed. “I got to sit up with the pilot. God, the
instrumentation on these things. Might as well have been
trying to play one of those damn computer games my grandkids
are addicted to—did you know the average seven-year-old has
more computer proficiency than his parents will ever achieve?
Great eye-hand skills, too. Maybe we should train seven-year-olds
to fly combat, Elvin.”
Ewing’s smile was anemic.
“Let me get you a refill, Senator,” said Zondervein,
starting to get up.
Hoffman said, “No, thanks—anyone else?”
Creedman lifted his martini glass.
Lieutenant Zondervein took it and went to the door. “I’ll check
on the first course.”
Hoffman unfolded his napkin and tucked it into his
collar. “Mafia style,” he said. “But one wirephoto with
grease spots on the tie and you learn. So what’s on the
menu, Elvin?”
“Chicken,” said Ewing.
“Does it bounce?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“Roast or fried?”
“Roast.”
“See that, Mr. Creedman? Simple fare.”
He turned to Ewing. “And for Dr. Moreland?”
“Sir?”
Hoffman’s lips maintained a smile but his eyes narrowed until
they disappeared. “Dr. Moreland’s a vegetarian, Captain. I
believe I radioed you that from the plane.”
“Yes, sir. There are vegetables.”
“There are
vegetables.
Fresh ones?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“I hope so,” said Hoffman, too gently. “Dr. Moreland
maintains a very healthy diet—or at least he used to. I
assume that hasn’t changed, Bill?”
“Anything’s fine,” said Moreland.
“You were way ahead of your time, Bill. Eating right
while the rest of us went merrily about, clogging our
arteries. You look
great.
Been keeping up with the
bridge?”
“No.”
“No? You had how many master points—ten, fifteen?”
“Haven’t played at all since you left, Nicholas.”
“Really.” Hoffman looked around. “Bill was a great
bridge player—photographic memory and you couldn’t read his
face. The rest of us were amateurs, but we did manage to put
together some spirited matches, didn’t we, Bill? You really
quit? No more duplicate tournaments like the ones you used
to play at the Saipan club?”
Another shake of Moreland’s head.
“Anyone here play?” said Hoffman. “Maybe we can get a
game going after dinner.”
Silence.
“Oh, well . . . great game. Skill plus the luck
of the draw. A lot more realistic than something like chess.”
Zondervein returned with Creedman’s martini. Two
sailors followed with a rolling cart of appetizers.
Honeydew melon wrapped in ham.
Hoffman said, “Take the meat off Dr. Moreland’s.”
Zondervein rushed to obey.
The ham tasted like canned sausage. The melon was more
starch than sugar.
Gladys had said Hoffman was a gourmet, but gourmand was
more like it: he dug in enthusiastically, scraping honeydew
flesh down to bare rind and emptying his water glass three
times.
“Dad’s been writing to you,” said Pam. “Did you receive
his letters?”
“I did indeed,” said Hoffman. “Two letters, right, Bill?
Or did you send some I didn’t get?”
“Just two.”
“Would you believe they just made their way to my desk?
The filtering process. Actually only the second one got to
me directly. Maybe the three times you wrote “personal’ on
the envelope did the trick. Anyway, I was tickled to receive
it. Then I read the reference to your first letter and put
out a search for it. Finally found it in some aide’s office
filed under “Ecology.’ You probably would have received a
form letter in two or three months—where do you get the
ham, Elvin? Not Smithwood or Parma, that’s for sure.”
“It’s through the general mess, sir,” said Ewing. “As you
instructed.”
Hoffman stared at him.
Ewing turned to Zondervein. “Where’s the ham from,
Lieutenant?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Find out ASAP. Before the senator leaves.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go to the kitchen right now—”
“No,” said Hoffman. “Not important—see, Tom, we eat
frugally when the public picks up the tab.”
“If you want great grub, Senator, come over to my
house.”
“You cook, do you?”
“Love to cook. Got a great beef tournedos recipe.”
Creedman smiled at Moreland. “I’m
into meat.”
“Get much meat on the island?” said Hoffman.
“I make do. It takes some creativity.”
“How about you, Pam? Do you like to cook?”
“Not particularly.”
“Only thing I can do is biscuits. Campside biscuits,
recipe handed down from my great-grandmother—flour, baking
soda, salt, sugar, bacon drippings.”
“How long will you be staying?” said Moreland.
“Just till tomorrow.”
“You’ve finished assessing Stanton?”
“The process began stateside.”
“Are you planning to close it down?”
Hoffman put down his fork and rubbed the rim of his
plate. “We’re not at the decision stage, yet.”
“Meaning closure is likely.”
“I can’t eliminate any possibilities, Bill.”
“If the base closes, what will happen to Aruk?”
“You’re probably in a better position to say, Bill.”
“I probably am,” said Moreland. “Do you remember what I
wrote about the blockade of South Beach road?”
“Yes, I mentioned that to Captain Ewing.”
“Did Captain Ewing give you his reason?”
Hoffman looked at Ewing. “Elvin?”
Ewing’s red face was aflame. “Security,” he rasped.
“Meaning?” said Moreland.
Ewing directed his answer at Hoffman. “I’m not free to
discuss it openly, sir.”
“The
blockade was economical oppression, Nick,” said Moreland.
Hoffman cut free a white outer scrap of melon, stared at
it, chewed, and swallowed.
“Sometimes things change, Bill,” he said softly.
“Sometimes they shouldn’t, Nick. Sometimes under the
guise of helping people we do terrible things.”
Hoffman squinted at Ewing again. “Could you be a little
more forthcoming for Dr. Moreland, Elvin?”
Ewing swallowed. There’d been no food in his mouth.
“There was some local unrest. We appraised it given the data
at hand, and the judgment was that it had the potential
to escalate and pose a hazard to Navy security. Restricting
contact between the men and the locals was deemed advisable
in terms of risk management. The proper forms were sent to
Pacific Command and approval was granted by Admiral Felton.”
“Gobbledygook,” said Moreland. “A few kids got out of
hand. I think the Navy can handle that without choking off
the island’s economy. We’ve exploited them all these years,
it’s immoral to simply yank out the rug.”
Ewing bit back comment and stared straight ahead.
“Bill,” said Hoffman, “my memory is that
we
saved
them
from the Japanese. That doesn’t make us
exploiters.”
“Defeating the Japanese was in our national interest.
Then we took over and imposed our laws. That makes the
people our responsibility.”
Hoffman tapped his fork on his plate.
“With all due respect,” he said very softly, “that
sounds a little paternalistic.”
“It’s
real
istic.”
Pam touched the top of his hand. He freed it and said:
“ ’Local unrest’ makes it sound like some kind of uprising. It
was nothing, Nick. Trivial.”
Ewing’s lips were so tight they looked sutured.
“Shall I check on the second course, sir?” said
Zondervein.
Ewing gave him a guillotine-blade nod.
“Actually, it’s not quite that simple,” said Creedman.
“There was a murder. A girl raped and left cut up on the
beach. The locals were sure a sailor had done it and were
coming up here to protest.”
“Oh?” said Hoffman. “Is there evidence a sailor was
responsible?”
“None whatsoever, sir,” said Ewing, too loudly. “They
love rumors here. The locals got liquored up and tried to
storm—”
“Don’t make it sound like an insurgence,” said Moreland.
“The people had justification for their suspicions.”
“Oh?” said Hoffman.
“Surely you remember the people, Nick. How nonviolent
they are. And the victim consorted with sailors.”
“Consorted.” Hoffman smiled, put his fingers together,
and looked over them. “I knew the people thirty years ago,
Bill. I don’t believe Navy men tend to be murderers.”
Moreland stared at him.
Ewing was nearly scarlet. “We were concerned about
things getting out of hand. We still believe that concern
was justified, given the facts and the hypotheticals. The
order came from Pacific Command.”
“Nonsense,” said Moreland. “The facts are that we’re a
colonial power and it’s the same old pattern: islanders
living at the pleasure of Westerners only to be abandoned.
It’s a betrayal. Yet
another
example of abusing trust.”
Hoffman didn’t move. Then he picked something out of
his teeth and ate another ice cube.
“A betrayal,” repeated Moreland.
Hoffman seemed to be thinking about that. Finally, he
said, “You know that Aruk has a special place in my heart,
Bill. After the war, I needed peace and beauty and
something unspoiled.” To us: “Anyone tells you there’s
anything glorious about war has his head jammed up his rectum
so high he’s been blinded. Right, Elvin?”
Ewing managed a nod.
“After the war I spent some of the best years of
my life here. Remember how you and Barb and Dotty and I used
to hike and swim, Bill? How we used to say that some places
were better left untouched? Perhaps we were more prescient
than we knew. Maybe sometimes nature has to run her course.”
“That’s the point, Nicholas. Aruk
has
been touched.
People’s lives are at—”
“I know, I know. But the problem is one of population
distribution. Allocation of increasingly sparse resources.
I’ve seen too
many ill-conceived projects that look good on paper but
don’t wash. Too many assumptions about the inevitable
benefits of prosperity and autonomy. Look what happened to
Nauru.”
“Nauru is hardly typical,” said Moreland.
“But it’s instructive.” Hoffman turned to us. “Any of
you heard of Nauru? Tiny island, southeast of here, smack in
the center of Micronesia. Ten square miles of guano—bird dirt.
Two hundred years of hands-off colonization by
the Brits and the Germans, then someone realizes the place is
pure phosphate. The Brits and the Germans collaborate on
mining, give the Nauruans nothing but flu and polio. World
War Two comes along, the Japanese invade and send most of the
Nauruans to Chuuk as forced laborers. After the war,
Australia
takes over and the native chiefs negotiate a sweet
deal: big share of the fertilizer profits
plus
Australian
welfare. In sixty-eight, Australia grants full independence and the
chiefs take over the Nauru Phosphate Corporation, which is
exporting two million tons of gull poop a year. A
hundred
million dollars in income; per capita income rises to
twenty-thousand-plus. Comparable to an oil sheikdom. Cars,
stereos, and junk food for the islanders. Along with a thirty-percent
national rate of diabetes. Think of that—one in three.
Highest in the world. No special hereditary factors, either.
It’s clearly all the junk food. Same for high blood pressure,
coronary disease, gross obesity—I met an Australian senator
who called it “land o’ lard.’ Throw in serious alcoholism and
car crashes, and you’ve got a life expectancy in the fifties.
And to top it off, ninety percent of the phosphate is gone. A few more
years and nothing’ll be left but insulin bottles and beer
cans. So much for unbridled prosperity.”