The Navidad Incident

by Natsuki Ikezawa

  Matías made the most of his Melchor origins, although with his tenuous family ties, he never really thought of Melchor as a homeland. Had the twelve-year-old orphan stayed on Melchor, he wouldn’t have gone far, wouldn’t have been given the chance. So around the time that Imperial Japanese Navy cruisers first dropped anchor off Navidad, Matías left his home of nine years, his mother’s keepsakes under one arm, and crossed the waters to a different life.

  On Baltasár, his first job was as an errand boy for a Chinese laundry that served the Japanese. Three years later, with a little luck, he found employment as a busboy in the naval officers’ mess hall. There he made use of his most salient skill—conversational Japanese. Three years of pointless grammar drills at public school had taught him next to nothing; still, he was different. Buoyed by a faith in his Japanese blood, he made extra efforts to learn passable daily speech. Simply speaking the language of the colonial overlords raised him that much above his peers. Here for the first time the orphan discovered his own worth, and the earnest way he cleared the tables made him the mess hall pet.

  One officer in particular had his eye on Matías. Second Lieutenant Kazuma Ryuzoji was paymaster for the troops stationed on the islands. What was it about this scrawny brown kid that piqued his interest? He’d call the boy over and listen to his Japanese for mistakes, even tutor him in kanji characters and arithmetic if he had a moment. The other officers razzed him, “Hey, Kazuma, didn’t know you were the type!” but to Ryuzoji it was simply a charitable gesture. Teaching gave him some small pleasure—at least that’s what he told himself.

  Or perhaps the real story was that Ryuzoji caught a glimmer of himself in this youngster, living by his wits, tempering his ambition by force of intellect. Matías wasn’t just aware of being different, he was dead set on turning that half-breed distinction to his advantage. What else did he have? Here, Japan’s incursion into the South Pacific was instructive: Matías realized early on that cultural enrichment came from rubbing shoulders with everyone, but politics worked the other way around, by excluding outside elements to consolidate power, by putting oneself forward at the expense of others. Ryuzoji saw how the boy picked up on these things almost instinctively.

  Ryuzoji himself was born into a poor family in Kyushu, and the navy was the quickest way up—if only as a temporary step. He took up accounting at the Naval Academy with the idea of learning a skill he could fall back on in civilian life, whenever that might be. Accepting an unglamorous posting as a paymaster, his hands-on application was all that kept the books balanced at a time when Japan was seriously out of kilter. The mercenary mentality agreed with him. Bravery and loyalty and determination aside, wars were waged by moving men and materiel with businesslike efficiency.

  By early 1943, however, supplies were running desperately short, and many of the vessels that weighed anchor from Navidad never came back. The islands would not fall under direct attack for some time, nor did the Navy men here sense the impending peril. Ryuzoji alone could see it coming. That April, a few days after the shocking news that Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto had been killed in ambush at Bougainville, Ryuzoji formed a bold opinion he dared not share with his fellow officers. Instead he took Matías into his confidence, though he’d only known him for three months. That noon, when Matías brought him the daily special of taro curry and salt-grilled reef fish, Ryuzoji invited him to his quarters after dinner.

  “Tell me, boy, do you have any idea why Japan is the greatest country on earth?”

  “Because Japan’s got great people,” replied Matías.

  “Wrong. There are great people in Japan, and there are slouches too. Brains and idiots, nice guys and crooks, in just about the same proportions as any country, anywhere. Well, maybe we’re a little more hardworking, but even that comes out about the same, give or take. People everywhere work, only some never really get down to business.”

  Matías just listened. This abstract stuff was tricky.

  “The Empire of Greater Japan owes its success to His August Presence, the Emperor.”

  Whatever you say, thought Matías, half wishing he could go back and change his answer.

  “Humans are weak. One person alone can’t do much. If just for themselves, people won’t till the fields until after dark. There are hungry children at home, old folk, that’s why they work. Even school children, they study because they want to take home good marks to their mother.” (Not me, thought Matías.) “The desire to work is the wellspring of community spirit. There’s no greater pleasure than to live up to others’ expectations. Just as there’s no greater joy than to sacrifice one’s life for someone you believe in. That’s how it is.”

  Matías listened silently. This was getting too difficult for him.

  “And the one who’s watching over all of us Japanese subjects like you and me, that’s the Emperor. Because we always feel His eyes on us, we work for Him, we do battle with the enemy, we struggle through every setback. And why do we struggle for the Emperor?”

  “Because the Emperor’s so great,” said Matías, the groomed student providing the expected answer.

  “Wrong,” said Ryuzoji, the patient teacher. “From here on is my opinion, so don’t say anything. Just listen, and don’t tell anyone. If talk gets out, I’ll be in deep trouble.”

  “I won’t say a word,” promised Matías.

  “It’s not because the Emperor’s so great that Japan is a superior country,” argued the logical imperialist. “No matter what His nature or countenance, we Japanese subjects revere Him and work ourselves to the bone for Him, grateful to have been born and raised under His Imperial grace. No, it’s not because of His character, it’s because His August Presence binds us together as a nation. It’s this arrangement, it’s the system that’s so superior. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.” He didn’t understand at all.

  “In American-style democracy, there’s nobody at the top.”

  “What about the president?” asked Matías.

  “Yes, America has a president. But let me ask you, can people really revere someone elected by a popularity poll? Do you really think he can pull everyone together, heart and mind? Our Emperor didn’t rise up through the ranks, He descended from above. The Emperor is the Emperor, that’s why He unites a hundred million hearts together as one.”

  “Even us islanders?”

  “It’s a question of your own heart. Your spiritual rectitude in standing before the Emperor, your awareness. Islander or native of the Yamato homeland, the only thing that matters is what you’ve got to offer the Emperor. For those who think only of what they can do for the Emperor, for the nation of Japan, there is no inequality.”

  Makes sense, thought the fifteen-year-old island boy. If I do my part, nobody can hold anything against me. He conjured up a gigantic aircraft carrier, like the one that once anchored inside Navidad reef. Fighter planes zooming off the flight deck in tight formation. The thrusting roar, the hair-trigger response, himself in the cockpit. What a thrill!

  But then Second Lieutenant Ryuzoji made a startling comment.

  “Just between you and me, this war is going to end. In form only, Japan will lose. By now I’m reconciled to the fact. The true victory, however, is much farther off. Sustained by the Emperor even in defeat, the Japanese people will work together all the more and win a completely different kind of fight. Only then will the true power of the Emperor come to the fore as a unifying force. The authority of the state will bind up all the selfish individual loose ends. I’ve studied governments around the world, and in this regard the Empire of Greater Japan is undoubtedly the most highly evolved. Yet in order for our country to assume its rightful glory in the world, we must now first taste defeat. Affairs of state do not reflect upon His August Presence, so our losing this war will in no way be His responsibility. The Emperor is unconditionally above blame. Rather, by suffering ignom
iny this once, the true meaning of the Imperial Order will shine through all the more. After this defeat, Japan will be the nation to watch!”

  “And what’ll happen to me?” asked Matías, unable to keep up with the officer’s leaps of conjecture.

  The question was so untheoretical, so real, it threw him. The man was drunk on his own rhetoric, intoxicated with the happy freedom to speak his mind openly where none of his colleagues might hear. He was rehearsing a speech to an assembly of thousands, when all of a sudden his flights of fantasy were pulled down to earth.

  “You? Once this war is over, you’ll know your true worth,” he extemporized after a moment’s thought. “If you turn your back on the Emperor, you’ll end up as just another islander. But if you give yourself once again to the Japanese race, the glory that awaits us can be yours to share as well. And if you ever are in a position to lead these islands, it may be in your power to bestow the bounty of Greater Japan’s prosperity upon your people.”

  What could possibly have lodged such ideas in the mind of this naval officer? It was still a mystery to Matías years later. What he recalls of that night is Second Lieutenant Ryuzoji’s strange elation, his assertion that if and when Japan lost the war, the demoralization would only be temporary and a strong country would later reemerge. At the time, however, Matías still had no idea of any way he could possibly “give himself to the Japanese race.”

  That was the only time Ryuzoji spoke like this. In the days that followed, he still tutored the boy, goodwill beaming from his quiet, friendly eyes—but nothing more. When the war turned ugly and all hell broke loose, Matías fled Baltasár back to Melchor. He never saw Ryuzoji again in Navidad.

  BUS REPORT 1

  On the island of Gaspar, passengers are forbidden from drying their laundry on bus windows. During the Japanese occupation, when bus service was introduced between Baltasár City (then Shokyo, the “Showa Capital”) and the village of Diego (Dego), a rumor spread among the womenfolk that laundry hung on bus windows dried more quickly, so buses came to be used more as clothes driers than as transportation. The sight of brightly colored clothing fluttering from every window, however, conflicted with the aims of a modern conveyance, so the gravely concerned bus staff adopted a strict ban on “boarding the bus with wet clothing.” The phrasing “with wet clothing” failed, however, to specify whether the people were carrying or wearing the clothes. And in a land of sudden tropical showers, what use are buses that refuse service to someone who happened to get caught in a downpour? Thereafter, the rule was amended to read: “Passengers are forbidden from boarding the bus with wet clothing, except for what they themselves have on.” Thus, women from the village of Diego who did their wash in Marna Creek, which flows into the lagoon near where the airport is today, were effectively banned from carrying their laundry home by bus (and drying it on the way). Discussions were held between the women and the transport company; the drivers maintained there was no plausible reason why laundry draped out of bus windows should dry any faster than elsewhere, and the housewives claimed from personal experience that it most certainly did. As a last resort, the bus company called in the Japanese Military Police, who declared the drying of laundry on bus windows in Navidad to be a punishable offense. Eventually the custom was forgotten. After the war, when Navidad became an American protectorate by United Nations mandate, the rule was automatically perpetuated, even though young housewives today are quite unaware of the practice.

  Notably, no such problem exists on the island of Baltasár, as there are no buses on Baltasár and never have been. Only now, with petitions demanding a bus link between the city of Colonia and Tabagui village, does the problem threaten this peaceful island. If buses are introduced, as almost certainly they will be, debate will no doubt rage again over this long-forgotten regulation. We await definitive reports based on scientific experiment to settle once and for all the question of whether or not laundry actually does dry faster on bus windows.

  That afternoon, the President holds his second round of discussions with Suzuki. No more abstract nation to nation, big country squaring off with little country—he can think over all that at his own pace, in his own time. He’s been balancing powers ever since he assumed the presidency, and if need be he’ll debate the pros and cons with anyone, local or foreigner. But now’s not the time. Detailed information in Suzuki’s portfolio, particularly about what resources the Japanese financiers and bureaucracy are prepared to muster, that’s what he wants to hear. The scenario may not be as unlikely as he first thought; there’s still a good chance of steering things to his advantage. Then, if this does come off, he can leave the rest to paper pushers on both sides. Turn it over to Jim Jameson to rubber-stamp. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Matías cautions himself. We haven’t decided squat yet.

  Today he has to coax some figures out of Suzuki. Just how much would this project, should it reach implementation, personally profit President Matías Guili of the Republic of Navidad? Unless it benefits both himself and the country, however insignificant the population, what sense is there in leasing out sovereign territory on Brun Reef to the Japanese? They’ll have worked out where and how to arrange the appropriate slush fund payments, but what about why? Matías Guili has his morals. He has no intention of whitewashing a clean facade like Bonhomme Tamang; still, he’d rather not pilfer from his own country. Better to take from foreign concerns. He’s got to stand shoulder to shoulder with Navidad.

  “What’s in this project for me?” he asks straight out at the start of the second session.

  “As regards that point, I have a secret plan from the Ministry,” whispers Suzuki.

  You bet you do, thinks Matías. No need for any Suzuki to come here without that. There’s plenty of sharper errand boys out there. Otherwise the deal could be done just as easily by post. The President maintains his easy manner. “And?”

  “The monetary indemnity to Your Excellency is to be one percent per annum of the amount paid into the national coffers. Not a huge sum admittedly, but as long as the facility stays, whether or not Your Excellency remains in office, the funds will be sent in perpetuity.”

  “You think maybe I’m due for retirement?” asks Guili, looking him hard in the eye. He knows his stare packs a punch. Most islanders would look away at this point.

  “We’re not in the business of hypothesis,” answers Suzuki, looking right back at him. The perfect officialese reply. “Naturally, when we first proposed the project, we had to consider whether this was to be a payment to Your Excellency the President or a personal gift to Matías Guili individually. And it was our unanimous decision that it should be the latter. On this one point, there was no tie, no mixed opinions.”

  “No tie, no collar,” jokes the President, repeating an old pun he heard long ago when first studying in Japan. “No, seriously, I understand. Please proceed.”

  “Of course, we recognize that the amount is hardly in keeping with discussions of this scope. However, we fully intend to express our gratitude to Your Excellency by other means, so please consider this one percent a mere ribbon on the box.”

  “Other means of thanking me?”

  “A plan to ensure increased security far and above Your Excellency’s present position. By reason of which, any quibbling over the aforementioned one percent to Your Excellency personally or to the President becomes a moot point.”

  “I’m not interested in any foreign power guaranteeing my position.”

  “Nothing like that, I assure you. Our methods are much more indirect. Please, just hear me out, as this involves the project itself. In building such a facility to stockpile petroleum, certain precautions must be taken to safeguard supplies. Terrorism is now a global political force, which we must take into account. Suppose twenty armed men were to occupy the facility and issue outlandish demands to your country or ours. Realistically, they could blow holes in the ships’ hulls, causi
ng huge oil spills. Imagine the public outcry.”

  “I was planning to augment our Island Security.”

  “Grateful as we are that you’ve thought of taking such steps, they’re not quite sufficient to deal with terrorists. With all due respect, your present Island Security is barely capable of staring down the local citizens or breaking up peaceful demonstrations, is it not?”

  “Well, yes, that is more their speed,” says Matías sourly. He knows only too well there’ll be more and more jobs Katsumata’s not cut out for. Can’t expect to turn over the entire law-and-order business for the whole country to a washed-up yakuza, thinks Matías, recalling Katsumata’s baby face. He’s been okay until now, but the problems are escalating.

  “Which is why Japan will take on the expense of upgrading the Island Security, plus practical training. Your men would take turns being posted to Japan for training and return home with the appropriate weaponry and communications devices. This would occur in three-month rotations, so in a year’s time the entire militia would be in fighting form. Peacekeeping tactics, suspect surveillance and questioning, terrorist group containment and eradication: they’d be brought up-to-date in all the latest SWAT techniques. Whip them into proper shape.”

  The present Island Security is none too popular. Some two hundred and twenty guardsmen all told, a national unit paid for out of the state budget, but effectively Matías Guili’s own private army. It’s obvious to everyone. Largely inactive and untested up until now, though should it ever come to fighting, there’d be a major row over its role. If, however, they were guarding these oil reserves, that might just wipe clean the “private army” taint. He has to hand it to them for their insight into where things stand in Navidad.

  “In addition, we will establish a Marine Island Security with two patrol boats.”