The Navidad Incident

by Natsuki Ikezawa

  He reduces altitude and circles several times, but can see nothing moving. From above, the lightly forested white sand beach looks perfectly peaceful, fulfilling the prophetic words:

  The earth shall accept thee

  To: Executive Secretary of the Republic of Navidad Jim Jameson

  Dear Jim:

  I enclose my formal letter of resignation; I leave the rest up to you. I also enclose papers assigning you provisional powers as acting president in my stead. Inasmuch as Navidad doesn’t have any vice president, and given that Tamang and I were the only two candidates to stand in the last election, you would seem the person most legally entitled to the office. So for the time being, the country is yours. Up to now, I’ve kept you in the dark about things you didn’t need to know, so you might as well continue to disregard them. Stick to the cards on the table. There’s no need to get your hands dirty.

  If Suzuki should show up from Japan, don’t listen to him. Just send him away. Nothing will come of that scheme we talked about at Brun Reef. Letters from Kurokawa can go straight in the bin. He’s no one you need to deal with.

  You should probably reconvene the legislature. All their hot air never made much difference anyway. Just let them say what they’re going to say, then go ahead and do what you’ve got to do. (Here I am telling you to keep your hands clean, then I bend your ear with unsolicited advice—read on and just ignore what you will.) Among the legislators, Arenas the plantation owner is the most trustworthy; he’s got no ambitions greater than his own present standing. He’s easygoing, but shrewd—he knows right from wrong. Arenas and his men are good people to have on your side.

  In terms of policy, be sensible: you want to be a good caretaker. You’re still young and inexperienced. Big gestures invite big failures. Err, if you must, on the side of thoroughness. You don’t need an ideology to run a country; in fact, you’re better off without one. It’s probably more prudent for a small country like Navidad to see where the prevailing winds and currents take it rather than try to power through on its own. Don’t think of it pessimistically. This way we won’t need to get too close to America or Japan; we can be friends with Palau, stay on good terms with Yap and all the Micronesian Federation, and invite in just enough foreign investment to keep us afloat. Don’t push economic growth at all costs. You’re smart; I have every confidence in you.

  Now, one immediate item of business. A Swiss accounting firm will be contacting you about transferring a large sum of money to the Navidad National Treasury. Having no heir, I made prior arrangements to have savings there disbursed in case of the account holder’s decease. You can let the legislature debate what to do with it all, but it would please me greatly if a portion could be used to establish an education fund in my name (laugh at an old man’s vanity if you will).

  Sorry to bother you, but one more thing: there’s my own personal account at the Baltasár City branch of the Bank of Hawaii. It won’t come to much, but can you please make sure that Améliana gets it. Also my house in Melchor. Ask her why if you want to know. She’ll explain if she feels like it, but don’t press the issue.

  I know it must be confusing to have an entire administration shoved into your hands, but believe me, running a country is not all that different from driving a car. Just make sure you don’t crash into things. Other than that, if you feel like accelerating, do it slowly. It’s your prerogative, but it’s also your neck. Speeding leads to accidents. And especially, ignore backseat drivers. Remember: you’re the one in the driver’s seat, not them.

  That’s about the size of it. I’ll be watching you.

  Long live the Republic of Navidad!

  Matías Guili

  P.S. In my private quarters at the villa, beneath the box room—what Itsuko calls the nando—there’s a vault. Itsuko has the keys and can show you the trapdoor. Everything you find down there I want you to load on a boat and dump in the ocean. The crates are full of submachine guns, the arsenal I laid in for keeping order after Tamang died. I issued them to Island Security for one day only to keep the legislators quiet and help smooth the political transition. I regret having used them, but by now that’s just one small part of the mess I made. Was I a dictator? I really can’t say. I’m not asking for a statue, just a decent grave. About the guns, though—they’re all fakes: Japanese toys made of heavy-duty cast metal that wouldn’t fart blanks if they tried, though they still ran twenty thousand yen a pop.

  No one in Island Security even knew they weren’t real. I had them issued one morning out of nowhere, with orders never to lay a finger on any trigger. Strictly shoulder strap guns, their sole function was to frighten people. Paraded around town that once, then crated away that evening and never seen again, I doubt anyone could tell the difference.

  Those toys did the trick, but it was a desperate measure. Functional or not, pointing firearms at people takes serious resolve. I can’t imagine you’d ever have call to use them, but just knowing they’re there might prove a little too tempting. And if it later came out that it was all a bluff, you’d be even worse off than you started. The sooner you dump them in the sea the better. Sorry for all these loose ends, but this ought to be the last of them. —MG

  My Dearest Angelina,

  Forgive me. I didn’t think it would all come to this.

  It’s not your fault that the I.W. Harper ran out, or that Ketch and Joel packed up and left. These things just happened, and neither of us had any power to stop them.

  You’re free now to close up shop and go back to the Philippines if you want, but I imagine you’d do better staying on here. You’ve always had a knack for business. You’re sure to keep pulling in customers even without the shadow of presidential protection.

  Having you by my side these last ten years has been heaven. You’ve made me happy body and soul, and I’m grateful for every minute. Please be well and live a good long life. May your business prosper. I hope you find another man who will be good for you.

  A champagne toast—to us, my dear! All my love,

  Your Matías

  Late one afternoon, as the sweet smell of sanpaguita blossoms wafts in on a breeze beneath a high blue sky brushed with silken clouds, a woman of a certain age comes knocking at Angelina’s back door and tells the young Filipina who answers that she wants to see the “Madame.” Asked her name, the woman will only say, “She’ll know me when she sees me.”

  The girl is obliged to go find her boss, who is busy balancing the books and scarcely looks up to inquire if the visitor is a foreigner. Yes, but not white and not Filipina either. Japanese? Korean maybe? Angelina’s helper can’t tell the difference, but says she’s about the same age as her own mother and nicely dressed too.

  Angelina rises from her accounts and walks slowly to the back door. She’s hardly seen anyone these last few days, leaving nighttime duties to the girls themselves except when they’re really short of hands to greet a crush of customers in the salon, and even then she can’t quite turn on the charm like before. She knows it’s not good for business, but what’s she supposed to do? She functions mechanically, lacking the will to do anything of her own accord. How long is it going to be like this—the awful sense of loss.

  Outside the back door, planted in rows against the afternoon sun, the swaying banana trees dapple the alleyway with shifting shadows. How beautiful, she thinks to herself, then remembers someone who will never see things like this again. Or no, the dead probably see everything, everywhere at once. But now’s not the time or place for this. Leaning out the door, she sees a woman standing under the bananas—Japanese, by the look of her. No one she can recall ever meeting, but somehow familiar. How can that be?

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, Angelina?” asks the woman. So, neither knows the other.

  “Yes, I’m Angelina.”

  “My name is Itsuko. Until a few days ago I worked for President
Guili.”

  The pieces of a complex puzzle now click into place: it’s Matías’s housekeeper, who used to wash all his clothes, including the shorts Angelina always used to help him out of. So this is the woman who laid out his futon when he went home from here to sleep, who prepared those big sashimi breakfasts for him. The sister of his lover from his Japan days, wasn’t that the story? Though according to Matías, he never had anything going with her—at least there was no reason to ever doubt him. No, to see her now, this woman clearly wasn’t any hidden treasure, though the two of them will have lots to talk about for sure. It’s consoling to think that she must miss him too.

  “Really, you welcome at the front door! Please, come on in.”

  Itsuko seems hesitant but follows her inside, where she is shown a seat on a divan in one corner of the spacious salon, which is completely empty during the day. Itsuko looks around, pleasantly surprised at the decor. Even in daylight, not a thing looks cheap or make-do: the wallpaper is a pale cream flocked with olive green pinstripes, the various pieces of furniture wouldn’t be out of place in a Yokohama Bluff mansion. The reproduction Tahiti- and Marquesas-period Gauguins on the walls may be nudes, but certainly no more titillating than anything one might see at the beach.

  “As you may know, I looked after the President for many years,” begins Itsuko.

  “Yes, he say many nice things about everything you do,” says Angelina, still trying to puzzle out what she is to this woman and vice-versa. It’s as if they split the main functions of a wife for Matías between themselves.

  “But now after all that’s happened, nobody uses President Guili’s private rooms anymore. Acting President Jameson lives at home with his wife and family and commutes to the villa. I heard talk of turning it into an official guest house, but it’s too Japanese for most tastes, so they’ve closed up the place for now.”

  So she’s out of a job, is she? Has she come to bum return fare to Japan? No, Jim’s a good guy, he’d give her plenty of severance pay to cover that. Probably still owed some salary too. And anyway, a single woman living rent-free on government wages in the islands, she can’t possibly be broke. What could she spend her money on here? She wouldn’t be giving her hard-earned pay to some young lover boy, would she? Doesn’t look the sugar mama type, but you never know about people.

  “So you see, I have nowhere to go.”

  So it is money she’s after! What would Matías have done? Just hope this woman isn’t too greedy. Would be nice to talk to her just once before she goes back to Japan. After all, they’ve seen the big man from two different sides. Not that Angelina can divulge the more intimate details to a proper-looking lady like her, though she would like to hear about the Matías this woman knew. Angelina rambles on in her thoughts, only to be startled by the actual favor that Itsuko has plucked up courage to ask.

  “So I was wondering if I could work here?”

  What a fantastic idea! The short, skinny woman sitting in front of her, never a beauty even in her twenties, must be in her late fifties. Plainly dressed, not much of a talker, and yet there’s something about her. Angelina likes the idea of her signing on at the brothel, but doesn’t want to get ahead of herself. They’d better talk this through first. From now on, Angelina has to make ends meet here all by herself. Who ever said anything about going back to the Philippines?

  “Okay, tell me what you can do.”

  “I do ordinary housework, like any woman. Cleaning, washing, a little cooking. Most Japanese dishes I can handle.”

  Well, she might really come in handy. With Ketch and Joel gone, there’s no one to do the daily chores. They were so good at what they did, kept everything in order. Pretty much how Matías used to describe this Itsuko’s work habits. The girls know this is a crucial time for the house, and there’s only so much their boss can do herself while trying to think of everything. So many little things to do around the place that the girls just don’t see. Sure, they’re young, and nights are their real work. Still, she would appreciate a little extra help, but is that reason enough to hire this woman? Of course she can clue me in on the Matías I never knew, thought Angelina, but no, there’s got to be something more business-related.

  “How about Filipino food?”

  “Adobo, carne mechada.” Itsuko rattles off the names of some Filipino dishes, looking quite proud of herself. “If you can find me some bagoong shrimp paste and ampalaya bitter melon, I can even make pinakbet. And we can get almost all the ingredients for sinigang sour guava soup here already.” Then lowering her voice to a whisper, as if letting her in on a trade secret, “There are a few tamarind trees here on Gaspar, you know.” Back in her job interview tone, she adds, “I’ve made chicken adobo any number of times, and President Guili’s Filipino guests always praised the results.”

  “Wow, that just incredible! Most of my girls are Pinay, and they get tired of the same old same old every day. Cook we got now, he make nice hors d’oeuvres and grill a mean steak—Western dishes his specialty—but can he roll a lumpia? Or stir-fry a pacit guisado?”

  Itsuko looks honestly relieved. She really does want to work here.

  “You don’t wanna go back to Japan?” asks Angelina, just to be sure.

  “An old woman like me? Even if I did, there’d be no good jobs, nowhere I’d fit in. People in Japan can be awfully cold toward anyone returning from abroad. And then, I’m not long for this world anyway.”

  This cuts a little too close to why Angelina herself doesn’t want to return to Manila. Better not pursue this line of discussion until they get to know each other better.

  “What about your salary?”

  “I’d be happy to get what I was getting at the villa. Or even less … I won’t complain.”

  Itsuko cites a figure that is roughly what Angelina had thought of paying her. A regular salary. Definitely this woman was nothing special to Matías.

  “I happy to give you a job here. You’re hired.”

  “Thank you,” says Itsuko.

  “No need for thanks. We make contract, just like for all the girls,” says Angelina, indicating another Filipina passing through. “For sure, I gonna be thanking you.”

  The girl brings over two cups of coffee and the two older women hash out the terms of employment. Finally, with that out of the way, they both can relax.

  “So what’s new at the villa?” There must be other things to talk about, but nothing else comes to mind.

  “Jameson seems to be doing a good job. All I hear is rumors, so I don’t really know the political situation, but people generally have good things to say about him.”

  “Pretty much what I hear. They say he not overstepping his Acting President title. Acting like a stand-in, playing down the president part. After him, better Navidad get somebody young and able, somebody not so bossy.”

  There, she’s gone and passed judgment on the late great President Guili. Speaking out when she’s the one who’s supposed to be asking. Luckily Itsuko lets the topic drop.

  “Many more people are coming to ask favors,” she leans closer to say. “There always was a queue out in front of the villa before, but now the whole fountain area is full up. The kids selling food are having a field day.”

  “People ’specting a lot of Jim.”

  “So it seems. There’s even talk of doing away with the rule limiting it to outer island petitions only.”

  This woman is more in the know than she lets on, thinks Angelina. None of the media has picked up on this news yet. She’s probably worth her keep just as a source of information. Probably gets gossip fresh from every fish and vegetable seller who comes to the kitchen door at the villa. In that sense, she qualifies as an honorary Navidadian—another reason to hire her.

  “Just now, on the way here, I heard something very interesting,” confides Itsuko in hushed tones.

 
“What’s that?” Angelina leans in to ask.

  “A tour bus has gone missing.” Itsuko’s face flushes red with mischief. She knows her listener will want to hear more.

  “Who? Where? How?” Angelina takes the bait.

  “A scuba diving tour from Japan, left the Teikoku Hotel and never reached their chartered boat at the port. One of those ‘last chance’ vacation packages for pensioners. The plaza’s buzzing with rumors.”

  “And nobody go look for them?”

  “Oh, they’ll show up sooner or later. Younger and happier than before. It’ll become a mainstay of the tourist industry here,” declares Itsuko.

  “You think?”

  “Who knows? That’s the appeal. You come here on a tour, board a bus, maybe it disappears and maybe it doesn’t. The uncertainty, the anticipation—that sells. Especially to stupid Japanese.”

  “I see beginning of a beautiful friendship,” says Angelina with a twinkle in her eye.

  Ketch and Joel are sitting at a shiny wooden table, just the two of them. Drinks before them, of course: two tall glasses of ice water, two shot glasses and a bottle of I.W. Harper’s finest (though in reality none-too-exclusive) distillate. They’ve found their quarry.

  Where can this scene be? It’s actually hard to say. They could be anywhere—at the Sanur Hotel in Bali, the Ambarrukmo Palace Hotel in Jogjakarta or the Shangri La Hotel in Kuala Lumpur. Maybe even the old Raffles Hotel bar in Singapore, were not the place already gone, or the Bamboo Bar at the Oriental in Bangkok (the two men being travelers, hotel bars are the likeliest destinations).