Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  Keikano hopes to buy his way aboard. If not to see the big city-Agana on Guam would qualify, I imagine-then why?"

  "He didn't say." Chip cudgeled his memory as the pearl passed among the crew. "I know he figures on coming back, though. Maybe on some supply ship. He says there are many things his people need."

  Lovett: "Textbooks?"

  Reventio: "A Walkman with a hundred spare batteries more likely. He could probably receive Manila or Agana from here.

  Mel Benteen's short hair swung with her headshake. "It wouldn't surprise me if you were right, Lovett. Our Mr. Keikano seems to see himself as the island's self-taught bra intrust. Take a gentle young guy starved for intellectual give-and-take, introduce him to aliens from the sky with technology he's only heard about, and watch him bend over backward to make friends."

  "Or bend over frontwards," Myles said, holding one hand up, wrist limp.

  "I'm not sure his sandals make prints."

  In such dim light, the others may not have noticed what Lovett did: Chip's blush. Benteen said, "More islanders have homosexual relations than you'd think. Whatever he is, Keikano is also trying hard to be our friend. Let's not undervalue that.

  You can keep your homo ftiends," Myles rumbled, then belched.

  "Not on Fundabora you can't," said Chip. When he had their full attention, he added, "Keikano was telling me about some of the local customs. President Jean-Claude doesn't like gays much either."

  Myles smirked again. "What's the penalty, as if I didn't have a good guess?"

  "Death," said Chip, and the look that crossed Myles's face said his guess hadn't even been close.

  ean-Claude Pelele sprawled back at ease in the presidential suite adjoining his harem, his bulk virtually hiding the imported, once elegant, gut-sprung love seat that supported him. Behind him, the most pale of his young wives let her bare breasts sway as she kneaded the massive muscles of his shoulders and neck, and by Fundaboran standards she was a stunner. She gave no indication that anything other than that massage had the slightest significance for her, gazing now and then toward Keikano without a glinimer of interest. And judging from the schoolteacher's return glance, this flower of Fundaboran loveliness might as well have been a construction of rags and sand. The two young Fundaborans had known each other from childhood and each could have told much about the other; things better left unsaid. Each accepted the other's lifestyle without judging it.

  The President had waited, and asked questions of the uneasy Keikano who sat alert and cross-legged near his feet, until Merizo returned from his mission two miles down the beach.

  Being no fool, the little minister never failed to stress the fact that he wasn't much of a physical specimen; no more of a threat to Jean-Claude than the schoolteacher, neither in the harem nor the bruising leadership games. Whenever a noisy arrival was in order, Merizo took the half-track, his beefy honor guard jouncing in the cargo section. When some stealth was required, as it was for his second foray to the C-47, his guards bore him along the crushed shell road. They usually moved at a passable trot carrying him in a chair between poles so his arrival back at the council house was that of a rhythmically grunting, ten-foot centipede.

  The suite was lit by a varicolored string of Christmas tree lights, half of which had burnt out, and a careful listener might have heard the faint chug of the engine-driven generator from the hotel kitchen. Though he had been carried all the way Merizo was panting, as might be expected from a man who'd been shaken, not stirred, in a box for two miles. He made no ritual of his entrance but took his familiar place on the footstool, higher than Keikano but lower than his President.

  Jean-Claude had not exceeded his capacity for the awful mixtures he had swilled down earlier and his little eyes, obsidian marbles, gleamed as he addressed his minister. "The leader of the whites claims his plane is huge, and not damaged. He tells me they could leave at any time. Did you see evidence to the contrary?"

  Then again, that is not exactly how he said it. Because Merizo had spoken one islander language in his early years and Jean-Claude another, they commonly spoke a Fundaboran argot that was derived mostly from pidgin, partly from the English-speakers who had operated the vacation spa during the Truman and Eisenhower administrations. What the prez actually said was, "Witefella masta say aero canoe bikbik, he no brokim, by-and-by fly past salwatta what time he choose. You bin see othaway?"

  "The plane is bigger than any of those old Japanese things of ours. They left a sentry," Merizo said, more or less. "He had a gun and warned us away, but the plane did not seem to be torn or bleeding. If it had been hurt, I think they would have left a work crew to fix it."

  "Then why did they land here," Jean-Claude asked, and was met by silence. He glanced at Keikano. "What do you think, Pretty boy?"

  It had been years since Keikano had felt any resentment at the nickname; for that matter, the President used the same term for several other Fundaboran youths whose bodies were gracile where his was sturdy, walked softly while he stomped, urinated in solitude as he playfully pissed on the nearest dog. The average Fundaboran pooch soon learned to be very wary of yellow ram.

  Keikano knew the rules. Keikano was very, very careful. In the local argot he said, "Maybe the sentry was working on the plane inside. I could probably find out from the young one. They don't watch their tongues much around me."

  "You do that," said the prez; a clear mandate. 'But that will take much of my time. What of my other duties? Minister Merizo?" With this, Keikano underlined his obedience through the chain of command. The little minister usually wanted his translator near when strangers came to the island. When Merizo needed-him, school was out. Small wonder that Fundaboran kids capered so freely. For them, school was a sometime thing.

  But what was Merizo to do: countermand the orders of a boss who made three of him? Could, if provoked enough, grab him by whatever part was handiest and literally make three of him? "Is something wrong with your ears, or is it just your brains? Befriend the boy and keep us informed."

  After this proforma show of truculence the little fellow beamed at his leader, a model toadie at his best. "The one with yellow hair did not seem very interested in pearls. I had him tested."

  The giant levered himself up as if exhaling stale booze into Merizo's face might change the bad news. "Not interested? Then what in the dark pit are we to trade with? You must test them all, one at a time. Do it yourself-, you know how to sense these things."

  Merizo did, for a fact. It was a simple trick known to sellers of desirable things: watch the eye pupils for a sudden dilation that betrays inner pleasure and arousal. It was one of the many simple tricks by which Merizo held his positions: consultant, soothsayer, pharmacist, mystic, judge. "I will, Jean-Claude."

  "Tomorrow!"

  "I will, Jean-Claude."

  "And none of those lumpy pieces of shit the Chinese don't want!" The pidgin word he actually used for inferior pearls was pekpek.

  "All fight, Jean-Claude! Enough." The hard edge in the giant's voice had finally met tempered metal in Merizo's last reply. As Jean-Claude Pelele and Merizo stared each other down, young Keikano and the half-naked wife looked away. It was not good to be present at these contests of wills, since now and then a threat or a reminder was voiced by one of the two men. Generally, Jean-Claude Pelele got his way. But he needed Merizo and" what was more, he knew it, and the ridiculous-looking little man knew he knew it. Without Pelele, Merizo had no police power. Without Merizo, Pelele had no covert action group. Jean-Claude'pelele might be an oaf, but he was clever enough to know that every government needs its cadre of spies-even incompetent spies. As the world went, so went Fundabora.

  Keikano had found the word for that relationship once, in his tattered dictionary. The word was symbiosis. These symbiotes would keep each other well painted for public view as, long as intelligent self-interest required it. Common folk who got too near when the paint flaked off had been known to have accidents.

  "If you cannot see
inside the plane," Jean-Claude said, "Pretty boy here may be able to discover what cargo they carry. If it is some contraband the Republic of Fundabora must confiscate il"

  Merizo replied carefully. "I have heard that governments of the English speakers sometimes ship contraband of their own. Do we really want an invasion that could make stories of the Japanese years seem like a festival?"

  While his headman was thinking that over, Keikano coughed; his way of seeking permission to speak. Jeanclaude gave that permission with a flick of a sausagelike finger. "No matter what they carry, sirs, we might convince them to return with whatever you like. They may be better as trading partners than as enemies.,,

  "We cannot trust men with radios and airplanes," Men'zo countered.

  Keikano's retort was gentle: "Do we trust the Chinese and Filipino ship captains? Besides, these people could bring new radios to us, medicine, entire crates of video films."

  Merizo would not have said so, but he -had no intention of reintroducing radios to Fundabora. The damned things had always started rumors of democratic processes on Guam and Palau. Medicine was another matter: as the island's only dispenser of modern medicines, Merizo could further cement his power with newer pills, better unguents.

  But it was the mention of videos that rekindled the light in Jean-Claude's eyes' Some years previous, he had swapped a small fortune in pearls for a pallet load of Chinese ripoffs of Japanese video players and TV sets. When one unit failed, he simply hurled it into the lagoon and had another installed. It was sad but true that, when a tape of

  "Lingapoo Fux Deluxe" had been played a hundred times by folk who do not know how to clean the machine, cunning little Lingapoo's sexual gymnastics had to be viewed through an electronic snowstonn.

  More than medicines, Jean-Claude Pelele wanted a lifetime supply of porn tapes. Southeast Asia produced many of the most embarrassing, but somehow the traders seemed to know that, on Fundabora, a real raunch tape was worth its weight in pearls.

  "Also whiskey. Don't forget whiskey," Jean-Claude urged.

  "Of course," said Merizo, who knew very well that the leadership games would be held as the year's longest days approached. Much free booze was needed for those few days. "But in the meantime, we must keep them here long enough to arrange it. And if they do not have a weakness for the oyster's child as others do, we must find what they do crave."

  "Money, no doubt." Jean-Claude kept a hidden strongbox Of money, much of it worthless. He had given up trying to decipher the forces that made the stuff hard to come by on one season, and hard to get rid of on the next. Traders always showed initial interest which quickly paled. It seemed that Jean-Claude's strongbox never held much of what the traders wanted. Pearls were another matter.

  Merizo bobbed his head. "Maybe. Until we know more, we must treat these people with every courtesy. It will be your task to learn their cravings, Keikano."

  As Fundabora's leaders went on with their guesswork, the schoolteacher let slender shoulders droop dramatically under the heavy load of this mission. Keikano made no objection, though, in fear that the two might reconsider. Keikano had scarcely dared hope that this strategy meeting would turn out so well.

  In midmorning, a strange and frightening drone could be heard from the beach, and it grew louder by the second. It sounded to Keikano like God's personal motor scooter but, through a break in the palms, it proved to be the big plane trundling along the sand at a pace no Fundaboran vehicle could match. It finally stopped, propellers ticking, over, to disgorge the crew's British leader and the yellow-haired grandfather.

  Before a welcoming committee could be formed, the two marched smartlyto the council house. Keikano had walked for miles along perilous footing to complete a hidden agenda on the previous night, and needed no more exercise. He stayed out of sight until called for, then hurried to the lobby where the two whites, with the help of a tongue-tied guard, were slowly building a semantic block of monolithic proportions. "Welcome! It is 1, Keikano," he called, with a few words of caution to the guard. The welcoming smile was genuine. "What may I tell President Jean-Claude?"

  The ritual of handshakes done with, the tall gray-hair said, "We have decided to accept his kind offer, Keikano; that is, we will be pleased to sleep in the council house if we can leave our, ah, aero canoe here safely clear of salt winds and high tides. In return for a promise that no nati-ah, citizen will touch the plane, we will try to repair some of your broken machines. This is our way of thanking President Jean-Claude for yesterday's-oh, bugger!-and so on, Keikano. You understand how to put it, I'm sure."

  Keikano trotted down the hall to find that his President was still being dressed by his wives, a process that often as not became a dalliance occupying much of his morning. Merizo, however, was busily polishing off the debris of what had been Jean-Claude's breakfast: pork, boiled eggs, a starchy unleavened disc that passed for bread, juice, and peeled mangoes.

  When Keikano had faithfully reported on the whites, Merizo made a snap decision while mango juice trickled from his chin. "I will give them an official invitation to do these things," he said, with a meaningful look. Keikano nodded, knowing what that meant: let Merizo take credit for things the whites want to do anyhow.

  Merizo led the schoolteacher back to the lobby and, drying his hands by rubbing them through his hair, made a little speech. It was Keikano who explained that they could park the aircraft, choose upstairs rooms, and make free with the rusting gadgetry they wanted to repair. "I will be pleased to guide you. It is a tradition," he explained vaguely.

  The whites tried not to show too much pleasure but their faces betrayed something like excitement; eyes roving here and there, their speech tempo quick, their step springy for men of their ages as they began to off-load some of their goods troy the pane. Merizo gave orders to the guards and sent one of them away beyond the trees to the nearby village with The Word: touch the aero canoe and furnish entertainment at the next leadership games. That was not quite "touch it and die," but close enough.

  Keikano came aboard the plane only after an invitation from the tall, handsome youth called Chip, openly curious about everything, needing only to peer at something before Chip explained it. The cargo, which was chiefly left in its tiedown straps, Chip dismissed with, "Food, supplies, spare clothes, stuff like that." Not an overly helpful appraisal but several cardboard cases were labeled MRE, and Keikano already knew that Jean-Claude had found the powdery sweet stuff in his gift packets. Found them, and wolfed them down as candy.

  In two trips, the crew finished off-loading what they needed and closed the door of the big plane. The leader and his woman, after a muttered exchange, took one room; the yellowhair and Chip took a room adjoining on the left; and both the bearded one and the limping one took the room adjoining on the right. They still spoke as if they had nothing to hide from Keikano.

  "Coop and I will take a look at their maintenance sheds," said the yellowhair to their leader. "Maybe check out the water system and light plant later; God knows what's in the tap water. Keikano, it'd be nice if you came along."

  "I would be honored. We may find Chip helpful, climbing here and there on large machines," said Keikano.

  "Sure, glad to help," Chip replied.

  Now the tall leader spoke. "I thought the rest of us might take a stroll around the island, unless you object. See how the other half lives, and all that."

  Keikano made a judgment call. "You are honored guests. Please yourselves. But I ask you not to go far along the high trail.

  The'fooiing is treacherous and I would be, um, discipled? Disciplined, if you came to harm. I will guide you there another time if you wish."

  "Rightee-oh. Well, we'll nip off, then," said the Brit, taking the woman's arm firmly. Keikano thought the glance she gave him was peculiar, as though vexed and amused as well. She seemed to do that a lot, and still wore trousers like a man.

  The two parties, at Keikano's urging, chose from a huge bowl of ripe fruit in the lobby before agreeing to
return for lunch and going their separate ways. Keikano innocently tried to take the hand of young Chip in islander fashion-a habit shared by same-sex pairs in many third-world countries-but the youth blushed and, with a smile that asked forgiveness, disengaged his hand immediately. They walked through scented breeze, inundated by the sun, to the distant Quonset huts while munching fruit.

  At the open door of the first shed, the yellow-haired elder simply stopped with hands on hips and vented a long, low whistle upon looking into the shadowed innards. The one who limped, Coop, began to laugh.

  "Regular effin' time machine," he said.

  Keikano squinted. "Excuse me?"

  Yellowhair: "He means we haven't seen equipment like this for a long time." Then, more softly: "For Christ's sake, Coop, try not to offend him."

  "I am not offended, sirs. These machines need help."

  "You can say that again. More than help, they need a decent burial. What the hell-um, what did you ever use that old Letoumeau rig for?" He pointed to a huge, work-scarred earthmover that towered on tires eight feet high above a gutted, forlorn Toyopet sedan. Flecks of yellow paint adhered to its welded steel frame amid a generation's pitted coat of rust. The older of the men approached the nearest rubber tire, long devoid of air, and squatted to peer beneath the chassis. "Yep, it's what we used to call a belly scraper. Saw some of these building roads in Alaska."

  "In the time of Pelele the First, great flat ships took our dirt from these, I am told."

  Chip looked blank. "They bought your dirt?"

  Keikano used the shrug he had learned from strangers. "Special rocky dirt. All gone now, leaving a great hole, roads overgrown."

  The yellowhair grunted to himself, then said, "Exactly what kind of dirt? You mean like guano, from a cave maybe?"

  "No, a great shallow basin larger than all these buildings. I think it was called hunger, in English."

  "Hunger," the elder repeated in bafflement.

  Keikano nodded, then frowned. "Something like it. I found it in a dictionary but it was not the same." He beamed suddenly: "Appetite! I am certain the rocky earth was called appetite.