The Navidad Incident (2 page)

The older he gets and the more his grip on power increases, the less he discusses with others. Having to pass judgment on each and every issue can be a heavy burden, but it would hardly do to appoint an advisor, let alone ask for advice. Instead, he consults at length with someone he summons in private: himself. During the day at the office, however, he never lets this pensive side show. There he must be seen to dispense decisions without hesitation, though in fact he's worked it all out in this inner sanctum. The only other person allowed in here is Itsuko, the maid. No one else must ever open the sliding door. Itsuko has obviously seen the portrait, but she just sweeps the
tokonoma and says nothing.

“On the agenda for today …” begins Executive Secretary Jim Jameson—a Navidadian, of course, but so dark-skinned you'd think he was from New Guinea. Young, but competent, a born organizer with a good memory for things, ever ready to pull out the right information at the right time. Which, so long as he lacks the ambition to push things to the next level, is all the President requires of him. The ideal right-hand man.

“In the morning, there's the usual twenty documents for your signature. Then three pending decisions, with respective bureau personnel to make presentations. After that, you're at the Arenas Plantation for lunch, so allowing thirty minutes transfer time, you should probably leave here at twelve sharp. Arenas is experimenting with oranges lately, so if he offers you orange juice, praise his efforts, whatever. It probably also wouldn't hurt to mention those subsidies under consideration. The money does seem a sure thing, after all. Oh, and the lunch menu is steak. After that, ETA for the Japanese veterans delegation is two forty-five, so Your Excellency arrives at the airport at half past. You head up the welcoming ceremony on the airport lawn, after which the delegation goes by bus to the hotel and Your Excellency returns here.”

“Who'll be there at the ceremony?” asks the President, reaching for his miso soup.

“The word is five senior staff from the Foreign Office. Also five junior staffers from Home Office, whoever's free. Plus twenty from Island Security. There's supposed to be about fifty of them, so that should make an even match from our side. And we'll be rounding up people and spacing them around the airport, so it won't look too unnatural.”

“That's it?”

“No, the Children's Fife and Drum Corps is on call.”

“Ah, good. Double-check to see their uniforms are in proper shape. And no slipups when the flags are raised.”

The secretary nods.

“And my speech?”

“Very short. You have a dinner with them as well.”

“One more thing, those rebel handbills around town, make sure they're all gone.”

“That's Island Security's job.”

“Well, I suppose. Put in a word with Katsumata for me anyway. What's after the airport?”

“We give them the afternoon off. They'll probably want to walk around town. Later, you have dinner at seven.”

“There's a man arriving on the same plane with the delegation, name of Kantaro Suzuki. I have to meet with him, one on one. Today, if possible.”

“Your Excellency has an opening between four and five. Or else, let's see, the next slot would be past nine, after the dinner.”

“Later's no good. Pencil him in from four to five.”

“Anyone else to attend?”

“I think not. We'll be speaking Japanese. State business, but I'll go it alone for now.”

Some things are best kept from too many ears, thinks Matías. Not that he doesn't trust his secretary or the boys at the Home Office. But what this spook says at this stage will be off the record and, in all probability, none too realistic. No, give the guy the benefit of a listen, speak sincerely of “mutual ties,” then send him on his way. The President looks forward mischievously to letting the man talk, knowing full well it's a no-go from the start.

Having run through the agenda, Jim Jameson withdraws, passing the ever-out-of-sorts Itsuko waiting in a corner of the room with a bowl of rice. The President goes on eating, likewise ignoring her. Following his bath and dojo, breakfast is also Japanese, so his first waking hours are essentially spent back in the “Japan period” of forty years before, though once he leaves these inner apartments, he's all islander. As much as he relishes the Japanese lifestyle, why rub everyone else's nose in it?

Few know that he enjoys Japanese rice with
wakame miso
soup, cucumber pickles, preserved squid
shiokara
, plus a good wake-up-it's-morning helping of tuna
sashimi.
A Japanese breakfast is just the thing, though it's not easy to procure these items here. The rice and wakame seaweed and miso he orders in specially. A hireling at the Tokyo bureau buys small quantities at a nearby supermarket and sends them once a week by diplomatic pouch, ostensibly for entertaining guests from Japan. The President is very fussy about his provisions and will sometimes ask for five different brands of
umeboshi
salted plums so he can select a personal favorite. He's even had local farmers try to grow scallions, but the results have been disappointing. If only they were more like okra, which is practically a weed here!

Matías likes red meat
maguro
, but he just cannot face fatty
toro
tuna belly in the morning. Nor does he much care for
wasabi
. Instead he dips his sashimi in soy sauce mixed with lime juice and a dash of Tabasco, a postwar import from America. The Japanese who camped out down here through the war made do with that horrible powdered wasabi. Nowadays wasabi comes in squeeze tubes, but Matías will stick to his lime juice and Tabasco, thank you very much. He never tires of tuna. It's his power breakfast for the day's activities, so he eats huge portions of it. Fortunately, there is plenty to be caught in these waters, and there's also Itsuko, whose job it is to haggle with the fishermen and keep the freezers full.

Itsuko sees to everything at breakfast. Matías typically lunches with his trusted few in the villa staff canteen, then dines with guests in the formal dining room. Having no family, it's the standing arrangement, though on occasion the President may eat at the hotel or at a restaurant. Either way, Itsuko rarely has to prepare lunch or dinner.

“Is this the regular maguro?”

“Why? Does it taste different?”

The President hates it when people answer his questions with questions of their own. It's not as if Itsuko doesn't know, but she also knows that even if she sasses him, all he'll ever do is grumble. Maybe the old maid has her finger on some dark secret from his past—or so the other servants whisper among themselves.

“No,” huffs the President.

“Last night, I was running late, so I didn't have time to thaw it.”

“What'd you do? Run it under tap water?”

“No, there's this invention called the microwave oven.”

“Hmph,” he snorts. So that's why it's so pale outside and still cold in the center. He opens the
Navidad Daily,
a tabloid that exists solely to suck up to the Executive Office. Still, you never know, they might just print something stupid. The headlines read:

VETERANS DELEGATION ARRIVES TODAY FROM JAPAN!

HIS EXCELLENCY PRESIDENT GUILI TO GREET THEM AT AIRPORT!

ANOTHER STEP FORWARD IN NAVIDAD-JAPAN RELATIONS!

In such big, bold typeface, it looks more like a poster than a newspaper. Is this the best they can do? The President knows better than to expect accomplished journalism, no subtle criticisms that invite a second reading and lend backhanded credence to faulted government policies. One quick glance, a nod of the head, and he puts down the paper.

At nine thirty, Matías Guili is meeting with Finance Bureau Chief Gregory Chan about foreign aid projections for the next year's budget, when the door cracks open and in looks Chief of Island Security Katsumata.

“What is it?” the President demands. The bureau chief turns to look.

“Emergency,” pants Katsumata, slipping into the room. “Wanted to report it as soon as possible.”

Executive Secretary Jim Jameson peers around him from behind.

“Listen, sorry,” Katsumata snarls at Chan, as if a commandant outranked a bureau chief, “but could you, like, scram?” Visibly excited, Katsumata is forever trying to badger others—with little success. Does he honestly imagine this attitude of his gets him anywhere? When Matías first met him, the man was a
yakuza
, a right-wing goon with sufficient promise at bullying young recruits for a certain politician to recommend him. So nine years ago he hired the mobster to beef up the Island Security forces.

Katsumata's forehead glistens with sweat. The President plants both hands on his desktop and braces for the worst. The finance bureau chief has no choice but to leave, accompanied by the executive secretary.

“Take off your glasses!” barks Matías. How many times has he told the man not to wear sunglasses when talking to him? He keeps them on at all times, even during sex they say. Indeed, without sunglasses his face would look ludicrously soft, his droopy eyes more likely to elicit grins than grimaces.

“They did it,” says Katsumata.

“
They?”
queries Matías.

“The
torii
gate, they …”

“Who did
what
?” he demands again. Katsumata thinks clipping his sentences makes him sound tough, but he can only keep it up for two or three minutes at most before reverting to his usual blathering self.

“Knocked it down, sir.”

“The torii gate at the Shinto shrine?”

“Correct. Word came in and I went to look. It's down, all right. Posts broken in half, no way to repair them.”

“Any clue who's behind it?” asks the President, calmer than Katsumata could have predicted.

“They put up those handbills over the rubble, that same slogan, so it's gotta be their faction.”

“That's no slogan. Mumbo jumbo, that's all it is. Though it means the louts are serious, pulling off a stunt like this.”

“Right. The slogan's gotta be a clue. We did a full-force sweep, but sorry to say …”

“It's
not
a slogan!” sputters Matías. “How the hell did they knock it down? How many men would that take? It's solid stone, shipped in from Japan, joined with cement. Push or pull, that's no one- or two-man job.”

“They probably used a car,” offers Katsumata.

“Was there a car there at the scene?”

“No, but anyone could figure. Tie one end of a rope to the crossbar, the other end to the bumper, step on the gas, down it comes.”

“Right. Anyone see it happen?”

“No, but we'll keep on it.”

There's a big difference between no witnesses and no one informing Island Security
, thinks Matías.

“Probably done in the middle of the night,” continues Katsumata. “No houses, no people around. But put up some reward money, we'll get names all right.”

But the torii? More than even the culprits, it's the gate that preoccupies the President. He reassembles a mental picture of it, a landmark he's known since childhood. If the shrine was built the year before he was born, then that torii has stood well on sixty-three years. Feels almost as if he's been knocked down himself. The shrine building was demolished after the war, leaving the torii
standing alone for nearly fifty years. And now it's gone.

During the war, Japanese MPs used to patrol near the gate and jump on any islanders who passed by without bowing. Not even kids were spared. The shrine faced south, so bowing at the gate sent a long-distance prayer across the northern seas to the imperial capital. If kids saw an MP staked out there, they'd hide in wait for grown-ups to get beaten up, though they had to be careful not to laugh out loud or the MP would catch them too. Crouching in the bushes, desperately stifling their giggles … Not one of his pals from those days is still around. Or maybe they are? What were their names? Those friends from when he'd just arrived from Melchor Island. He was running errands for the Chinese laundry, so that must make him thirteen or fourteen at the time. The other kids were younger. He can almost see their faces. They must know exactly who he is, but none has approached him since he became president. A population this small and not one of them has come forward. What would his chums think of the old boy now?