The Navidad Incident (32 page)

A commercial film crew came all the way from Japan to shoot a swimsuit advertisement on location in Navidad. In addition to the cameraman and his two assistants, there was a big-name director and his glorified “go-fer” assistant director, a thirty-something makeup artist, a young stylist, and four models, along with two reps from the sponsor. They booked eight twin rooms and one large suite at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel for two weeks solid, and a local agent from Guili Tours and Travel chartered a motorboat and two four-wheel-drive SUVs for them to go shoot at various places around the islands. The women—models and stylist—arrived three days before the others to get a head start on their tans and, of course, continued their daily sunbathing throughout the shooting schedule. Every day the stylist selected different colored swimsuits to go with the deepening shades of tan so as to create an entire “elegant” to “sporty” fashion portfolio, and every evening the crew watched the day's rushes on the TV monitor in the hotel suite. It was an occasion for smiles all around: the director was very pleased with the images; the reps were satisfied with the progress made.

Naturally, there were other reasons why the three men were so pleased and satisfied. By the second or third night, each had succeeded in singling out a favorite model and chatting her up; the fourth model was the cameraman's girlfriend. Thus, the two twin rooms reserved for the girls went unoccupied every night, but nobody seemed to care. The assistant director and makeup man were a steady gay couple of five years' standing. The remaining two assistant cameramen both tried to proposition the stylist, who was actually cuter and more photogenic than any of the models, but she wouldn't let either of these underlings near her. Duly spurned, the two young men withdrew and spent the rest of the two weeks sharing the same room, one snoring, one grinding his teeth, each cursing the other—though secretly they didn't feel quite so bad because they'd both been rejected equally. Meanwhile, the stylist enjoyed a good sound sleep alone every night, so that by the end of the trip, she looked even more beautiful than any of her model charges.

The first three days of shooting, they went by boat around the southern tip of Baltasár Island to Pearl Beach, where they shot at sunset for a dramatic backdrop of brilliant colors shimmering off the surf. A picturesque pair of palm trees further down the beach added just the right accent when floodlit. After that, they did some test shots in the mangroves on Gaspar Island and on the uninhabited islets between the two islands. One day, they went to Uu village, a short drive south of Baltasár City, and enlisted all the local children as extras for a “fun” interlude. Another day, they went to the old Japanese military airfield just north of Colonia Village and shot on the abandoned runway with no sea in sight. Which admittedly was something of a risk in a swimsuit commercial, but the images of bikini babes loitering on an airstrip-to-nowhere turned out so curiously evocative that the director gave the footage his thumbs-up. They could even use these to lay down the main theme and intercut it with different sea shots for balance. Once that was settled, they spent the rest of the time taking pick-up shots at an odd little rock formation inside Saguili Reef to the west of Gaspar. Known as Bird Island, this site afforded a veritable catalog of different land features in miniature—white sand beach, mangrove swamp, tropical jungle, boulder-strewn shingle—all in one convenient spot.

All in all a perfect job, everyone agreed on the evening of the wrap at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel restaurant. They toasted their good fortune over some nondescript “multicontinental cuisine” prepared from a potpourri of ingredients: two-thirds flown in from America and Japan and a scant third, as an afterthought, from local produce. Given that photo shoots are generally plagued by one mishap or another, this had to be some kind of miracle. Toasts rang out all around: to the stylist for scouting these islands (she'd vacationed here two months before, all by herself), to the models for their perfect suntans, to the swimsuits and the manufacturer for its taste, to the cameraman for his sure-shot technique, to the stylist again for her consistent on-the-job focus, and of course to the director for his vision and skill in overseeing the project. No one bothered to praise the two camera assistants, principally because there was no occasion to; they'd done their bit, so while the others were patting each other on the back, they'd already taken the first flight home.

So far so good, but when they got back to Japan and started reviewing the videotapes on professional monitors at the editing studio, they noticed a strange apparition in every cut: a green and yellow striped bus that no one had any recollection of shooting but which was always in frame. In the most perfect takes, just as the models ran up the sand toward the camera kicking up a fantastic spray, a big bright bus meandered across the background. Which was impossible; that was deep water. But each time they replayed the tape, there it was: a bus crossing the waves from right to left. In the crucial airfield footage, a good half of the marvelous background was ruined by that same bus. And in the Bird Island shots, where the models lined up in a row on the beach looking straight at the camera, there alongside them was the bus politely facing this way too. Despite the fact that the cameraman had framed the shot edge-to-edge on the four models, with no room on-screen for anything else, the playback was now four girls plus one bus wide—and the bus was practically fender-to-shoulder with the last model, leaving no margin to crop it out.

When the director arrived and took a look, he couldn't believe his eyes. It was crazy. He hit the
REPLAY
button mechanically over and over again, but no matter how many times he watched, the bus was there as plain as day. He called in the entire crew; they were struck speechless. The director began to cry. Then, after an awkward silence, everyone gasped in unison, “The whole time on the islands, we never once saw any green and yellow bus.” A video camera is made to record only what shows in the viewfinder, so maybe someone had composited in the bus image as a prank? Yet there was no sign of any digital hanky-panky. The two camera assistants who had failed to score and came home early were immediately suspected, but whatever their hard feelings, such precision image synthesis was technically beyond them.

They tried to erase the bus electronically frame by frame, but it was too big. The gaping holes it left were too unnatural to fill by copy and pasting pixels. Moreover, the bus wasn't just in one or two shots; the thing was there consistently throughout the whole two weeks of footage, so everyone had to admit this couldn't be any slipup or freak accident; there simply was no rational explanation. A budget of thirty million yen had vanished into thin air. The advertising agency, sponsor, and director himself ended up splitting the loss three ways, each side still blaming the others—much too late in the game, of course, because they hadn't taken out insurance on the job (though even if they had insured, what underwriter would have covered their outrageous claims?).

The real problem now wasn't money, but time. There wasn't a moment to lose arguing. They had to go find some island where absolutely no phantom bus would spoil the show. Neither budget nor season would stretch indefinitely to permit another remote location, so they opted for one of the outer Ogasawara Islands due south of Tokyo. The crew members canceled all other work, flew in by chartered helicopter, and thanks to good weather, finished shooting in three days. Each take was shot simultaneously by two separate cameras, and each of those two tapes was immediately dubbed to yield four tapes. These were then couriered via different routes—airmail, seamail, helicopter—to the studio, where day after day the editing staff thoroughly screened each new arrival; but of course no bus was to be seen on any of them.

That summer, the sponsor's swimsuits sold well in spite of the rushed remake. Having headed off the worst-case scenario, at least no one could pin flagging sales on insufficient advertising. Boasts about the might-have-been-masterpiece commercial notwithstanding, tall tales of the phantom bus and three-way financial loss were bandied about the industry for years to come.

From early morning until just after midday, the plaza buzzes with shoppers and pedestrian traffic, then sees a long lull: a hot, muggy blank until the cool of the evening when people come out again. Still, there are always a few souls who sit out the afternoon heat on the benches and shoot the breeze. The plaza is only ever completely deserted for a few hours in the dead of night.

“Hear anything 'bout the bus?” asks the schoolteacher.

“Seems to be having a good ol' time running around all over the place. Heard it goes to church sometimes and drinks soda pop,” says the barber.

“We never hear nothing like that at the station,” puts in a Radio Navidad staffer.

“That's cos the real important news doesn't ever reach you. The one person in this town who knows everything is the barber. Always has been,” says a housewife, the radio man's older sister.

“That's right. People come in and loosen up and talk. Done heard about all kinds of bus sightings. I say let it have a good time while it can.”

“Yeah, but when's it gonna come out of hiding? Or does it plan on staying gone for good? And why'd it go on the lam in the first place?”

“Rumor is, it was miffed with the President,” the schoolteacher informs them.

“The bus was?”

“Well, maybe somebody else made it disappear. Somebody who wanted to have a little fun with the folks on board. Somebody bigger than the Melchor Elders, somebody we can't see or hear, who's there and not there like the wind or stars or ants.”

“A bigger-than-human something.”

“I'm just telling you what I heard.”

“So what you're saying is, the President's gotta bow his head and apologize before the bus come out again?” asks the housewife.

“The President prob'ly don't even know his doings have offended them higher up. Which means the bus is gonna stay fugitive and beep around the bush forever.”

“Well, the President
is
mighty high-handed. He has Island Security set fire to people's houses,” says the radio station man in a lower voice. As an employee of Radio Navidad he really shouldn't say anything bad about Guili and his henchmen, not that he really cares. Nothing said here is likely to be held against him.

“Can't be that simple. It's gotta go way deeper than we know about,” says the schoolteacher.

“Plenty of that. Most of what the President does, people don't know hoot about. That's how he works things. The Presidential Villa's another world,” says the barber.

“How long's it been like this?”

“Since forever. That's just how he is,” pronounces the radio station man, assuming an air of authority.

“Nah, that ain't true. When he took over after Cornelius, he was fair and square. He listened to the legislature and didn't fall over hisself trying to please Japan. He was still on our side,” says the barber.

“Right, that's why he got reelected,” adds the schoolteacher.

“He was reelected?”

“Why sure, for four years—no, make that eight. I've had to teach our kids that President Matías Guili is the highest man in the land for eight years running.”

“It's these last two years, that's when he turned for the worse,” reflects the housewife.

“It's the hotel what did it. He really forced that construction through, and for no good reason. That's when people got their first good look at how high-and-mighty he was.”

“The Navidad Teikoku Hotel, sure was a big stink. My husband's parents had their land confiscated to build that thing.”

“Scandalous.”

“You said it. It was Japanese money, all right, but not a bit of it legit. No traceable names, it's all funny money. Nothing to do with the real Teikoku Hotel,” says the barber, who obviously wants it known he's done his homework.

“You mean they got a Teikoku Hotel in Japan?” asks the radio station man.

“Yessirree, the Imperial Hotel. Real fine hotel,” says the barber, as if he'd actually stayed there, though he's never even been to Baltasár Island, let alone abroad. Come to think of it, none of these four has ever been out of the country.

“A real scandal, that. Island Security throwing rocks through folks' windows, harassing kids, planting stink bombs around their homes. Why I even heard them thugs hauled some poor souls off in the middle of the night for ‘questioning' and they come back all beaten up. You bet people were up in arms.”

“I know this one family, their house got assigned as the Island Security latrine. Guardsmen'd file in one after the other and piss in the middle of the living room. Some even crapped right there on the spot. Try to give the bastard a whack on the behind with a broom handle, and the thug'd just grab the broom away and whack 'em back. The whole house got to smelling so foul they just gave up and moved.”

“But the people who sold out, they got some money out of it, didn't they?” asks the schoolteacher hesitantly.

“Don't you believe it. They didn't get no money, all they got was another piece of land what already had other folks livin' on it. So then
they
had to move even further away, right on down the line. By the time the musical chairs stopped, the hotel got the best property in the center of town and everyone else wound up living somewhere worse than when they started. It's already four years now, and my father-in-law's still grumblin' about it.”

“But why would anybody be so gung-ho 'bout building a hotel?”

“It's big money, that's why,” asserts a construction supply company employee who's been listening in.

“A hotel like that makes money? Enough to share out profits?”

“No, from kickbacks. Say the President arranges for the hotel construction to go through, the contractor pays him a percentage of the budget under the table. That's how things work in other countries. Guili's smart, he learned all about it in Tokyo and applied those lessons here.”

“Okay, but it's not just the money,” says the barber.

“Oh no?” questions the supply company clerk.

“No, it's not just money. It's his whole politics. He wants to make this place over into a Little Japan … or a Little America for that matter. The hotel was just the first step.”

“You defending Guili?” asks the schoolteacher.

“Nah, hear me out, will ya. That hotel's like a faucet. People pour in, cash pours in with 'em. A tiny skim off that loot floating round and round Japan comes here. Then, with any luck, money'll start coming in from America and Australia too. Just gotta prime the pump.”

“So?”

“The whole purpose of the Teikoku project was to hook up this country with the pipelines from the rest of the world.”

“But people and cash never came.”

“Exactly. That's where Matías Guili's smart. The Japanese sharks who built the hotel with funny money were smart, but your typical Japanese are even smarter; they know there's not that much fun stuff to do here in Navidad. I mean, did they really think people'd flock to some backwater where a disappearing bus is big news? No, for sightseeing, they got Hawai'i. For skin diving in coral reefs, it's Palau. For quick trips, there's Guam. There's just no room for Navidad.”

“Don't they got disappearing buses on other islands?”

“Doubt it,” huffs the barber.

“So what with the hotel all empty, don't that even bother the President?”

“
He
didn't sink any money in it. Okay, maybe he's disappointed he's not gettin' a little extra income, but he sure ain't out anything. He's too smart to sign some risky contract like that.”

“But then he lost the third election,” says the schoolteacher.

“That's
why
he lost the third election.”

“Because of the hotel?”

“Right. Island Security overstepped the mark. Don't know if Guili himself was aware or not, but folks was furious at the IS. Family ties still run strong here, so if people heard their cousin ten-times-removed was mistreated by the IS, then sure as hell they weren't voting for Guili. That power base was much bigger than he reckoned.”

“Yeah, and the bottom line was, the money never got delivered,” the radio station man throws in, upping the ante.

“Money?”

“Yeah, campaign funds. Now this I know a little something about. It just so happens I got both sides of the story—from them on the giving end and the take. Couldn't broadcast nothing about it, 'course,” he says, casting a meaningful look toward his sister, who gives the expected nod. “This was when the hotel business was still hanging over everything. Guili knew he'd come up short on votes, so he went looking for support from Japan.”

“Well I guess, sounds possible,” admits the upstaged barber grudgingly.

“So money was sent. Fifty million yen. Cash. Carried on board a light aircraft from Guam. The plan being to pay off important legislators and their constituencies.”

“Buying influence, eh?”

“Well, something like that,” hedges the radio station man, not wanting to stray into hazy areas. “But the thing of it was, the plane couldn't very well land at Navidad International Airport, so it tried to touch down at the old Japanese military airfield.”

“You mean
that
crash?” says the barber.

“Now you're talking,” says the radio station man, twinkling triumphantly at him. He's talked this far just to get in that one taunt, which the barber naturally doesn't acknowledge. “
That
very accident. But then folks around the north end of Baltasár Island there say the airstrip's always had its problems. According to the pilot who attempted the landing, on the final approach the runway looks ten meters higher than it actually is. The geography must be strange around there or something.”

“Don't you bet on it. Them dead Japs put a curse on the place,” says the housewife.

“That was where the last of them fought to the death.”

“That's why there's been so many accidents.”

“Well, in any case, the pilot thought they were safely on the ground and cut off the engines, but they were still ten meters up. So the plane belly flopped and went up in a blaze, fifty million yen and all. The pilot managed to get out. He's the guy now flies the government Islander.”

“I saw the time before that,” says the building supply company clerk.

“That plane crash?”

“No, like I said, the time before. Ten years ago, I was passing nearby the airfield when this Piper Cub came flying in lower and lower. Just when there was only a little ways to go, it leveled off and nosed up a bit, then the engine went quiet and it just fell—
wham!
Broke the wheel struts, but it still had enough speed to skid along on its belly, out past the end of the runway and into the trees. Didn't catch fire that time, but the plane was totaled. Pilot broke both his legs, nothing fatal.”

“See? It must've look ten meters higher, that runway.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Better that than it looking ten meters lower,” says the schoolteacher, a self-styled airplane buff, even though he's never been on one in his life.

“You think?”

“Well, if it looks lower, the plane'll still be nosing down, smack into the runway.”

“Okay, so it was an accident,” says the barber, trying to wrap up this airplane discussion.

“And Guili's money went up in flames.”

“It's still them dead Japs, if you ask me. They see incoming planes as enemy fighters, but don't got no guns, so they mess with the ground level to knock 'em out of the sky.”

“Anyhow, after three crashes in a row, they shut down that airfield. The time I saw was the third crash. The fourth time was Guili's fifty-million-yen bonfire.”

“And I'll bet the pilot was being extra careful too. He musta heard all the stories.”

“I dunno 'bout that. They probably didn't tell that damn fool pilot nothing.”

“So anyway, about the election …” says the radio station man, returning to the original discussion. “Without that fifty million, Guili lost. Though the bettin' beforehand had him just barely wingin' a third term.”

“Yessirree, he done crashed. And out of the wreckage, we got President Bonhomme Tamang,” says the barber.

“Now there was a loser,” says the supply company clerk.

“You said it. And his first order of business was to go dig up the dirt on his predecessor. Can't say it was too constructive.”

“And then he died.”

“Died three months later.”

“A little too conveniently.”

“And right after that, Guili's bounced back in again. As runner-up in the election, he got the consolation prize. But then, there was something mighty fishy about him disbanding the legislature right after he took office and Island Security chasing the MPs home with submachine guns.”

“Yeah, where'd those guns come from?” asks the schoolteacher.

“Who knows? But there must've been at least a hundred of them. And with no special budget to buy weapons either. That was the one and only time anyone ever saw Island Security waving those infernal things around. There's always a chance IS might haul them out again if and when, but it's never come to that so far. Probably got 'em all locked up in some secret arsenal. Or maybe stashed at the Presidential Villa in case of a coup.”

“Well, there was that thing at the welcoming ceremony for the Jap vets and the torii
gate toppled that morning. Wouldn'a surprised me if Island Security went around fully armed after that, but no, they're still empty-handed same as ever.”

“Them goons ain't seen arms before or since. Got handed guns that one time, ordered never to shoot, then disarmed at the end of the day. A greenhorn trooper told me so.”

“It's a wonder them kids managed to piss in folks' houses,” says the housewife, backtracking.