The Navidad Incident (38 page)

As Joel's tale builds, so does the Elders' interest. Evidently the translation must be good. The Elders keep leaning forward; Ketch keeps writing more notes.

“But let's back up a bit. What were we doing the night before? We were busy incriminating former President Matías Guili. Or more precisely, we were typing up a formal indictment listing all the bribes and ‘irregularities' surrounding the Navidad Teikoku Hotel construction—the same touchy subject Tamang had been investigating since taking office. And for a fabrication, I must say, it did sound pretty convincing. A perfect piecrust of fact and fiction, truth and lies. A half-dozen or so pages of pseudo-documentation. Just enough to grab our reader and hold his attention for five minutes. Guili himself gave us the outline, so it wasn't very hard to throw together.”

The Elders listen in silence. None of them move. Those who understand a little English are quicker to react, the others hang on the interpreter's every word.

“We printed a single copy. Anyone who didn't know better would have thought we were simply writing a business report. The trick, however, was in the paper we used.”

Some of those listening may not be able to follow the technical implications, but everyone at least understands that paper came first, then words were laid on top.

“The paper was impregnated with a special poison, invented by the research and development department of a First World intelligence organization. We won't say which—that would be telling—there must be dozens of these ‘strategic agencies' around the world. Let's just say we were formerly in the employ of one of them. Anyway, in the course of our spying—did I just say that?—ahem, in the course of our
activities,
we'd been supplied with a pack of this poison paper, of which we still had a few leftover sheets. The poison is very potent: superficial skin contact with only a tiny amount will cause lethal symptoms identical to thrombotic cardiac arrest—a heart attack—in ninety-five percent of those exposed in less than seven minutes. Apparently it's an alkaloid, a lysergic acid derivative of some kind, but that's all we know.”

The Elders react strongly to the poison diagnosis. The use of substances to alter the behavior of humans and animals is older than history itself.

“Okay, then, typically the executive secretary prepares the President's paperwork for review the night before. Occasionally there may be urgent items he rushes directly to the President, otherwise he lays things out on his own desk the previous evening, then transfers them all to the President's desk in the morning. All we had to do was sneak into the Presidential Villa late at night and slip our indictment in among the executive secretary's reports. Nothing simpler. With our training, locks and keys are child's play.”

Joel beams with juvenile glee. Males, whether straight or gay, always retain some boyish sense of pride in their career accomplishments.

“The following morning, as usual, the President conferred with his executive secretary about the day's schedule before withdrawing to review and sign his waiting papers, preferring to do that on his own. In this respect, Tamang and Guili had identical work habits—maybe Tamang even picked up the practice from him. In any case, among the papers that morning was a particularly riveting document: a detailed denunciation of his notorious predecessor. Tamang read each line with such interest he didn't notice that the style was somehow a little ‘off ' compared to standard bureaucratic reports.”

Joel pauses to survey his audience. His manner suggests a lawyer leading a witness more than someone on the stand himself, but the Elders don't let it distract them.

“Amazing stuff, that paper: ordinary typing bond by the look of it, yet hard to handle—the sheets tend to stick together—which made him want to wet his fingertips to turn the pages, as Guili knew he often did from observing him leafing through handouts at the meetings they both attended. If any of you have this habit, I would strongly recommend you wean yourself off it. It could prove harmful to your health.”

This warning meets with puzzled silence. It would seem that few of the Elders have occasion to deal with documents and papers.

“When papers are stapled together in the upper left-hand corner, people turn the page with the index finger from the lower right-hand corner. The area the finger touches is quite specific. As Tamang finished reading the first page, he raised his finger to his lips before turning to the next. This innocent action brought his fingertip in contact with chemical A from page one, which was promptly ingested into his system when he again wet his finger to flip over page two. Chemical A thus began to circulate, until he was ready to turn to the next page, and he touched the same lower right-hand corner of page three, coated with chemical B, which he again brought to his lips and into his system at page four. By the time he reached page six, the otherwise innocuous chemicals A and B had combined in his system to synthesize the lethal poison X.”

Everyone gasps.

“Each chemical must be ingested about twenty seconds apart and in the proper order.”

The interpreter Elder now asks a question himself.

“Why not poison second page and be done with it?”

“Poison X is highly unstable, effective only for a few minutes immediately after synthesis. That's why the ingredient chemicals must be taken orally, to ensure that they mix in the body of the victim and not rub together harmlessly on facing pages. As soon as we learned about Tamang's finger-licking habit, the method immediately suggested itself. You could almost say that our bringing a few sheets of this special paper to the islands is really what killed Tamang. And what were the chances of that? It's almost as if Guili's murderous intentions are what drew us here.”

The question and Joel's reply are translated for the benefit of the other Elders.

“To continue, then. Once chemicals A and B compounded in Tamang's system, there was no turning back. No antidote. He'd have felt something strange in his chest before he got to the middle of the next page, but probably kept on reading to the end. The strange feeling now a sharp pain, he wouldn't have had the strength to call out or reach the intercom button before collapsing face-down on his desk. The executive secretary discovered him in this state forty-five minutes later, the newly elected president dead in the earnest exercise of his morning duties, his desk scattered with papers.”

The Elders are silent. One last note from Ketch remains in Joel's hand.

“Bonhomme Tamang died on the job after only three months in office. At which point, as you all know, a nationwide crisis compelled former President Guili to stand up and reclaim the empty seat, which gave him full authority to declare a state of emergency and mobilize Island Security to contain the situation. The entire Tamang incident was sidelined; the autopsy revealed no trace of poison. No accusations—aside from rumors—were ever levied against Guili. Our job was done.”

The interpreter is anxious to ask something again, but Joel forges ahead.

“Naturally you're skeptical. What became of the murder weapon, you ask, the accusations that so fascinated Tamang? The document must have been there among all the other papers when Tamang was found. Indeed it was, but the executive secretary was too flustered to even notice. The disarray of papers seemed perfectly normal to him, and anyway he was in a hurry to call the medics. And then when they came, everyone in the entire villa was tripping over each other trying to get Tamang to the ambulance and accompany him to the hospital. A golden opportunity for someone to sneak away with the papers—and I shouldn't have to tell you who. So much for the events of that fateful day.”

Joel rests his case. Ketch writes no more notes. All are moved. Brother Bonhomme Tamang has grown in stature, martyred in such a skillful and singular manner.

“We understand,” says the interpreter, speaking for everyone. “We believe you simply carry out Guili's revenge against Tamang. Still, one thing, can you say why Guili want so much you to kill Tamang?”

Ketch fields the question in shorthand and Joel extemporizes the longer response.

“As should be obvious from the fact that the murder weapon was itself an indictment of Guili's crooked finances, the problem was his abuse of public office for personal gain. Tamang had been hot on Guili's paper trail and was already preparing an indictment himself. Guili knew he was in a corner; he had to stop the investigation and quick.”

The Elders let out a knowing sigh.

“Just a conjecture, it's not like Guili ever told us any particulars. If you really want to know, you'll have to ask the man himself.”

“No need for that. Your testimony and agreement paper enough for us. Thank you.”

Ketch and Joel bow, then take their leave. The meeting goes on for hours afterwards. The situation is straightforward enough, with little room for dispute. Still, in keeping with tradition, all viewpoints are aired, including odd bits of lore that no First World court of law would ever consider. Once all have been heard, a unanimous decision is pronounced.

The Melchor Council of Elders has a time-honored way of announcing their decisions. A messenger is sent out on foot or, if to another island, by canoe. For this ruling, Améliana is chosen to deliver the word to Matías Guili in Baltasár City on Gaspar Island, borne by the same seven young oarsmen. The canoe is ready and waiting on the beach.

The seven youths guide their dugout through a break in the reef, then brave the open sea beyond, guided only by their knowledge of the movement of the stars night by night, season by season, their experienced sense of when to sail and when to row.

All goes well the first day of the voyage: the weather holds up, as if in support of the Elders' decision. But the next day brings a gale. Huge waves wash over the canoe; the stars go into hiding and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Vagrant winds and stray currents throw them off course. All they can do is bear up passively to what comes at them, and pray that their canoe remains intact and no one is lost overboard.

The following morning, exhausted from their night of terror, they wake one by one to find the waves now largely subsided, wind and cloud in retreat, and the sun burning bright in the east. Their real trial begins from here on. The seven have only their wits and knowledge of the sea to tell them where they are or which way they should proceed. Améliana may have second sight into things, but she merely listens to their conjectures, saying nothing herself. When they set out, the course from Melchor to the reef around Gaspar and Baltasár should have taken them almost due northwest. The problem now is to figure out just how far in which direction they went that first whole day of northerly wind, then where they were blown in the storm that followed. Neither the face of the sea a handsbreadth below the prow of their canoe, nor the layers of cloud far above them point the way toward Gaspar. Sighting only from the disc of the sun, the young sailors bear tentatively to the northwest.

Maybe the heavens are on their side after all, for they reach their destination by the afternoon of the fourth day. The canoe enters the greater lagoon via a southeastern break in the barrier reef, then heads west along the southern coast of Baltasár Island and beaches unobtrusively at the tip of Gaspar near Uu, where the villagers quietly welcome the eight Melchorians. From there, they walk to Baltasár City and on up to the Presidential Villa, their steps showing little sign of fatigue from their long sea voyage.

Foreign visitors to the islands are often surprised to learn that more than a mere means of transportation, buses are so highly regarded here they almost seem to be objects of worship. The bus network links the capital to most other towns and villages, even extending to settlements with only a few houses. As a result, citizens enjoy an admirable degree of mobility for such a small country, a fact which forms the basis of certain customs.

When an infant is born, after its first bath and suckling at its mother's breast, its very next experience is a bus ride. The child's maternal grandparents (and the mother as well if her postpartum recovery is quick) typically board at the nearest bus stop with the swaddled babe in arms. The mother's husband and brothers and sisters see them all off, and they ride to the end of the line and back. The routes are not especially long, so the trip takes thirty minutes to an hour at most, just long enough to answer their prayers for many safe returns. With this “first bus,” the child becomes a “full-fare” member of the family who, it is hoped, will grow up strong as a bus.

It is also not unusual for people with ailments to ride buses for their salutary effect. All buses in the country are equipped with a special sick berth for this purpose. Something like a stretcher suspended in hammock fashion, the bed cushions hard shocks on the roughest roads, while the pulsing of the engine is widely believed by the island folk to have curative powers. Navidadians hold that bus vibrations can work wonders. Most sick people who ride around for one or two days will show signs of improvement; some who had to be carried on board will even get off on their own two feet.

Unknowing foreigners may take alarm at the sight of moribund passengers on buses here. This is not because persons in the throes of death choose to ride buses as a last-ditch panacea, but rather that bus travel is regarded as the first leg of a peaceful journey to the next world and even beyond to rebirth—a custom that is known as the “last bus rite.”

Today, thanks to tales told by tourists and cultural anthropologists' research, the relationship between health and bus-riding discovered in Navidad has come to the attention of other countries, so we may expect to see similar bus beliefs spreading overseas. We hear that “first bus” practices have already taken hold in certain regions of the Philippines, while recent reports tell of similar trends just now beginning in the southern islands of the Japanese archipelago. Healthy bus, healthy body.