The Navidad Incident (40 page)

“Musta been buddy-buddy with Guili. Bet we gonna see a lot more of his type.”

Late in the afternoon, people gather in the plaza. Nobody knows who put out the word, but it soon spreads around the capital. All who hear put down whatever they're doing and head straight for the plaza, until their numbers swell to overflowing. Yet even as they all crowd in, they spontaneously leave an appropriate space in the center. There, some enterprising souls have cobbled together a bunch of crates borrowed from behind Guili's Supermarket to build a makeshift stage. Standing at attention to the left and right, the yellow-uniformed boys and girls of the Children's Fife and Drum Corps hold their instruments, ready to play at a moment's notice. Unlike at the airport, however, there are no flagpoles in the plaza. Flags or not, everyone is waiting for a ceremony of some kind.

At four thirty, the people gathered on the side toward the road that leads to the airport and Diego begin to stir. The commotion soon spreads across the entire gathering, then dies down as people gasp and stare. The crowd parts and slowly, portentously, a green and yellow striped bus drives into the plaza, and through the large blue-tinted windows they can see members of the Japanese Veterans' Delegation waving. The driver nudges the bus forward like a boat slowly parting the tides of humanity. Right next to him in the tour guide's seat is the junior official from the Navidadian Foreign Office. The people in the plaza, all smiles, cheer and applaud the bus's return. It isn't like the heroes' welcome accorded victorious troops or a record-breaking mountaineering team or even successful negotiators returning from a decisive international summit; no, if anything it's more like teasing a naughty boy come home at long last from a wild escapade—only the prodigal son here is the bus, rather than anyone on board.

The bus stops in the middle of the plaza. The door opens and out steps the Foreign Office staffer, followed by the Japanese Ministry of Welfare liaison, then the Japanese veterans one by one. The applause stops, though the many watchful eyes continue to bathe the old boys in goodwill. They're still wearing the same dark woolen suits, so totally wrong for the local climate, identical black leather shoulder bags, and even more out-of-place white hats marked with a single red stripe; but what impresses everyone most is how healthy they all look. Their cheeks have color, their posture is good, there's a spring in their step. Why, they're even a little tanned. Those in the crowd who were at the airport for the delegation's arrival will later remark how surprisingly rejuvenated the old codgers now seem.

Another thing the Baltasár citizens can't fail to notice are the somehow knowing expressions on the old soldiers' faces as they file off the bus. Not without reason: the bus may have chosen its own wayward course, but they were only too glad to go along for the extended joyride. There's a conspiratorial gleam in their eyes.

The veterans line up before the makeshift stage. Compared to when they'd just arrived and stood at attention at the airport, their present formation is slightly more relaxed and casual, less imperial military and more Third World, as if the tropics have seeped under their skin. Mr. Ministry of Welfare is also visibly invigorated. The young Home Office staffer, looking relaxed like someone just getting off work, breaks away from the group and ambles around behind the Fife and Drum Corps to greet a colleague in the crowd, then rejoins the others onstage. Now, as if to start his shift, out of the ranks steps Executive Secretary Jim Jameson, who promptly mounts the stage. Everyone goes quiet.

“President Guili is occupied and couldn't be here today, so I've come in his place,” he begins in English, which the Ministry of Welfare man translates into Japanese for the benefit of the veterans. “I'm not much good at speeches, but I'd like to welcome back the delegation and say how glad we Navidadians are to see everybody looking so well and happy.”

The old soldiers are moved to hear this. Some stare up at the sky transfixed; others pull handkerchiefs out of their suit pockets and unabashedly mop their faces. They give the impression of having just returned from some grand adventure.

“When I heard that the bus had disappeared, I was quite honestly worried. But as there's not a soul in this country who could mean you any harm, we felt sure you were still alive and well somewhere. Every day, we heard different reports from people who'd sighted you, so we knew you'd be back in due course.”

Although unpracticed at public speaking, his words do seem to touch these sentimental old men.

“You've had a rather special experience on these islands, which I hope will encourage you to help cement relations between our two countries.”

With that, Jim Jameson steps down. Unlike the time at the airport, however, the usually adroit Mr. Ministry of Welfare shows none of his career polish and actually seems to be at a loss for a follow-up. The short notice and the President's absence have also left the local bureaucrats in the lurch. Who's running this impromptu homecoming ceremony anyway? The Japanese vets go into a huddle, then one of them finally steps onto the stage to speak. Everyone is relieved it's not the long-winded infantry captain who caused so many heatstrokes last time.

“Hello,” says the speaker. “Putting aside the purpose that originally brought us here, we'd just like to thank the people of Navidad for giving us such a warm welcome and showing us such a good time during our extended visit. I imagine we'll have a chance sometime to tell you all about what we saw and did these many days, but for now I'd simply like to say that, looking back on it all, these have truly been the happiest, most enjoyable days of my life.”

Behind him the veterans all nod in agreement. His words speak for the entire delegation.

“The truth is, we've all had second thoughts about what we did on these islands so long ago and about coming back here decades after the war. All our old convictions have been shaken, and after lots of time for reflection on this trip, we've had a profound change of heart. It's a long story, and we've plenty to tell the folks back home. But for the moment, let me just say how nice it feels to be in tip-top shape again. On behalf of our entire delegation, I'd like to finish with a simple word of thanks to the people of Navidad and to His Excellency President Matías Guili, who is absent today but was kind enough to meet us on our arrival, for giving us this chance to change our thinking.”

The whole plaza resounds with applause. The crowd's reaction to the mention of Matías Guili is measured, but the veterans don't seem to notice. Again, Jim Jameson mounts the makeshift stage.

“Well, then, this concludes our little ceremony to mark your safe return. Please have a good night's rest in a comfortable hotel after spending so long on the road. Your flight to Japan is scheduled for noon tomorrow, though we hope you'll come back and visit this country again before too long.”

Another round of loud clapping.

“And will you, uh, be taking the bus back to the hotel?”

The veterans all shake their heads; they've had more than enough bus riding for now, thank you. Or maybe they're afraid of going missing again.

Slowly, the Ministry of Welfare man leads them off on foot toward the Navidad Teikoku Hotel, as finally, on baton cue from the stocky boy conductor, the patient Fife and Drum Corps raise their instruments and strike up, not the Navidadian national anthem nor an unrecognizable
Kimi ga Yo
, but that old standard
When the Saints Go Marching In
, an island favorite. The rejuvenated veterans pick up their step to the bouncy two-beat melody and wend their way through the crowd.

Matías does not emerge from his private quarters. He sees no one and does nothing. Official duties he's relinquished to Jim Jameson. The executive secretary can surely handle all the outward trappings of the office, and whatever else behind the scenes he doesn't know won't hurt him. Enough is enough, the game is over anyway. Whether everything simply evaporates or somebody somewhere takes a beating because of it, what does he care? Should anyone come raging up to the villa demanding to see him, Jim Jameson can turn them away. The man's a rock.

He hardly eats. He leaves most of his morning sashimi
on his plate, skips lunch, and only has instant noodles for dinner. He must look a fright, but doesn't look in the mirror, so who knows? At night, he sleeps. Not his abnormally deep dreamless sleep, but the ordinary human variety. He dreams more than seems decently possible, sometimes seeing long-lost faces from his past. Waking is hard, although if he knows he's dreaming he can't be sleeping very soundly. Compared to his former narcoleptic states, he's only floating on the surface, his body scarcely half submerged in the waters of unconsciousness. He doesn't blank out anymore; he knows exactly who he is when he wakes and doesn't need notes or portraits to revive his sense of self. He's become a normal human being.

Itsuko looks after him like before. He's told her to go easy on the meal servings, and after seeing how little he actually eats now, by the third morning after his appetite died on him, she's reduced the portions drastically. She doesn't mother him with unwanted urgings to eat to keep up his strength. If he tells her all he wants in the evening is a Cup Noodle, that's all she brings. On her side, Itsuko merely observes this shut-in Matías who seldom even bothers to look out the window.

He knows that witnesses must have come forward with hard evidence for the Melchor Council of Elders to reach such a harsh decision. He's even guessed it was Ketch and Joel and the written contract that incriminated him. With Améliana the agent on a mission—she and her seven slippery siblings, if they even existed. Yes, but how the hell did she lure Ketch and Joel away from Angelina's? How did she get hold of that agreement? Did Itsuko lend her a hand? No islander would ever think to look under a tatami mat, that's for sure. Then there's the question of why Angelina would let those two leave. And why Améliana was so intent on bringing him down. Who
is
she? Who's behind her? None of Tamang's feckless lot could have put her up to this.

Do these questions cloaked in doubt and vague supposition even mean anything? Whether Itsuko was involved or not doesn't alter the reality of his situation. Maybe she's got a grudge he doesn't know about, but she still prepares his meals, punctual as ever, lays out clean underwear for him every morning, tidies the futon. Shut in or not, he can still lead a normal existence thanks to her. Can't ask for more than that. Even if she did help Améliana, he doesn't see her hightailing it back to Japan. Or even leaving the villa, for that matter.

How's Angelina doing through all this, he can't help wondering. Now and again, for minutes at a time, he misses the sound of her voice, the way she talks, her voluptuous body, her amazing woman's intuition and wisdom within certain bounds, the sum total of her attractions. Yes, but he still doesn't want to go see her or even leave the villa. What could he possibly say to her? And what would knowing the reason why Ketch and Joel left her premises do for him? What was there left to talk about? The days ahead are steeped in silence.

What was Améliana up to now? That day when she suddenly appeared and announced the Elders' verdict, she didn't say another word; she just walked right out of the office. So where was Améliana now? Did she and her gang of seven go back to Melchor? She didn't even mention quitting her job, iffy as it was. She might not have had a contract, but technically she was still employed.

More and more, he feels like he's hanging in thin air.