The Navidad Incident (19 page)

Ryuzoji was happily intoxicated. Matías listened in silent doubt. Did he really have the political animal in him? Someone so awkward, so outcast, so short, so fed up with Navidad society, could he really stand up and speak in front of a crowd? Inspire confidence and decide important matters? Negotiate with foreign countries? Build up a political machine? Matías knew very well where Ryuzoji was heading, though the more he understood, the less it seemed to have anything to do with him. On the other hand, he also appreciated Ryuzoji's generosity in bringing him here to study. And if becoming a politician was what it would take to repay him, well then he'd give it his best shot. Or so he vowed, until he tried to picture the island elders even pretending to listen to him. Matías the politician may have been Ryuzoji's dream, but to Matías himself it was more like a hallucination.

It was another four years before he actually returned to Navidad. He left the room above the warehouse, rented a room elsewhere (board included), and began to commute to work. Shinheiwa Kogyo engaged in a little export business by this stage, and Matías was out in that department. He also went to night school to improve his English, and learned to write standard form letters. Meanwhile, Ryuzoji took him places: to business negotiations, to quasi-political gatherings, to a whole range of functions. Everyone recognized Ryuzoji right away by his young briefcase-toting assistant, the short one with the dark skin, though few would ever have thought this was his protégé. To be honest, Matías understood very little of what went on. Who were these people? What was being discussed here? Ryuzoji generally just dragged him along with no explanation before or after. Whether exchanging tip-offs on where surplus goods were to be had, or brainstorming about raising funds for Representative So-and-so, or exploring ways and means to end a dispute, the sessions remained a mystery to him. What Matías ostensibly gained from sitting in on them was the realization that person-to-person connections made the world go round. Men like Ryuzoji had absolutely nothing to do with creating anything. From the word go, things existed as goods to be bought and sold—sugar, bananas, ships, yams, gasoline—goods in all shapes and sizes moving in one direction, money moving in the opposite direction. Anyone in the middle stood to make a profit, which of course he'd then have to share out properly or it would cause squabbles later on. It also struck young Matías that politics must work the same way: the broker who could arbitrate a peaceable accord between those in the middle of the road and those off to the side could shore up his own power base in the process. Something to remember.

One more thing, during this time Matías learned about women. Up until then, he'd lived quite uninvolved and unconcerned. He never played with girls when he was a boy in Navidad, never had time once he came to Japan and started working. Japanese schools had yet to go coeducational, and even after becoming a Shinheiwa employee he never went out drinking, knew nothing of gambling; he was a mama's boy without a mama. It took his new landlady to make a man out of him.

This frumpy, plain-at-best Tsuneko was a war widow. She looked close to forty, though her real age was just a little over thirty, and while she could expect no suitors, she seemed to enjoy her solitary freedom, supporting herself by partitioning her eight-tatami-mat living room to take in three young lodgers, for whom she provided breakfast only. Matías rented the makeshift two-and-a-half-mat “room” in the middle with flimsy plywood “walls.” Hurriedly married just before the end of the war, Tsuneko's husband was sent off to the front in the South Pacific soon afterwards and never returned. That was the end of the story, but she never complained. She hardly talked much anyway, not even to her three boarders. It just so happened that one of Tsuneko's distant relations worked for Shinheiwa, and he sent Matías along to her, guaranteeing him to be “of good character—for a foreigner.”

For all of a year, Matías was only a lodger, and Tsuneko would just serve him breakfast without comment. But then, her two Japanese lodgers moved out one after the other, and no new faces came to fill the vacancies. There was a virus going around at the time, and Matías stayed home sick with a fever. Tsuneko nursed him back to health, coming to his bedside with ice packs, even wiping his sweaty body. Matías had heard the other two lodgers call him “jungle boy” behind his back, so while he did sense a certain reserve on her part, he was pleasantly surprised at her kindness. And one evening when he'd almost fully recovered, Tsuneko came to him
in bed
. At first, Matías didn't know what was going on; the storm of sensations caught him totally by surprise.
So this is what everyone's always talking about
, he wondered vaguely through the haze of exhaustion.

“A cute guy like you must be popular with the girls,” she told him in the middle of the night, as they both lay there looking up at the ceiling. He was astonished. It had never even occurred to him that he might be considered “cute,” although come to think of it, people generally did treat him rather nicely for a “jungle boy.” Not that he had a whiff of sex appeal by conventional standards. Yet there was something about this short, foreign-born youth that made everyone only too glad to look after him. The intimacy with Tsuneko became a steady thing. He was both a toy-boy lover to her and a young innocent who needed mothering, a partner with whom to share daily conversations about the weather, snippets of good news, odd topics around town. She decided not to take in any other lodgers, and entitled him to evening meals as well. The sex was fun, but it wasn't everything. This homely woman took such pleasure in watching him eat that soon she was happily scrubbing his back at home instead of sending him out to the public bathhouse. Matías had to admit it was a good life. One reason he became forever fond of Japanese baths was surely that bathing at Tsuneko's house was such a treat.

On the job, Matías gained a working knowledge of trade; from Ryuzoji he learned more abstract lessons in political maneuvering; and Tsuneko's gift to him, the ease of knowing what it was to be loved. None of these things could have conceivably prefigured his later thirst for power, yet Ryuzoji's neo-nationalist thinking may have to some extent colored the future president's views, if not given him an edge on the all-important métier of managing personalities. This same Ryuzoji later went back to his hometown in Kyushu and was elected four times to the local prefectural assembly before serving three terms as a rank-and-file legislator in the Japanese National Diet.

Kazuma Ryuzoji had always been an exceptional individual and his own thinker—especially in his youth. This may not have counted for much in the war zone, where he kept his ideas to himself, but back in Japan he brought them to bear on the economic battlefield through the company he set up. Every friend, every acquaintance was a human resource to be developed. He tirelessly performed favors, smoothed ruffled feathers, and charted avenues of compromise between divergent camps without either side losing face. Matías, too, was a case in point, though the investment in someone so young was exceedingly long-term. Ryuzoji paid older associates their due respect and never resorted to intimidation; rather he dispensed influence, then when he was sure of his backing he moved in to collect—the classic Japanese politician's ploy. If Matías eventually proved a bigger fish than Ryuzoji, it was a credit to his mentor. Matías only wished his
sensei
could have seen him sworn in as second President of the Republic of Navidad.

Ironically, after lingering in Japan to see Ryuzoji's gradual ascent, the event that ultimately sent Matías packing was when Shinheiwa went bankrupt. As should have been obvious to anyone, a temporary pinch caught the company critically short of capital and a temporary pinch sent it under, though barely three months later Ryuzoji was back on his feet and had formed a new company. But whether Matías took it as a sign or an opportunity, he didn't let his good thing with Tsuneko hold him back. Eight years in Japan was just a little too long. Twenty-eight was the right age to be heading home to prepare for the next decade or two. And so it was that in August of 1951—the year Tsuneko and Matías heard over the radio at breakfast that General MacArthur had been relieved of his post as Proconsul of the Occupation Forces in Japan and Elvis Presley topped the charts with “Heartbreak Hotel”—Matías left Japan behind and returned to Navidad, now a protectorate of the United States of America.

At ten o'clock two mornings later, the President is sitting in a special VIP room at Navidad International Airport waiting for his airplane to be readied. Beside him is Executive Secretary Jim Jameson and a young official from the Home Office, together with the maid from Melchor who just two days ago received the name Améliana. Seen through the large window, the clear skies look made for flying.

Half an hour ago, when the President appeared at the entrance of the Presidential Villa with an unknown young woman in tow, the other two were taken aback. Who
was
this girl in the white blouse and long green skirt splashed with a yellow floral print? She didn't look like any public servant they'd ever seen.

“Think of her as my personal advisor,” said Matías by way of introduction. He apparently had no intention of further clarification, nor did the others dare to ask. They all climbed into the Nissan President, and fifteen minutes later, no one had spoken a word.

“It's all so sudden, so we can probably expect a brief wait,” the executive secretary finally informed him just before Heinrich deposited them at the airport. The President had only brought up the idea to go on a reconnaissance run to Brun Reef that very morning, and the government Islander prop plane was already booked for the day. It took some doing, but the prior reservation was canceled so the plane could be reassigned to the President. Now they're waiting on pre-flight maintenance.

The door from the lobby swings open, and in steps Katsumata. Two corpsmen stand guard by the entrance to the VIP room, but of course they do nothing to stop the chief of Island Security, who strides right up to the President. Only then does Katsumata notice Améliana, and he casts her a suspicious glance.

“What's up?” asks the President, intercepting the man's probing gaze.

“Nothing really, I just went by the Presidential Villa to present my routine report, and they told me you were heading out on a trip. I thought I might still catch you, so I came here.”

“Do you actually
have
anything to report?”

“No, nothing special. No bus, no leads. No new information on the flagpole incident either. The fact is, there's been no other incident since. No more handbills, everywhere's quiet.”

“And you still haven't solved one damn thing,” growls the President.

“We're trying. We just need a little more time,” he says, eyeing Améliana again. He wonders whether he should warn the President about letting unidentified persons get too close, but decides against it. Island Security's ID checks are nothing to boast about.

“No protection today?”

“Don't need any.”

“Are you sure? In times like these?”

“Idiot. Brun Reef's a hotbed of activity, is it? Move. Out of my sight.”

“Okay then, take care,” says Katsumata, leaving a stronger impression in reverse than he realizes.

The door to the tarmac now opens, and a gust of hot air blows in a man wearing a white pilot's short-sleeve shirt with epaulets. “All ready, sir. You all can board whenever you like.”

Everyone rises and files out onto the apron. The weather is perfect, if a tad windy. The President takes his customary copilot's seat. The two officials leave one row empty and sit in the third row to help balance the aircraft. Améliana sits behind them, alone in a seat on the right-hand side. The pilot immediately revs up the engines, ticks his checklist with a ballpoint pen while reading various meters and gauges, then calls the control tower for flight clearance.

“It's Brun today, wasn't it?” he shouts over the engine noise.

“Correct,” answers the President, also shouting.

“Didn't wanna be taking you to the wrong place,” jokes the pilot, handing the President a spare headset and gesturing for him to put it on. The instant Matías dons the gear, static-riven cross talk leaps into his ears. The control tower is telling them they have right of way ahead of the Continental flight to Guam. Well naturally, knowing the President's on board.

“Excellent weather conditions, so we should have a smooth ride,” the pilot assures him, switching from control tower to intercom. Always busy talking, this man.

“When we get there, could we circle a few times around the reef before we land?” asks the President into his microphone.

“Sure thing. She's your plane today, sir,” comes the reply. “Your word is my command.”

Clearance for takeoff has apparently been given, and the Islander cuts along the taxiway in front of the Continental Boeing 737 and onto the runway. Then, in the moments before becoming airborne, even the pilot falls silent to concentrate on the operations at hand. They start to climb, reach cruising altitude, and nose off in the direction of Brun Reef, at which point the commentary resumes. Okay, so he talks a lot, Matías still likes the guy. Part of the reason he sits up front in the copilot's seat is to watch him play with all the buttons and switches while chatting over the intercom; no one else in Navidad is as frank and open with the President. Originally a crop duster from America, he somehow drifted across the Pacific and up until two years ago was working for PMA, a small-time carrier that ferries missionaries from island to island. Then he was piloting Cessnas and Pipercubs for a private concern in Guam, when he got himself fired for causing a minor accident (that just happened to affect Matías's fate in a big way). At which point the Navidad government picked him up and gave him this cushy job as an offering to appease Providence on the part of Matías. And ever since, the President has flown once or twice a month in the man's Islander.