The Navidad Incident (44 page)

What's realistically possible for him at his age? Say he left here and went north, what would he do all winter long? Would he be happy? Itsuko might well refuse to go back to Japan. Angelina probably wouldn't want to return to the Philippines either. Should he even consider living all by himself out in the cold? Could he survive abroad nowadays? Whatever it was like when he was young, can this South Seas darky face grow old in that climate of constant low-key racism? Can he take it? No, the prospect of living in exile makes him shudder. Let the Elders curse: leaving the land of Yuuka Yuumai would not be a smart move for any native son this late in life.

The path descends a gentle slope through the woods into a coconut plantation. The wind rustles the fronds high overhead, their shadows flickering over the white sand. It makes him dizzy, but happy. The smell of the sea is refreshing.

He thinks about his benefactors. So many people have helped and sheltered him over the years. Probably the first was his aunt. Of her own free will, she dropped everything and came rushing to Baltasár City to rescue her orphaned bastard nephew sight unseen and bring him back to Melchor, begged to get him into a home already crowded with distant relatives' children, checked in on him from time to time, and generally tried to see that he was raised properly. He has only sketchy recollections of his aunt, but without her where would he be? Then there was Ryuzoji—or rather, Ryuzoji and Japan. Sure, he must have had an early gift for languages among other things, but in a society like Navidad where merit alone counts for nothing, the chances are his talents would have been passed over. No, he owes his success to having brought back modern ideas from Japan, no two ways about it. And in Japan, Tsuneko helped him with favors he can only regard as acts of unreasonable kindness. She accepted him for what he was—a bush boy from some tiny backwater where they probably didn't even bathe, who'd go back to his island never to be heard from again—accepted him and loved him all the same. Then, back in Navidad, it was María Guili: at first with her husband, by hiring the young returnee, then later when widowed, by accepting him as her protector and provider. From Matías's point of view, she was goodness personified, a mother hen. Never uttered a critical word, only encouragement whenever he ran up against island attitudes. Few know how much it was her efforts that made him the top businessman in the islands, though Angelina also taught him a thing or two. True, in the case of Angelina, it was he who provided her with a life-changing opportunity, which turned out well for both of them. His nights with her, talking and touching, the consolation they brought, can't be overestimated. And let's not forget the great Cornelius, who promoted a businessman into a politician, who handpicked him as his comrade-in-arms during the struggle for independence, then essentially gave him the country gift-wrapped …

Matías emerges from the coconut grove onto the shore, an expanse of white sand flecked with buff and pink. The beach is quite broad here, describing a clean arc, a scene he seems to recall but cannot place. His head is overflowing with thoughts about the past. It's time he sorted through his memories.

He may have been a despot, but he was never overconfident, never imagined he'd come this far under his own steam. The path to power was a long one, with many people pushing him along, especially at first. None of that he'd ever lose; it's all part of his grounding, his constant landscape. A politician's job is to see what's in the offing, but for that he needs a headland from which to scan the seas and warn his people of incoming ships. Not all will bring wealth, of course, not right away. That's why he stood his high ground and agreed to the Brun Reef plan, a token exchange for all the precious Japanese cargo he could see further over the horizon.

Stop making excuses
, he hears a voice saying.
You're just an old biddy brooding over her dead chickens, like Lee Bo was trying to say.
It's a strain just listening to himself. He plops down on the sand, the hot sun in his face. All this walking must have overheated his system. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. He's made too much of himself; he's not so special one way or another. If only he could defend his record before the Council of Elders, tell them that if he hadn't come along, somebody else would have. If it hadn't been close ties with Japan, then it would've been America or the Philippines or Taiwan. Someone who'd gone abroad in his youth would have played up those connections.

Or is he rationalizing again? Still, he's hardly a dictator, not by a long shot. He never killed anyone—well, aside from that one man—never detained or tortured ordinary citizens. He may have taken his share of kickbacks, but that's just standard business practice. He never drew on the national coffers for his own pocket money. Everything deposited in a Swiss bank account is legally his, and he planned to return it all anyway. He didn't cruise the streets in his limo looking for pretty girls to take back to the villa. He was first and foremost a citizen himself. If only Tamang hadn't been such a pompous ass. If only the fool had addressed himself to the real national concerns at hand instead of poking his nose into the ex-president's misdemeanors to boost his own popularity. If only that fifty million yen weren't jinxed and had been delivered safely. If only, if only, if only—a swirling spiral of self-justification.

There's no one else on the beach. It's so peaceful, so nice just to sit here and watch the waves roll in for hours on end. This far inside the coral reef, he can't even hear the roar of the surf. Look, hermit crab tracks on the sand. Clouds are lofting on the horizon, but overhead the azure blue is as clear as ever.

What to do? Should he retire here, withdraw into seclusion on this island? Not that he has much choice, now that no one will give him the time of day anymore. Would people leave him in peace, let him live in that house he owns here? Would they accept his money at the market in exchange for fish and vegetables and instant ramen? Would they let him take part in the next Yuuka Yuumai eight years from now? Of course he'll relinquish his chairmanship of the M. Guili Trading Company and parcel out his various duties there to the respective department heads. No matter what happens, he won't speak up. He'll publicly renounce all political aspirations. He'll lie low, for whatever the quiet life might be worth.

There
is
something familiar about this beach. Maybe he just doesn't recognize it by day. Come back on a moonlit night, he might see a place where he used to play as a boy. Or no, the memory seems too near, too clear, yet somehow the vantage point is wrong. He must have been looking from over there between those two tall trees.

Suddenly it hits him: he's at Sarisaran, the very last ceremonial site where the Yuuka formed a circle afterwards and changed clothes. That's where they were, over there. The air surges with absent figures.

Out of nowhere, a butterfly flits across his vision—a lilac butterfly. He hadn't seen it against the dazzling sea, but now his eyes follow it … and there's another. Seemingly blown about on the breeze, but actually winging their own way, still more of them appear. Before they can engulf him, Matías turns around and—

Sure enough, Améliana is standing there, looking straight at him, arms folded in front of her white dress. Of course they would have to meet up here in Sarisaran: the symmetry of it strikes them both at the same time.

Matías rises silently to his feet. Three paces away on higher ground, she is the taller of the two. Have they ever stood face-to-face like this before? At the office, he was always sitting. At Brun Reef, she had stood beside him.

He just looks at her. Is there anything he should say? Améliana must have something to tell him, but she doesn't speak. He can't read her even, unbeautiful features—neither attractive nor ugly, a mysterious face. Odd snatches of emotion all blur into one strange sensation. Here he is, alone with the person who brought him down, and he feels nothing like animosity. No, her presence here seems inevitable, as all she did was inevitable. She wasn't the will behind it. Any more than he willed himself to go abroad, or build his own company, or climb the ladder to the rank of president—and eventual disgrace. Nothing in this world is shaped by individual volition; everything molds to the contours of the terrain, the ley lines that run through us. Even his leadership followed the rise and fall of these islands. He sees it all: Navidad made Matías, Navidad now gathers up the pieces.

He nods slowly, takes one brief glance at the sea, then—just as he did on the last night of the Yuuka Yuumai—signals to Améliana, who silently starts walking several steps behind him. The sun is high in the sky, but Matías doesn't even feel the heat.

The house is cool inside. He'd have thought the place would get all hot and stuffy closed up like this, but no, the interior is much cooler than outside. For a second, he almost thinks it's air-conditioned, but this isn't an artificially manufactured chill. The shades are drawn against the sun, yet he feels a draft from somewhere.

Coming into the main room, he sees a patch of sunlight through a curtain, a cheap cotton print with big green leaves and yellow flowers. The color combination reminds him of something. As he stares at the softly billowing folds of light on the floorboards, he hears Améliana's footsteps entering behind him. Green and yellow—the colors of the bus, it's that nowhere-and-back-again bus.

He runs his hand over the top of the large desk in the corner of the room; there's not a trace of dust. The old caretaker must really be doing his job. He had too many other things on his mind last time to notice, but this time he's impressed. If he remembers correctly, there was a typewriter in the big bottom drawer. As he bends down to look, he senses that Améliana is taking a seat on the sofa diagonally opposite. Her movements are fluid, without hesitation.

Matías tries not to think about that last time he was here together with her, the bed that must still be in the back room. No, mustn't dwell on what he did then, on what it might mean. Too late the realization that not all acts are born of due consideration; some things simply cannot be contained. Whatever the eventual outcome, at least she herself doesn't seem concerned. Just like the time before, she's followed him in and now sits waiting on the sofa in this yellow-green room. Let her wait.

He opens the drawer to find the ancient Smith-Corona that he bought to write business letters in the back room at Guili's store. It brings back memories of his startup days. He carefully lifts the heavy old machine and places it on the desktop, then finds some letterhead stationery in an upper drawer and puts it in the platen.

Immediately he feels the urge to type and sits down at the desk. For the moment, he forgets all about Améliana's presence as clear, well-ordered directives claim his thoughts. Sentences come into his head fully formed and unhindered by entangling sentiment. His fingers pound at the rusted keys. The
H
and
C
keys stick, the
M
lands halfway above the line while the
K
and
P
dip below, the letter
L
invariably strikes at a slant, but somehow it still works. Can't type too fast or the lever arms jam; hunt-and-peck speed is just about the limit. The old baby is dusty as all hell. Should have told the caretaker to keep this clean too—but no, he mustn't go off on a tangent, he has to concentrate. Got to keep up his rhythm. What he's writing is important. Keep it simple and to the point. No overblown phrases. People distrust exaggerated expressions even before they get what's being said.

An hour of typing and he's done. Améliana has sat there and said nothing throughout. He reads over what he's written. Fine, everything's in order. He pulls several envelopes out of the drawer, addresses them, then folds and stuffs the appropriate letter in each. That was simple.

Matías gets up and walks over to Améliana, admiring her relaxed, half-reclining pose. But no, she also rises. She's much taller than Matías even here. More than outside, the white dress sets off her dark skin, her emotionless face as she waits for him to speak.

“I'm leaving these with you. Please see that they get to the right people. Doesn't have to be today or tomorrow, by boat will be time enough.”

Améliana nods and takes the envelopes. Their hands touch.

“Just don't you and your brothers paddle them over by canoe,” he says, trying to make a joke, but she just shakes her head and doesn't smile.

“Well, then, I'll be going. You be well.”

He turns to go, before he can say anything more stupid. She sees him out as far as the door. She just stands there, her hands folded over her belly. He walks a few steps, then turns to take one last look. Her hands are exactly at eye level. His gaze rests on the white cotton fabric and the waistline beneath, then he glances up to see her grin. A pleased, proud, confident grin.