The Navidad Incident

by Natsuki Ikezawa

  Fifteen minutes later, after the Navidad bureaucrats have duly impressed the foreign guests with the officious propriety of the local system, the forty-seven veterans are shown to a plaza outside and there herded into rows. Facing them are two flagpoles attended by two tanned youths—police cadets?—in green guayaberas and black shorts, and a simple podium. To the immediate left and right, yellow-uniformed children of the Fife and Drum Corps stand poised with their instruments. Another twenty green-and-black youths fall into formation on the far left flank, balanced on the far right by a dozen government types. Front and center among these is a man of remarkably short stature, matched only by his girth.

  Almost as soon as the forty-seven veterans are in position, out steps one very dark Navidad official. Dressed in light green, he ambles over to the Japanese delegation and, after brief deliberations, persuades Mr. Ministry of Welfare to go stand at a microphone on the lawn. He himself then mounts the podium, squints up at the sky while everyone gets quiet, and launches forth. He’s good at this sort of thing.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to the Republic of Navidad. We extend our heartfelt greetings to you all. I am Jim Jameson, executive secretary to the President.”

  He pauses and casts a glance over at Mr. Ministry of Welfare for a translation. The old men all plant their eyes on their compatriot chaperon; obviously no one understands a word of English. The liaison officer renders the executive secretary’s self-introduction into Japanese, though his expression reads, Couldn’t they provide their own interpreter?

  “Putting all past misfortunes behind us and seeking to lay new foundations of trust, we are pleased to open every part of our country to your veterans delegation.”

  Another pause for translation. A total waste of time. Compared to this Navidadian’s English, the Ministry envoy’s rhetorical skills are far more bureaucratically polished. He could dash off a more proficient speech in Japanese without even listening.

  “And now, to proceed with our official welcome: the raising of the flags and our national anthems.”

  At that the secretary bows out, whereupon a largish boy from the Fife and Drum Corps trots up onto the podium and retrieves a conductor’s baton. The green-and-black youth by the right-hand flagpole proceeds to unfold a flag, clip it to the rope, and slowly hoist it as the fife-and-drummers play an odd melody with no discernible chorus. Slowly, slowly, the flag ascends, filling out in the breeze to reveal blue-green and blue stripes with a coconut palm silhouetted in white on the middle green band. Even more slowly, it reaches the top of the pole in unison with the end of the national anthem. All forty-seven veterans take off their hats and stand at attention, respectfully observing the moment.

  Another anthem begins, and the other cadet brings out another flag. Plain red on white, instantly recognizable before it’s even unfolded. The cadet hauls it up, all eyes ascending with it. Reluctantly, the forty-seven Japanese begin to register that, just maybe, this bouncy tune they’re playing could be their own national anthem … the very same Kimi ga Yo, “Hymn to the Imperial Reign,” they sang each day on these very islands during the occupation, sang each time they saw off comrades-in-arms, and still sing unexpurgated in Japan today, even after losing the war. Reassured by the now-familiar passages, they begin to feel even a measure of admiration for the boys and girls who are mangling the melody so masterfully. If not for the serenely ascending Rising Sun, it might as well have been a Polynesian pop song.

  The flag is up. In the haze of silent expectation as everyone gazes up at the sky, the portly man from the government welcoming committee strolls out to the podium in an ever-so-leisurely way on his short legs. Only now do the forty-seven vets begin to feel the strain of the fierce southern sun. Removing their hats was a big mistake.

  “Greetings to all of you from Japan. I am the president of this country, Matías Guili.”

  Matías says this in Japanese. His delivery is smooth, too impossibly fluent to have been learned as a second language. The effect, as calculated, is tremendous. A murmur ripples through the visiting delegation.

  “In order to put behind us those days of misfortune, and more, in order to lay new foundations for both our countries in the years to come, all that is past must be put peacefully to rest, and rightfully so. By no means inconsequential are the many strengths both sides bring to this task, a major country in its major capacity, and a smaller country in its smaller capacity. Thus, I feel this visit to be an important first step. I have many more things to say to you all, but rather than go on here in the hot sun, I would like to suggest that we adjourn until dinner, when there will be opportunity to speak at greater length.”

  Matías concludes his short speech and steps down. The forty-seven veterans are visibly relieved. The sun is hot. All the tourists who glared at these old coots as they were waived past Immigration have since been whisked away on buses, no doubt to some place where iced drinks await. Now these old boys are the ones left behind.

  “Next, in reciprocal salutation, former Infantry Captain Ueshima,” blurts out the Ministry liaison officer, unprompted. Unable to keep silent in this heat, he’s jumped the gun.

  Out steps a veteran from the far right end of the front row. Admirably disciplined, the old soldier marches stiffly to the podium, bows deeply to one flag and the other, bows to the President now back in his place, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an alarmingly thick sheaf of folded washi paper.

  “Ahem, as per that gracious introduction, may I present myself: Kinzo Ueshima, former infantry captain. While hardly the most fit, inasmuch as I am the eldest in our delegation, as well as having held the highest rank, I will hereby offer brief greetings in reply to His Excellency the President.”

  He unrolls the paper one fold at a time, like a hand scroll. As everyone dreaded, the speech to come is interminable. And even worse, he’s had no new thoughts since 1944.

  “Starting in 1918, the end of World War I, when these islands, now independent in the eyes of the world, first came into the care of the Empire and in due course were made a protectorate by the League of Nations, a great many imperial officials and Japanese citizens came to reside here, though subsequently when the Empire rose up valiantly in lone resistance to Western pressures upon the lands and seas of East Asia, shedding much blood and tears in the Pacific War, it was the sad fate of our comrades to leave their bones buried in these sands, their bare corpses strewn in the fields, in remembrance of whom we have now journeyed to these tropics to comfort their spirits in the hope of righting those misfortunes …” On and on he goes for half an hour, and there’s still a big wad of paper to go.

  Now and again he swallows his words, choked with emotion or perhaps straining to make out what’s written. The handwriting is so minute he practically nuzzles the page with his geriatric reading glasses, triumphantly raising his voice each time he deciphers a word.

  The veterans’ reactions divide sharply: some hang on to Captain Ueshima’s every word with tears in their eyes; others gaze into space, anxious to get out of the heat. From where Matías stands, the ratio looks about one to four, though he can’t quite make out a few at the back.

  After a few minutes, someone at the rear does in fact keel over, falling between the rows of red-striped hats clutched at waist level. An accident that was waiting to happen. Matías eyes Jim Jameson, easily more adept at handling situations like this than Katsumata, and the executive secretary sneaks off to the airport terminal to summon two bored Island Security guards. They bring a stretcher and carry the casualty inside, reviving him with slaps and wet towels and ammonia and brandy. But no sooner does this all-purpose remedy have him back on his feet than the next victim has to be hauled in.

  Captain Ueshima’s speech shows no sign of abating—a long history deserves a long speech—though a sense of crisis is encroaching. Just this side of panic, one old soldier in the captive audience looks up to see—what
is that apparition in the sky? Eyes swimming with heat, he tugs at his neighbor’s arm and points. His comrade lets out a loud gasp that spreads through their ranks and across to the Navidad officials.

  There atop the pole, the Japanese flag is on fire. Ghostly pale against the bright sun, flames lick into the white ground and crimson ball peeking from the folds, a beautifully burning vision. Well, the Rising Sun is supposed to be blazing red, isn’t it?

  Eventually, Captain Ueshima realizes no one’s listening. He looks up and gulps down his speech just as the rope burns through and the last scorched remnants sail slowly, gracefully to the ground. The endless speech suddenly comes to an untimely end.

  An hour later, President Matías Guili is back in his office. The burning flag is still in his thoughts, of course, but he’s given Katsumata instructions, so he might as well put it out of mind. He’s got the whole night and early morning hours ahead to ponder what it might mean. The executive secretary shows in a guest, another Japanese from the same flight as the veterans, though he reached the hotel well ahead of them. He didn’t see the burning flag. Instead, he found a message to come here while the veterans have some free time to stroll around town—although, considering their average age, they might all be in bed recuperating from the heat. They have that luxury; the President has no rest.

  The man stands in the doorway and bows to the prescribed angle. He’s in his fifties, tall and slim, sharp features, dark for a Japanese. A burnt tree of a figure, thinks Matías. Now where did that image come from? Leaves and branches seared away leaving only a charred trunk. Did he see it as a child on his mother’s island? Or somewhere in Japan?

  Matías stands and greets the man. Then, cueing his secretary to leave, he indicates a chair. The man presents his name card and takes a seat.

  “Kanroku Suzuki, wasn’t it?” says Matías in Japanese before even looking at the card.

  “Yes. Most honored. I’ve long awaited the opportunity to meet Your Excellency.”

  “Never mind that. Like I always tell people, I’m not here forever, so let’s get to the point.”

  Hard words to cut a hard image. Not that he believes for a minute his time is so short; he just uses the line to preempt idle chatter. In a developed country he could keep his thumb on the media, but here any two people can talk up no end of rumors. And those rumors spread quickly. A real pain.

  “Very well, as you say, let’s get down to business.” Suzuki opens his attaché case and pulls out a stack of papers. “The project is shaping up nicely. Which is why, rather than write or telephone, I felt I should come and explain things personally.”

  Polite he is, thinks Matías, politely pushy. No getting a word in edgewise.

  Suzuki talks fast. “I believe you will have had the opportunity to look over the proposal I sent, along with the cover letter from Jitsuzo Kurokawa. However, allow me to review the main points, just to refresh your memory.”

  Never did care much for long-winded formal Japanese, Matías reflects. Too many empty words. As if the man can’t talk straight and respectful at the same time, whatever his ilk. Not a government functionary. Name card makes him out to be director of some globalspeak consulting firm, but that’s a red herring. They make up paper companies left and right in Japan. Can’t trust corporations. An individual lives only so long, but corporations? They’re reborn or gobbled up by other corporations. Can’t trust a director’s title.

  Does this Suzuki have the face of a corporate man? More likely a free agent flitting between politicians and finance and bureaucracy. What drives a man like this? What makes him tick? Money? Personal glory? Craving for power? The thrill of toying with the machinery of nations? Confidence that someone behind the scenes wields more power than the officials out front? Almost makes him wonder what drives a president like himself—but no, he’ll push that to the back of his mind. More late-night material.

  Obviously Kurokawa’s taking his cut on the deal along with everyone else. So will any money swim all the way here? A small country like this, it’s hard to balance what benefits the people with what profits oneself. Still, why all the pseudo-officialese?

  “…which is to say, the crux of the plan is the petroleum stockpiling facility to be built at Brun Reef by the Japanese government. Construction will of course be funded entirely from the Japanese side, with maritime area leasing to be paid in perpetuity—as long as the facility stays—into your state coffers. Still, the enterprise will require creating a quasi-governmental corporation for negotiations and project implementation …”

  What’s this man saying? What kind of talk is this? Matías knows only too well: the kind of talk that moves money and people, the most spellbinding language in the world.

  “Specifically,” Suzuki is voicing almost to himself, “the facility is to be constructed using the simplest and safest methods. Only the smallest portion of the reef will be dredged, just big enough to moor ten refurbished tankers, each with a three-hundred-thousand kiloliter capacity to be filled by other tankers. Alternatively, all ten might arrive already full. I don’t have the final word on this. Either way, the tankers will remain at anchor, with no off-loading to other ships.”

  “What’s the good of that?” Matías interjects for the first time.

  “Guaranteed security. After the oil shocks of the seventies, the Japanese government understood that as a singularly vulnerable consumer nation we should lay in emergency stores against fluctuations in oil supplies. For decades, we’ve built stockpiling facilities at various locations throughout Japan, bringing our reserves to a 180-day supply. Half a year’s worth of oil. The proposed facility would form one small part of those stores.”

  “So why build here?” asks Matías.

  “Decentralization. Not putting all our eggs in one basket, so to speak. Less to go wrong in any one place. I know what you must be thinking—why so far away? Well, of course, there’s the safety quotient of distance. But also, Navidad is situated just off the shipping lanes between the Middle East and Japan.”

  “Sounds like weapons,” mutters the President unintentionally. Nothing you ordinarily need, but handy to have just in case. Just like nuclear weapons.

  “To be perfectly frank, Your Excellency is absolutely correct. In peacetime, petroleum is a resource, pure and simple. But should international tensions arise, it suddenly becomes a weapon. Though unlike conventional weapons, it has no offensive attack value. Still, those on the supply side can cripple their enemies just by turning off the tap, making it a ‘negative factor’ weapon. By planting sufficient caches here and there, we guard against such eventualities.”

  Suzuki pauses here in anticipation of some comment, but the President says nothing.

  “Not only is Navidad in a prime location for Japan, with negligible population to be affected by the construction, but the capital investment would key into this country’s economic development, its maintenance and management generating a steady rate of employment.”

  “Using old ships, isn’t there a danger of oil spills?”

  “Every precaution will be taken.”

  “And if they still leak? Everyone’s so vocal these days. Five fish belly up, the whole country goes crazy. And not just here, half the world will be up in arms, pointing fingers at us.”

  “We stand ready with oil fences and other technologies, and in the improbable event of any mishap, financial compensation. It is a Japanese undertaking after all.”

  “And the remuneration for the maritime leasing?”

  “An extremely delicate question.” (At last we get to the heart of the matter, thinks Matías.) “We may propose various bases of calculation. One way might be in terms of land value, but how exactly to establish equivalents? Whereas compensation for the fishing there, however important to the lives of the local populace, amounts to practically nothing monetarily. Various options deserve consideratio
n before we settle on a plan.”

  Wouldn’t bet on it, thinks Matías. This man hasn’t come here without a specific sum in mind. “What if we look at it from the viewpoint of how much this will help Japan?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, what if we regard your petroleum as a kind of insurance, then hash out premiums. Say we value the peace of mind from having three hundred thousand kiloliters stockpiled here at one percent of its market value—purely hypothetical numbers. That should be simple enough to figure out.”

  “At twenty-five dollars per barrel …” Suzuki wriggles his fingers, telling the beads of an imaginary abacus. “That makes 4.7 million dollars a year, or a little over five billion yen. Quite a tidy sum.”

  “My one percent was purely hypothetical. Insurance premiums are highly arbitrary. In any case, there’s plenty of room for negotiation.” Matías bides his time, just to impress upon his visitor that he’s the one running this discussion. “The main issue is much more basic.”

  “And what issue might that be?”

  “Namely, why should my country let you line up your ugly tankers on our beautiful coral reef and run the risk of an oil spill just to ensure the security of Japan? Did you think I’d jump at the mere mention of money?”