“Possibly. But haven’t I shown interest in new faces there before?”
“ ’Tis diff’rent this time. Heretofore was common lechery, pursued with Angelina’s grace and knowledge. Better she indulge your appetites wi’ plain consent than leave ye to nibble in secret. Full confidence has she in your mutual affections.”
“I didn’t look at the girl that way, not this time. For one thing, she’s there as a maid.”
“Nay, you didn’t view her with a carnal eye. But mark my words, that wench will furrow deep in your life.”
“Come on, I just heard she was from Melchor and looked her over. I used to see faces like that as a kid, but that’s all.”
“Aye, the countenance of a clan given to spiritual insights.”
“So whose side is she on?”
“Neither friend nor foe. Naught in this world is fix’d from the very outset. Tho ’twould be wise to pay court to her. Methinks your courses are bound to cross and mark a turning point.”
“Now that you mention it, Angelina did say the girl was maybe psychic. But only about little things.”
“Clairvoyance has no great or small. ’Tis the doer makes bold or weak. Nor shall the clairvoyant necessarily profess all she knows. Any more than all vessels disclose true position …” And with that, the spirit vanishes.
03
Once again people have gathered on the benches out in front of the Cooperative Market. They’ve come to town to load up on fish and mangrove crabs, sweet thumb-sized baby bananas, fiery red chilis, green salad papayas, arm-long beans, imported rice and other provisions. Then they cross over to the supermarket for canned goods, wire, fishing lures, and lollipops for the kids. Finally they hunker down to lay in a supply of rumors and add their share to the cumulative intelligence of the island. Compared to cash and produce, the currency of word-of-mouth makes for infinitely more convoluted transactions—faster too.
“ ’Dja hear about the bus?” a fifteen-year-old asks a sixteen-year-old, both come from the village of Mill to buy a basketball for the gang. They hitched a ride in with some grown-ups and are now waiting for the promised return ride. The boys have been sitting here for four hours, though with their purchase rolly-polly on their knees that doesn’t seem such a very long time.
“It went missing, yeah?” says the other, looking not especially interested. He’s upset. First of all, he’s thirsty. Secondly, they don’t have any money left to buy another Pepsi. Third, it irks him that a kid one whole year younger is pestering him. And fourth, they’re still a long way from their village, where he knows he can get something to drink. Of course, there is a water tap at the rear of the market, but he doesn’t know that. “Sure, I heard. With a shitload of old fogeys from Japan on board, right?”
“Right. Well, Island Security’s been looking and it’s like nowhere. Zilch. Where d’ya think they’d hide a whole bus?”
“Who?”
“How should I know? That’s the mystery.”
“But hide a bus?”
“Well, then where is it? It couldn’t just disappear.”
“What if it got loaded onto a ship by mistake? Or mixed up with some other buses?”
“No, they hid it all right. Somebody did. Dug a hole and buried it.”
“C’mon now, a bus? It’s not like you’re burying a coupla coconuts.” He leans forward emphatically, challenging the offbeat line of argument.
“But what if you used a bulldozer? You could dig a big hole …”
“And what you gonna do with the dirt you dig up?”
“Don’t be a dumbo. A bus is hollow, right? It’s just a shell. You fill it up with dirt easy. First you dig a hole in the road and pile the dirt to one side. Then you put the bus in and fill it up with your extra dirt. Then you tramp it down nice and level, and nobody’s gonna suspect nothing. Gotta do it at night, though.”
“They buried the bus?”
“Well, maybe they trapped it in a pit. Covered over the hole, so the bus comes along and—wham!”
“And what about all the people riding?” It seems he’s forgotten his thirst.
“People got legs. They go off somewhere on their own. Probably just eating or sleeping someplace. But anyway, the bus is buried underground. Might even be right here, hey?”
The fifteen-year-old stares at the ground in front of them. He can almost see the buried bus take shape beneath the burned red soil. There are lots of things under the surface. The subterranean world is far more mutable than anything here above.
A few meters down the long bench, two men lower their voices. One is a fisherman come by early morning boat from Tabagui village on the far side of Baltasár Island, the other a young baker he bumped into on the plaza. Distant relations it turns out, from five generations back. Navidadians set great store by family ties, and once a bloodline connects them, secrets can be spoken. First they chat about this and that cousin, but soon the talk turns to the bus.
“Hear the thing about the bus?” the baker asks the fisherman.
“I did, I did. This morning, in the market. But c’mon, who the heck’d wanna steal a bus?”
“What are you, simple? Nobody stole no bus. It was the Japanese inside they was after.”
“There was Japanese on board?”
“Don’t you know nothing? Forty-seven members of an old soldier tour from Japan gone missing. Them and two Navidadians. Makes three days since they disappeared.”
“Maybe they all went out swimming or something. Underwater, with those, whatcha call ’em tanks on their backs. Tourists from Japan like that kinda stuff. Big problem’s when they catch too much, though.”
“Old folks gone deep sea diving? And sheez, who stays submerged for three days?”
“Guess you got me there. But y’know, this one diver from Japan, he told me old buses make darn good fishery reefs. That’s what they do up in Japan. Sink ’em the right depth, and lots of fish come live in the wrecks.”
“Well, fish breed in sunken ships after all. Good fun going diving to look at ’em.”
“You dive?”
“Just once. I was showing around this oven company rep from Manila. It was pretty nice, I’m telling you. So many fish swimming around in that old Japanese Navy hulk.”
“See? So a bus’d be just as good.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about here. Nobody said hoot about sinking no bus.”
“Okay, then, what’s the story?”
“Dunno. But y’know,” the baker leans over, close to the ear of his distant relation, “from what I hear, seems Island Security’s mixed up in this somehow.”
“Island Security stole the bus? They wanna go for a ride somewhere?”
“If you’d just listen, nobody said Island Security stole no bus. What they wanted was the Japanese inside, so what they done is hide the bus, passengers and all.”
“What for?”
“That still ain’t clear. The whole tour was old folks, maybe VIPs.” He probably imagines Japan to be like their traditional island society, where old people are still held in high regard. “With them nabbed, we get some lev’rage on the Japanese government. That’s why Island Security’s got ’em hid away somewhere.”
“You got it all figured out, doncha.”
The fisherman nods with deep admiration, thinking how he’s going to spread the word when he gets home to his village. His fish didn’t fetch as high a price as expected, but the day trip to the capital was worth it for this catch of news alone.
Still another ten meters further along, two old men stand chatting. Both well over sixty, regulars on the plaza, they meet here practically every day to toss pearls of insight into younger conversations. But today the familiar faces have yet to arrive. And those two kids aren’t about to lend an ear, nor is that baker party to local h
earsay, so that leaves the two of them to talk to each other. Little do they know they’re onto the same topic as everyone else.
“Japan’s behind this, mark my words.”
“You figure? I thought as much.”
“Japanese Navy, the way I see it. I detect their hand.”
“Hold on there. Japan ain’t got a navy anymore. Only a Self-Defense Force.”
“Same thing. In any case, Japan’s saying their boys died here in the war, so they send over a bunch of their buddies from back then to pray for their spirits. But that’s just a cover for their navy to sneak in and whisk ’em away.”
“What for?”
“To put the squeeze on us, that’s what. They’re gonna try to push something on this country of ours. Gonna build a navy base or make us a Japanese territory. Same ol’ story all over again. Okay, China’s come up this time around, so they can’t slice that pie, but Navidad’s small fry. They send us a bunch of their old boys, then secretly escort ’em back home to Japan and demand we hand ’em over. Which we can’t, so we owe them. That’s their game.”
“Guess that makes sense. But how’d they steal a bus?”
“Simple enough. Remember, back when the Americans landed here, they used those strange-looking boats? Personnel carrier whatsits. They land one of them thingies up at Pearl Beach or somewhere and load the whole bus on board. Then they just head out past the reef to the mothership waiting out at sea. From there, they make a beeline back to Japan. Probably already in Yokosuka or Sasebo by now.”
“But the driver, he’s from here. And I hear tell there was a coupla young fellas from the Foreign Office.” So far their information is halfway accurate, thanks to their daily sorties to the plaza.
“Them Japs were probably packing pistols, the lot of them. All they had to do was stick a gun to the driver and them Foreign Officers, hijack the bus to Pearl Beach, smuggle ’em on board that personnel thingy, and off they go. Simple as that.”
“But why Pearl Beach?”
“No other patch of shoreline you can get a bus out to. Everybody’s watching the airport, but there, just hide it in the palm groves till dusk, ain’t nobody gonna see you.”
“No, that don’t quite jibe. I’ll grant you Pearl Beach is the perfect place for that kinda thing and the Americans did land from there, but that’s east of Baltasár.” Meaning Baltasár Island across the lagoon from Gaspar, not Baltasár City the capital.
“So?”
“So how’d they get across? Your putt-putt boat between Sonn and Mill can’t carry no bus, and the ferry’s still being repaired. On account of which is why my son’s car is stranded over in Colonia. Just happened to drive over there when the ferry grounded.”
“Well ain’t that a shame. And a bus can’t cross by itself, now can it?”
“Nope, and even if it could drive across water, well, everybody’d see it. Anyway, the bus went missing on Gaspar. Shouldn’t have gone all the way over to Baltasár.”
“You think? Well, maybe not.” Our naval theoretician acquiesces.
“No need to explain no disappearing bus,” the other old man proclaims slowly, looking deeply philosophical. “Buses do go missing from time to time. And then they reappear.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, think about it. The world’s full of these stories. Buses disappear, then pop up again. No rhyme or reason, that’s just buses. Any smart modern country’s gonna keep a few spare buses on hand. No point goosing ourselves out of shape over this, we just gotta wait is all.”
“I’m with you there. You don’t see me worrying.”
“For a fact, same thing’s happened in these islands before. Only it wasn’t no bus, it was a troop of infantrymen led by an officer on a horse.”
“A horse, you say?” His face brightens. “Was this back in the Japan era? Funny, never heard anything of the kind up to now.”
“Nah, before that.”
“German era?”
“Bingo, the Ponape Incident. The German administration wanted to plant coco palms, so they divvied up the old land system claims among the commoners and paid the elders compensation. Which tickled their fancy. Only now them Germans pressed the Ponape people into road construction, beat ’em with whips—or so they say. Got ’em fighting mad, killed the governor and technicians. Three months later, German troops arrive from New Guinea, the islanders are put down, fifteen rebels put to the firing squad.”
“Mighty well schooled, say that for you.”
“I used to be a teacher. Taught history.”
“You don’t say. So then?”
“So right after executing those fifteen, in order to keep the rebellion from spreading to other islands, German troops came here to this island too. Even brought over a horse. The detail did a once-round the island, realized there wasn’t any rebellious folk hereabouts, but still they decided to pitch camp for a while near Diego.”
“Brought over a horse, did they?” For some reason that impresses him. “And then?”
“And then, with no sign of rebellion, they pretty much take things easy. But then one day, two weeks after they get here, the whole platoon goes out on recon and don’t come back.”
“And the horse?”
“The horse too. Only two soldiers stay back at camp, and they raise a real squawk. They comb everywhere, top to bottom, but nothing turns up.”
“The horse too, eh? Bet they were in deep trouble.”
“Trouble for sure. No way to get reinforcements, wasn’t even a ship in port. At least no ship they could commandeer back to New Guinea. Eventually a packet boat did come, but not for another three months. Meanwhile, the two soldiers had the whole island on alert.”
“And not a trace? Not even horse shit?”
“Well, uh, no,” he says, skirting the other’s obsession with horses, “but from time to time there were sightings. They were marching up the road, they were sleeping in the forest, they were out swimming … One report even had the commanding officer leading a charge in the middle of the night. But the two soldiers were sure there’d been foul play and feared for their lives.”
“Can’t say as I blame them. Right after a revolt and all.”
“Exactly. Even us Navidadians had to think something was up. Well, things were getting mighty tense, when just then the missing troops came back.”
“The horse too?”
“What’s with you and this horse?”
“I just like horses. The Japanese forces brought horses, right? Well, I was a groom. Handsome animals, they are, horses.”
“I’m sure. But like I was saying, the whole platoon and horse came back unharmed.”
“That’s wonderful. The horse with ’em too.”
“Er, yes, but, funny thing was, when the two men asked the others where’d they’d been so long, nobody could give a clear answer. Don’t rightly know, is all they’d say. They all looked healthy enough, like they had a pleasant time and all. But as to what exactly they did and where, they didn’t remember. The commanding officer made no report, ordered his men to keep their mouths shut about the whole business. In actual fact, no one had any complaints. No hardships, didn’t go hungry, nothing like that. So it must’ve been nice, wherever.”
“Fancy that, not knowing where they been. Bet that horse knew. Smart animals they are.”
“No doubt, but you can’t get a horse to talk.”
“True, true. Can’t get a horse to talk.”
“So that was that, the whole incident escaped the German high command. My grandpa told me the story as a boy.”
“News to me. Never knew there was horses on the islands before the Japs brought ’em here.”
BUS REPORT 2
At 6:00 AM, lowest ebb tide, a bus was sighted crossing the lagoon between Gaspar and Baltasár is
lands, sending ripples across the surface. The yellow and green vehicle careened this way and that, racing gaily over the crystal blue shallows. The first rays of the morning sun over the low central hills of Baltasár glinted off the windows as the bus took to the water out past the airport bearing northeast, skimmed the tip of Tsutomu Point, then disappeared in the direction of Colonia.
Four o’clock in the afternoon, the Presidential Villa. All morning it’s been cabinet meetings, consultations with officials, receiving well-wishers, and other face-to-face business that dragged on into the afternoon. Now at last Matías finds himself alone in his office, mulling over various papers. Negotiations with Suzuki have been on hold these last three days. He’s had plenty on his hands trying to answer for the disappearance of the Japanese tour group. As president, he personally took charge of search operations while everything was in an uproar. But eventually, with still no clues, people tired of searching and things settled down. Matías reported nothing to the Japanese Ministry of Health and Welfare; there was no explaining an incident like this. Behind this lapse lurked the wishful thinking that the bus would simply show up sooner or later.
His hand signs this document and that, but his mind is elsewhere. If early morning is his time for abstract thought and formulating strategy, then late afternoons are for tackling specific problems. Right now, however, he doesn’t quite know what to make of the subtle waves he senses around him, a premonition that change is in the offing. He doesn’t want to believe in anything called fate, but experience tells him there are times when everything proceeds smoothly, and then there are times when everything bristles with resistance like banners brandished in defiance across a vast plain. Generally there are no alliances between the banner bearers, and it only happens once every few years.
This might just be one of those times, he thinks. Time to be on guard, that much is certain. But against whom? First of all, there’s Suzuki. He’s got the upper hand for now, but Matías can easily turn the tables in their negotiations, take the offensive instead of just hearing him out. He can make demands, push discussions in more favorable directions. He can press for concessions to benefit the country and himself as well. It will be fun to see how far he can go. Suzuki is a manageable adversary. Matías also knows the moves for dealing with all the politicos hovering in the background in Japan. They pose no problem.
The Navidad Incident Page 9
