Then the stupid heroics were cut short by his death. And in the ensuing turmoil when something had to be done and fast, when national opinion was unanimous that former President Matías Guili must resume office, when the enticements and timing dovetailed so perfectly to win him over, Matías came forward. And this time, without hesitation, he disbanded the legislature. Extreme circumstances called for emergency measures, so for the interim the President decided to rein in all powers save for the judicial authority of the court (with one proviso, to overturn that as well if necessary). The United States took exception—“Somewhat less than democratic,” regretted the cordial diplomatic letter—but he gave them desultory assurances that it was a temporary recourse until stability was restored and the legislature could fulfill its proper duties. Predictably, Japan made no comment. Matías’s deep, dark channels to Japanese politicos guaranteed benign acceptance. And so a year passed. The legislature stayed out to pasture with no plans for reconvening, and meanwhile the Executive Office assumed the functions of all seven ministries to effectively run the country. The President decided everything, aided by a handful of the more able staff directly under him.
Call him dictatorial, call him authoritarian, the nation needed a strong man on top just to stay on course. But now, as the President eyeballs the papers spread out before him—Suzuki’s outlined proposal, the letter from the “Friend of the Islands,” his own notes on administrative issues—that course is about to change in a big way. A Japanese oil depot at Brun Reef is no mere question of maritime leasing affecting only the outer islands; it will tie his little country to Japan for decades to come. Matías has always focused on strengthening Navidad’s Japan connections, but this takes things to a whole new level. Colonization by force would be one thing, but to voluntarily enter into another country’s dominion like a good little slave? He can just hear the outcry. If anything goes wrong from this moment forward it will all be blamed on this decision, one made without even the semblance of a vote. He’ll be sealing his own fate; he might as well declare himself an out-and-out dictator. Is he ready to take such a big step?
Even more problematic, what if that “Friend of the Islands” is correct in his information? A secret Japanese military base? People will be more than just outraged when they find out after it’s already built. Why is Japan acting so covertly? Couldn’t they come clean with their old buddy Guili? Isn’t there enough fish to go around? Whose idea was it, at what stage, to sweep this under the tatami? How much of this does Kurokawa know? If he doesn’t lay claim to it, then other elements must be operating under cover of his political apparatus. So here’s the real problem for Matías: should he tell Suzuki he knows about the Marine Self-Defense Force base? If Kurokawa’s not in on it, then Suzuki won’t know either. Or else Suzuki will know that Kurokawa doesn’t know. Or maybe our “Friend of the Islands” is simply playing games to undermine the whole petroleum stockpiling scheme. All sorts of different possibilities suggest themselves.
If the part about the Self-Defense Force is true, then taking the long view, it doesn’t really change the name of the game, it just raises the stakes. No, let’s just consider the oil question for now. Here he is, Matías Guili, a man who’s devoted his entire career as president to improving economic relations with Japan. No, even before that, when the islands were an American protectorate and they were gearing up for independence, Cornelius could see America’s postwar influence giving way to Japan. Cornelius was so farsighted, thinks Matías. Does he himself have as much foresight? In his position, would Cornelius make the same decision?
And how about Tamang? Tamang was more pro-American than Matías ever was pro-Japanese. Had he remained in office long enough to backtrack on everything Matías ever accomplished, he’d have sucked up to the American government and American money. Okay, they weren’t all that different, the two of them; they both relied on bigger guns. Come to think of it, Cornelius was probably the closest thing Navidad ever had to a true independent. Sure, he entrusted relations with Japan to Matías just as he looked to Tamang for dealings with America. Clearly balance-of-power jockeying. Did that make Cornelius less anti-American than he liked to appear? How close were Cornelius and Tamang anyway? Maybe he’s fooling himself—maybe Matías wasn’t the heir apparent. What if that sly old fox Cornelius was a more devious politician than Matías gave him credit for? What if his scenario was to first elicit Japanese support during Matías’s four years in office, then to use the next four years under Tamang to kiss and make up with America? It saddens Matías to think of it. If he really wasn’t the only successor, then he’s ruined the grand Cornelius Doctrine by eliminating Tamang, hasn’t he? But then, Cornelius never set up any political structure capable of counterbalancing him and Tamang. The only thing they could do was cancel each other out, though Matías had the competence to hold onto the presidency much longer (if you can call a violent end to Tamang’s chances a question of competence, he mutters to himself).
What would Tamang have done in his place? Supposing it were America instead of Japan talking up this petro-military base, what decisive action would President Tamang have taken? Politically, economically, the very idea of an independent country of seventy thousand is patently absurd. New nations have shot up like weeds in the postwar world, but how many ex-colonies really have the stuff to make it on their own? Past some cutoff point—half out of guilt, half out of powerlessness, or else simply to drop dead weight—the colonial masters just acquiesced to all the rumblings for independence. The United Nations heartily supported the move, the earliest independents heartily welcomed the extra company. Mere regions with hastily sketched outlines and no special qualifications were granted nationhood. Navidad being one of them, as if Matías didn’t know. The smaller the country, the easier to win a consensus and turnkey an administration. No different climates or economic zones or religions or ethnicities to unify, so no need to drum up external enemies. No political acrobatics, no eternally-in-our-hearts-and-minds imperial family, no presidential elections every four years (though Cornelius judged correctly that the royal road would never work here and opted for an electoral system).
Size does matter, reflects Matías. The main problem for us microcountries is that we have to align ourselves with others to make us look bigger. The world is thick with friendship accords and economic conventions all vying to compensate for size. And Navidad is one of the smallest fish around in that swamp. But hey, we wanted independence—we couldn’t breathe shoved up under America’s big fat armpit. People seemed to think independence meant one-hundred-percent freedom handed out just like that. So the primary task in leading this tiny speck of a country is to reconcile popular awareness to the realities of international politics and borderless economies.
Again Matías thinks, What if Tamang were alive? Immediately after his unfortunate death, the rumor mill in Baltasár City went wild: Tamang wasn’t really dead, the body in the coffin at his funeral had been a dummy, the man himself was being held prisoner in a secret dungeon beneath the Presidential Villa. It was all Matías Guili’s doing, he imprisoned our man and grilled him for days on end … When the actual truth is that Tamang lies six feet under in the Baltasár Municipal Cemetery, and that Matías never needed his confession or advice on anything. And yet, what if Tamang could voice some opinion regarding the present circumstances, the thought keeps nagging him, what the hell would he say?
Or instead of another president, what view would a whole other political system have to offer? What if—pesky creatures, these “what ifs”—what if this country had a normal functioning democratic legislature? What stance would it take toward Japan’s offer? They’d debate the issue a hundred times over, reject taking any active steps, and wind up in a muddle. Matías pictured each legislator, each face; he did a mental tally of their schoolboyish factions and their cliquish votes; and he came to the same conclusion: that countries, like individuals, should be decisive. Yes, one pilot works best.
/> The world takes a dim view of dictators. Fine, let them criticize him after he’s dead. Let them curse him, dig up his grave, what does he care? Let it be known, there are times when one man has to call the shots for his country. Matías is getting worked up now. He’s a regular wizard of a politician, he is, and will be remembered for generations to come (not that he’s sired any offspring of his own, one proof that he’s on the level. No nepotistic dynasty to follow, thank you, that’s not his style. No stashing or bequeathing the wealth. It’s just his one generation, and he’s not glued to any seat. Everything for the sake of his country! Or is that too shameless? Still, he has to admit, the lack of children was providential. That’s why he married María Guili, the perfect barren companion. That’s why raising a family never came up when he proposed to Angelina. And anyway, all Angelina ever had to say on the subject was that a pregnant whore was the lowest of the low).
No, he stands alone. No children but his countrymen. Whether they accept it or not, Navidad’s seventy thousand are all his babies. Men and women, children and elders alike, good farmers and poor fishermen, incompetent officials, self-seeking legislators and hopeless businessmen, youngsters napping in the banana groves, kids diving for crabs off the reefs, the working girls at Angelina’s—everything he can con out of Japan he shares with them all. When you’re dealing with a big unaccommodating country like Japan, it’s either con or be conned, so you’re lucky to have Matías Guili on your side. He’ll take them for more than they ever take from Navidad, and do it so they don’t even know. That’s the make-or-break challenge, thinks Matías. That’s his conclusion for the morning.
Just then, he flashes back to what he saw yesterday at Brun Reef. What was that? If the base gets built, is that going to happen anytime soon? Think: Japan and Navidad aren’t the whole story. So many countries now dispute that lazy stretch of the South China Sea, which until recently only saw the occasional fisherman. Interests on all sides are bristling at the mere scent of oil in the Spratlys. China even sent gunships and planted flags there, fabricating national myths that the islands had always been Chinese territory. To which neighboring Vietnam and the Philippines naturally reacted sharply. Everything hangs in the balance between force and rhetoric. If now the Japanese get in on the act, pursuing their own claims to steady growth, they’ll want their own strategic outpost near those “developing” oil fields in the south.
It’s just a premonition, but the day may come when even the Navidads become pawns in international ambitions for the Spratlys. Why else would anyone target mere fishing shoals if not to wipe out a base? Would Exocets do the job on the tankers? Or would it be larger, longer-range missiles for a “clean strike”? Kiloton-class fat boys with inertial guidance systems. He can just see them homing in, the entire lagoon evaporating in a blinding flash, leaving Brun Reef uninhabitable for centuries to come. Stockpiling crude oil is fine, but a secret Self-Defense Force base is practically inviting an airstrike. Though of course, an attack like that would really put Navidad on the map, decimation granting instant entrée into international society. That was the vision he saw yesterday.
Or it could all be a setup. Say Améliana isn’t clairvoyant and it was just hypnosis. A bogus emissary sent as part of a cheap plot to throw him off. No politician worth his salt would get skittish over cheap scare tactics. Matías perks up as Améliana’s face fades away. He must have been seeing things, the terror he felt some kind of mistake. Magic tricks don’t last out the early morning hours. Stay real, man. Run the state without running off into imaginings, stay close to the ground and focus on the immediate play-by-play of political forces. Leave the distant future to philosophers with no responsibilities. Three months, half a year, a year, three years, five years from now, the Brun Reef project won’t seem so bad at all (the words “ten years from now” don’t exist in politics). If need be, yesterday’s vision can be interpreted into the next decade. The world may be teetering on the brink of disaster, just let the present order hang on for another shaky ten years. Then let big change come. Time enough to gather strength. Which is why a base in Navidad will come in handy. He’ll go through with the plan.
That’s his decision for the morning. Enough rumination, thinks Matías, breakfast awaits. Time to move on to the pleasures of white rice with plenty of sashimi, miso soup, seaweed, and pickles.
Two thirty PM. Suzuki flies in again on the morning flight and finds a message left for him at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel requesting a meeting ASAP. He beats a path to the Presidential Villa and is ushered into the largest conference room, where he’s met by the President, Executive Secretary Jim Jameson, a junior official from the Home Office he’s met once before, a middle-aged man introduced as a section chief in the Bureau of Outer Islands in charge of Brun Reef, and a young woman whose presence no one bothers to explain. Probably a stenographer or whatnot for writing up the talks, Suzuki imagines, balking at the number of people he’s up against. Here he thought he’d be one-on-one with the President like before.
The President shows him to his seat, then speaks. “Regarding your country’s proposal to build a petroleum stockpiling facility at Brun Reef, the Republic of Navidad is prepared to make an official response.” Matías pauses briefly and gazes up at the ceiling.
Can they really be prepared to take things to such a decisive level? wonders Suzuki, as he waits for what’s to follow.
The President now fixes his gaze squarely on Suzuki. “Brun Reef is a sacred and inseparable part of the Republic of Navidad. We cannot, as a matter of principle, accede to its use merely to accommodate another country. Nevertheless, Navidad and Japan enjoy a long history of friendly relations. The peace and prosperity of the nations and peoples of the West Pacific depend in many ways on our continued mutual cooperation. Thus, at this time, in the spirit of friendship and in keeping with the basic directives of our nation’s administration, we wish to accept Japan’s proposal and promise to offer our full cooperation toward the joint realization of this project.”
“Thank you very much indeed.”
“May I suggest we now set up a steering committee comprised of representatives from both sides to handle the various aspects of planning until actual implementation. Then in, say, six months’ time, when preparations are in place as per the committee’s guidelines, the project can be announced to the general public.”
Suzuki listens without comment, distracted by the young woman who keeps staring. It’s as if she can see right through him.
“Let’s wait to put anything in writing. Today, we’ll do this all verbally. We need to elicit ideas from both sides.” That much on the table, the President quickly turns off his official face. “How about this? You take our reply back to Japan and assemble your team, then draw up papers and courier them here so we can convene a plenary conference. I imagine you’ll be dealing mainly with these three men. I’ll just check in from time to time. That’ll work, won’t it? Of course, you shouldn’t expect us just to kowtow to Japan’s demands.”
“Of course not.”
“These must appear to be real negotiations. So be prepared, we might even scrap the whole plan.”
“I understand.”
“And one more thing, about our little talk the other day on what stance Navidad should take internationally regarding the project, we’ll think of something. We’re an independent nation, we can come up with our own directives. At least for the time being, we have no intention of opening that up for discussion.”
“I apologize if what I said was presumptuous. Please strike it from the record, if you will.”
“Fair enough. It was fine as opinions go, but no longer needed. I’ll think for myself.”
Suzuki falls silent and lowers his eyes. The young stenographer doesn’t seem to be taking any notes; she just looks at him ominously.
“That’s it for now. From here on, you contact Jim Jameson.” The President leaves it at
that and stands up, takes a couple of steps, then turns around. “And as for that generous offer the other day, the bit about training our Island Security, let’s just say it never happened. We’ll defend ourselves, thank you, if you’d kindly inform whoever dreamed that up.”
Suzuki shakes his head. Why the heavy sarcasm? He watches them exit one after another, but just as the young woman is almost out the door, she turns and looks him straight in the eye, then silently turns away and disappears.
Alone in the big conference room, Suzuki is left standing directly under a cooling vent, yet suddenly the air feels unbearably hot.
BUS REPORT 8
Naafa Village in the mid-afternoon. The villagers were stretched out on their sleeping mats at home or lazing in the shade of palm trees or secretly sharing someone else’s bed. Right at the peak of the afternoon heat, a bus strolled into the local general store. The shopkeeper was dozing in the back room when he heard someone calling, and hobbled out to find a bus waiting at the counter.
“Sure is hot,” said the bus.
“Yeah, mighty hot,” said the shopkeeper. “I’s jus’ napping.”
“Sorry to wake you. Some folks asked me to buy some things.”
“Like what, f’rinstance?”
“Well,” said the bus, glancing at a shopping list, “twenty bottles of Coke, ten bottles of Fanta Orange and three of Fanta Grape, plus five Dr. Peppers and eleven Sprites.”
“Tall order,” said the shopkeeper. He hurried to round up the required items, but came up short: only seven Cokes and four Sprites were chilled. So he did what any self-respecting shopkeeper does. He headed off to the stockroom for the missing number of bottles and mixed them in with the rest, warm or not. The bus didn’t seem to notice. The shopkeeper took ages ringing up the bill, but the bus just waited patiently, handed over the money, loaded all the bottles, and drove off in a cloud of blue exhaust. The shopkeeper then returned to his nap.
The Navidad Incident Page 18
