The Navidad Incident

by Natsuki Ikezawa

  A few minutes later, still half in a daze, Angelina toddles downstairs to learn from the girls that all the guests left a couple of hours ago, and of course, the tabs were squared away. Yes, paid in cash, no mistake. They sure were fun customers, good talkers too. Whereupon the conversation frays into individual recollections, each girl arguing with the others about the boy she liked best, wishing he’d come again. And not one of them even turned a trick. All fine and dandy, scolds Angelina, but this is a brothel, not a bar. Though secretly she has to admit that a few lively customers every now and again might be a nice change. So they’re young and can’t afford more than drinks, what’s so bad about that?

  By the afternoon, she begins checking the food and liquor stocks. The cold storage and pantry seem to be holding their own, so she talks to the cook about fresh market purchases for the following day and writes out a quick list of items to order from Guili’s Super. Next, the liquor department: almost everything seems to be in good supply for the moment. She tries not to stock too much beer, just enough to tide them over until the next ship comes into port (in a pinch she can always buy San Miguel and Budweiser at Guili’s). Plenty of scotch, cognac, gin, vodka, rum, and tequila for the moment; the cellar’s full of wine and champagne. And the next ship’s in three days, isn’t it? Nothing to worry about. Just need to go over the receipts and figure out which drinks are selling, then draw up an order accordingly in the next couple of days.

  Angelina prides herself on having the most comprehensive liquor selection in the country. No male bartender, but Joel has been training one of the girls intensively for a year and now she can mix cocktails with the best of them. No, a night of serious drinkers is not a bad thing. Anyway, liquor brings in the crowd. Puts men in the mood, ups the room rentals, makes the girls’ work easier. She doesn’t want to lose her reputation for keeping a well-stocked cabinet, doesn’t want to hear that a customer ordered something she doesn’t carry. That’s why she takes pains with her stock. Last night’s bunch must have put a good dent in those supplies, the way they were drinking. Didn’t rent any rooms, okay, but they probably dropped a bundle. It’s a wonder they could walk out of here at all. They must have terrible hangovers by now.

  As Angelina continues checking the shelves against her inventory list, she discovers a glaring shortage. Impossible. How can it be? She searches the shelves again and again, but no, it’s true. The case of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper is empty. She goes to look for more, but there’s only that one case. Could Ketch and Joel have finished off the very last bottle? Last week when she looked there must have been at least a dozen. What’s going on here? She was sure there was plenty until the next shipment; could last night’s crowd have homed in on the Harper’s? Would Ketch and Joel have sat by calmly and let others polish off their private reserve? Of course, they’d have thought there were many more bottles on hold for them in back. Maybe they even enjoyed introducing the island boys to their personal favorite. Be that as it may, who’s responsible for letting the bourbon run out? Who brought out the last bottle to the salon?

  What to do? It was the house agreement: she promised to provide Ketch and Joel with a constant supply of I.W. Harper. She can’t just tell them there isn’t any. “We’re out” is not an acceptable answer. Should she call Manila and have them airfreight a batch? It’s Friday, no flight today. No way to get it here by tonight. If she only had one bottle, she could somehow stretch it out. Is there really not one bottle in the salon bar? Angelina has a rare panic attack and runs to check. Bourbon she has: Jack Daniel’s, Wild Turkey, and Old Crow, even five cases of regular five-year-old I.W. Harper—but not the square fake-crystal bottle with the clumsy stopper. Aside from a chilled mug of beer during the daytime heat, Ketch and Joel drink nothing else.

  Would any place in town have it? Extremely doubtful. Navidadians aren’t much for hard liquor; beer is all they ever drink. Hardly even any alcoholics here. No drunks causing trouble; the police never have to break up barroom brawls. Which is precisely why senior officials and businessmen who picked up drinking habits overseas all come here. The same goes for foreigners. There is no place else. Certainly no liquor store on the islands, only a token few random bottles in the supermarket “liquor corner.” Horrible rotgut for the most part: Sang Thip rice spirit from Thailand, Australian brandy (no reflection on Aussie wine, which is getting quite good, but she still can’t trust something called “Kangaroo Kognac”), Vietnamese rum with a picture of a girl in an aodai tunic on the label, clear bottles stamped “gin” made in Bangladesh. The clerks don’t even try to push the stuff, they know no customer in his right mind will want it.

  No, there’s not a chance of finding twelve-year-old I.W. Harper for sale anywhere in Baltasár City. So then, plan B. The only other likely place after here would be the bar at the Navidad Teikoku Hotel, though Ketch and Joel have told her they didn’t have any there. Still, much as she dislikes the idea of supporting the competition, it’s worth a try; maybe they got some in since then. She can’t go herself; she’ll have to send someone. How long can she go on pretending that nothing’s amiss?

  Angelina’s in a real fix. She knows the breach carries no specific penalties, but seriously, what other recourse does she have than to explain the situation and let them decide what to do? A new shipment is due in three days’ time, a mere two-night lapse. Would they possibly make do with some other bourbon? Forget it. She fully understands their insistence on the real thing; she’s not about to swindle them by pouring five-year-old into square bottles. No-have is no-have. Anyway, it’ll be interesting to see how they deal with this calamity. That’s the spirit—grace under pressure.

  Angelina finds the two of them outside, cleaning the terrace. Ketch is hosing down the flagstones while Joel scrubs with a bristle broom. The two mugs of beer on the nearby white metal table, however, are for no ordinary workmen.

  “I got something to tell you. Come on in when you finish,” she calls out to them.

  “Sure thing. What is it? We getting a raise?” jokes Joel.

  “No, we’re getting the axe,” counters Ketch.

  “Fair enough. We’re just hired hands,” says Joel, with a good stiff shove of the broom.

  “So cut us right off at the wrist,” says Ketch, his thumb over the nozzle to concentrate a harder spray. A tiny rainbow arches through the sparkling droplets.

  “Don’t talk nonsense, come as soon as you’re done,” she says, leaving them to it.

  Ten minutes later, the pair present themselves before her, hanging their heads in playful shame, a glint of mischief showing in their eyes.

  “Forgive us.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Please have mercy on us.”

  “We’re sorry.”

  “Sit down, this is serious,” says Angelina, putting a lid on their jokes. “We have a problem.”

  Their expressions shade toward curiosity.

  “We’re out of your liquor. Not a drop of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper in the house.”

  They’re dumbstruck. Ketch slowly shakes his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know how it happen. I always lay in a good stock, right? I’s sure we had a half dozen bottles. Last night’s crowd musta drunk it all.”

  “They saw us drinking and ordered the same thing.”

  “And they out-drank us too.”

  “They didn’t buy any sex, they just sat around talking till morning.”

  “We didn’t know they finished everything off.”

  “My mistake. It completely slip my mind, but it’s too late to be sorry. Next shipment arrive in three days, so there’s nothing for tonight or tomorrow. I rack my brains, but what’s gone is gone. What do we do?”

  She throws the question open. Let them decide. No need to involve Matías, not yet.

  “We didn’t see this coming,” says Joel.

 
“This is serious,” mutters Ketch, as if faced with a natural disaster.

  At least they don’t seem to blame her. For them, the situation is simply inconceivable.

  “How about some other liquor … ?”

  “No can do.” They both shake their heads.

  “We’re addicted.”

  The three of them fall silent. Angelina’s said all that she has to say; Ketch and Joel have nothing to add. The silence is painful. Their machinery turns on a continuous fueling of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper. When that runs out, the gears stop. Angelina stares at the flowers on the table between them and waits. There’s nothing else to do.

  Suddenly something changes, the air stirs slightly. She looks up to see the pair of them, not sullen anymore, but peering behind her. They actually seem to be smiling. She turns around. Standing there is the maid from Melchor, the one who used to be María, but since going to the Presidential Villa has now become Améliana. Where did she come from?

  “These two won’t be drinking here anymore,” says the Melchor girl. Not “they mustn’t drink here,” not “they can’t drink here,” she’s merely stating a fact. As if her words were final. Angelina has no idea what makes her think she can say this, but for a second it strikes her that, yes, maybe it is the best solution.

  “You two are coming with me, to the Melchor Council of Elders,” says the girl in the same decisive tone. “The Elders are waiting. There’s something they want to ask you. About what you did a year ago. About the contract.”

  Angelina catches her breath. She can’t speak. Nobody should know about the contract but the four people named in it. How can this girl … ? But before she can open her mouth, Ketch and Joel have stood up. Looking somehow expectant, their faces say they know the time has come, they’ll go along gladly, they’ll leave this place. She has to stop them somehow—but the greatest hold, the strongest tether to tie them here, the most potent attraction is gone: there’s no more Harper’s magic elixir.

  María—Améliana, the seventh Yuuka—moves to leave. Ketch and Joel follow. Angelina rises on shaky legs and takes a few faltering steps after them. Nothing she can say will make them stay. The Council of Elders has found them out. Matías is done for. If she could somehow will them to drop dead on the spot, he just might stand a chance. But they don’t die; they just keep walking.

  María pauses at the threshold as the heavy, carved oak doors fan open from the outside, then moves on into the bright sunlight with Ketch and Joel behind her. Not for all the girls’ love and friendship and admiration will they be back. No more fixing things or cutting the grass or polishing the balcony railings. Ketch, the encyclopedic jazz aficionado. Joel, the bartending maven who shuns cocktails. Their secret society of two, teased out in unverifiable histories. Their corner table and nightly bottle of I.W. Harper. Their gay half-flirting with the girls, their winning offhand manner. What will the place be without them?

  Angelina follows as far as the entrance to the salon and leans on the door handle, squinting into the glare. Outside are seven youths; they’ve come to meet these three. She’s seen them somewhere before. Ah yes, last night: the seven lads who stayed so late, seven innocents who seduced the girls without bedding a single one, seven spies who siphoned off the last drop of Ketch and Joel’s precious bourbon.

  Clinging to the doorway, Angelina watches the seven guardians encircle the young Yuuka and the two hired guns, then escort them away, until finally they are out of sight. They’ve gone to the port, where a boat will take them off toward Melchor and the downfall of the President of the Republic of Navidad, His Excellency Matías Guili.

  08

  The Melchor Island Council of Elders does not meet at regular intervals. Only when some issue arises and several of the Elders call for a meeting do they all assemble in that sacred lodge or “long house” known as the abai. The Council is comprised entirely of respected males over seventy years of age; there are no women members, though in special situations the Council may consult the Yoi’i Yuuka. The Elders have the authority to arbitrate in the affairs of the community, but when spiritual issues that supersede their secular wisdom occur, they bow to the chief priestess. Some questions are discussed for days, but never is any formal vote taken. With no particular mechanism for reaching conclusions, all the Elders remain inside the abai for the duration—except to relieve themselves—while their families keep them supplied with food.

  When Ketch and Joel arrive under the guard of the seven youths, the Council is already assembled and waiting in the abai. The lodge is framed in heavy timbers and roofed with pandanus thatch—a building style traditional in the South Seas, though much bigger and longer than the average house. From a distance, it resembles an overturned canoe. Inside there is only one large room, dimly lit by small openings along the base of the walls, with banana leaf seating mats on the earthen floor.

  Ketch and Joel duck through the low doorway and are brought before the dozen or so men sitting in a circle. The youths see that the two Americans are seated, then leave.

  “Thank you for coming long way,” says one old man to Ketch’s right, speaking in rusty but understandable English. The other Elders look on silently. Their expressions are difficult to read in the dark interior, especially against the backlight from the low openings, but there is no perceptible air of hostility.

  “Other day, we receive paper,” says the old man. The others probably can’t understand much English, but he doesn’t bother to translate into the Melchor dialect or even standard Gagigula. What’s being said seems to have already been discussed. “Because this paper, we talking about one man who hold our islands, our life in his hands. Your two names also on paper, so we thinking we hear what you say, so we call you here.”

  His tone is calm but firm. Apparently, the intention is not to accuse Ketch or Joel; the person being tried here is President Matías Guili. The two remain silent, waiting to see what happens next.

  “We want you tell us your own words. Is this paper real contract? Was agreement carried out? We thinking maybe yes, but want to make sure before we pass judgment.”

  The English-speaking Elder pauses for some indication that the two foreigners fully comprehend the situation. Joel raises a finger to ask the old man to wait a moment, then speaks with Ketch at tongue-twisting speed. As ever, these two do all their thinking together. While they confer, neither the interpreter nor the other Elders show the least impatience or start pressing them to reach a decision.

  Joel now turns to the Elder. “We understand perfectly. We will try to answer your questions the best we can. But first, there’s one thing we need to know.” Joel enunciates clearly for the benefit of their interlocutor. The old man nods his understanding of each phrase, before raising his hand to signal for a break in which to translate it all into Melchorian. The other Elders listen quietly, an expression of wise acknowledgment on their faces, then turn back expectantly toward Joel.

  “Generally speaking, it’s difficult to assess a crime from a written agreement. How do you deal with promises to perform illegal acts that don’t happen? They can’t be treated like those actually performed, can they? Just from the document you have, there’s no clear proof that we did anything criminal, so we would urge you to rule it out as evidence.”

  Joel chooses his words carefully. A twelve-year-old I.W. Harper fog has lifted for the first time in a year, and he knows it’s up to him now to see them safely across this legal lagoon. Ketch pays close attention, ready to correct any mistake.

  “For the moment, we are free of any guilt. But answering your questions about what we did or did not do, with no lawyer present, will put us at great risk. Legally speaking, testimony is not the same thing as a piece of paper. Yet it seems our actions are not the issue here, correct? So, providing you guarantee us immunity, we swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

  The English-spea
king Elder conveys the gist of these remarks to his companions, which provokes various responses, all spoken in even tones. No one raises his voice or becomes emotional. Finally, the Elder seated furthest back, a bald-headed man with an air of obvious authority, makes a pronouncement. All the Elders listen attentively and nod their heads, then turn to face Ketch and Joel again.

  The translation comes back: “We understand what you say. This is not court of law. To be honest, we not know how our country’s laws apply to foreigners. Rest assured, we do nothing to you, this Council not punish you for your crime. Once we finish talking, you free to leave this building or leave this country as you wish. Maybe Council suggest you leave country, but we cannot force you. Please to say what there is to say.”

  Ketch and Joel proceed to discuss what they’ve just heard. Ketch takes a small notepad out of his breast pocket, jots down a few key points and tears off the page for his partner. Joel strains to read it in the dim light and nods. He queries Ketch on a few details, until after a minute the two of them have settled on a basic position.

  “We’ll tell you anything you want to know,” announces Joel. As soon as this is translated for them, the Elders murmur with satisfaction.

  “Thank you. Let us begin. Paper we have looks to be agreement between you and our President Matías Guili. It say you kill former President Bonhomme Tamang, and in return you get to stay at place called Angelina’s, where they give you supply of I.W. Harper liquor.”

  The two men listen without comment.

  “And did you carry out your part of agreement?”

  “We did,” says Joel.

  Again the Elders buzz among themselves.

  “Please tell us more detail.”

  “We came to this country a little over a year ago, while sailing across the Pacific on an international goodwill organization’s schooner. To be specific, we arrived at Baltasár City. It seemed like a nice place, so we decided to stay on for a while.”