The Navidad Incident

by Natsuki Ikezawa

  Maybe the heavens are on their side after all, for they reach their destination by the afternoon of the fourth day. The canoe enters the greater lagoon via a southeastern break in the barrier reef, then heads west along the southern coast of Baltasár Island and beaches unobtrusively at the tip of Gaspar near Uu, where the villagers quietly welcome the eight Melchorians. From there, they walk to Baltasár City and on up to the Presidential Villa, their steps showing little sign of fatigue from their long sea voyage.

  FINAL BUS REPORT

  Foreign visitors to the islands are often surprised to learn that more than a mere means of transportation, buses are so highly regarded here they almost seem to be objects of worship. The bus network links the capital to most other towns and villages, even extending to settlements with only a few houses. As a result, citizens enjoy an admirable degree of mobility for such a small country, a fact which forms the basis of certain customs.

  When an infant is born, after its first bath and suckling at its mother’s breast, its very next experience is a bus ride. The child’s maternal grandparents (and the mother as well if her postpartum recovery is quick) typically board at the nearest bus stop with the swaddled babe in arms. The mother’s husband and brothers and sisters see them all off, and they ride to the end of the line and back. The routes are not especially long, so the trip takes thirty minutes to an hour at most, just long enough to answer their prayers for many safe returns. With this “first bus,” the child becomes a “full-fare” member of the family who, it is hoped, will grow up strong as a bus.

  It is also not unusual for people with ailments to ride buses for their salutary effect. All buses in the country are equipped with a special sick berth for this purpose. Something like a stretcher suspended in hammock fashion, the bed cushions hard shocks on the roughest roads, while the pulsing of the engine is widely believed by the island folk to have curative powers. Navidadians hold that bus vibrations can work wonders. Most sick people who ride around for one or two days will show signs of improvement; some who had to be carried on board will even get off on their own two feet.

  Unknowing foreigners may take alarm at the sight of moribund passengers on buses here. This is not because persons in the throes of death choose to ride buses as a last-ditch panacea, but rather that bus travel is regarded as the first leg of a peaceful journey to the next world and even beyond to rebirth—a custom that is known as the “last bus rite.”

  Today, thanks to tales told by tourists and cultural anthropologists’ research, the relationship between health and bus-riding discovered in Navidad has come to the attention of other countries, so we may expect to see similar bus beliefs spreading overseas. We hear that “first bus” practices have already taken hold in certain regions of the Philippines, while recent reports tell of similar trends just now beginning in the southern islands of the Japanese archipelago. Healthy bus, healthy body.

  For some reason this morning, the plaza crowd is mostly women. Passing through on the way to the market or work, they scan the benches for familiar faces, and if they happen to see someone they know, they’ll sit down for a good long chat. It just takes a couple of grains of salt to form a crystal, and just a few approachable souls to get the gossip going. The first two on the benches today were young women, followed immediately by more and more girls their age. Before long, the shoppers have forgotten what they came to buy, the office workers and hired help have deserted their posts. The whole gaggle of young females is enough to put off any men and other women past child-rearing age.

  “Okay, girl, what’s with the I-know-something-you-don’t-know face?” asks a waitress from the Navidad Teikoku Hotel restaurant.

  “Wait’ll you hear—a Yuuka done marched into the Presidential Villa!” discloses a young postal clerk.

  “No! What’s that about?”

  “It’s the Melchor Elders, they passed some ruling on President Guili and the Yuuka came to lay down the law.”

  “The Yoi’i Yuuka?” asks a girl who was engaged to a boy from one of the outer islands and returned much happier after the wedding was called off.

  “Oh c’mon now, silly. Not even the Elders can make the Yoi’i Yuuka do things. They’d do her bidding, maybe. But no, they picked the seventh Yuuka as their messenger. The young one, with the powers. Gotta admire her.”

  “How’d you hear about all this?” asks a fisherwoman known to match any man catch-for-catch.

  “My cousin, he works at the villa. And he recognized her.”

  “You got something going with your cousin?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Okay, okay. Touchy, are we?”

  “Well, anyway,” continues the postal clerk, ignoring the insinuation, “the seventh Yuuka, who used to work at the villa herself, showed up with seven guys. They just waited at the entrance, but she stormed right in.”

  The other girls are all ears, excited as if they were witness to the scene.

  “And then y’know what?” the postal clerk continues, “she walked right in on Guili and laid it on him.”

  “What’d she say?” they all lean forward to ask.

  “Can’t quote her, but whatever, she told him off, called him an evil man.”

  “I could’a told you that,” one uppity girl puts in. “Don’t know what he’s done now, but from what he’s been up to so far I can pretty well guess what the Yuuka’d say.”

  “Like what?” challenges the postal clerk, echoed by the others.

  “Like the Elders withdraw all respect for him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Wouldn’t they come down stronger, like with a death sentence or something?”

  “Or banish him from the presidency?”

  “At least strip him of his authority?”

  “No, no, all wrong. My grandpa was an Elder. He used to tell me things.”

  “Wow, you got some family connections. Cool.”

  “Well, maybe. I’m a runaway myself, though.”

  “That’s cool too.”

  “I guess. Kinda shy ’bout it. Something dirty happened to me, so I came home.”

  “Something dirty?”

  “Just pawed me and felt me up a bit.”

  “Hey, are we talking ’bout the Council of Elders or what? Leave the smut for next time, okay? So why don’t they just plain oust President Guili?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” the runaway explains, playing it up for effect. “The Council of Elders isn’t a court and it’s not a police force. They got no way to put their decisions into effect. All they can do is tell him ‘We don’t respect you no more.’ Can’t do any more than that. That’s what I was told.”

  “But even that’d be a shock,” says the waitress.

  “Shoulda done the trick all right.”

  “Sure did,” says the postal clerk. “Came as a total shock. Why, I hear that the minute he got the word, he went white as a sheet. Then he went to his quarters and hasn’t come out since.”

  “Your cousin tell you this too?”

  “Yeah, but I doubt he actually saw him go white. I mean, only Guili himself and the Yuuka were there, and she wouldn’t tell my cousin anything like that. But the part about Guili hiding out ever since does seem to be true.”

  “But what about the President’s job? Y’know, meeting people, deciding stuff?”

  “That other dude’s doin’ most of it. You know, with the dark skin, the Executive Fall Guy.”

  “Yeah, right,” says the postal clerk, “that Jim Jimson guy.”

  “You mean Jameson.”

  “Yeah, like I said, Executive Secretary Jim Jimson. Dark, kinda good-looking.”

  “Yeah, him. He can do just fine without Guili around.”

  “So there gonna be another election?”
the fisherwoman wonders out loud.

  “Guess so,” mumbles the waitress. “Wish they’d just let the dark dude do his stuff, though.”

  Two hours later, the plaza is now old woman territory. A brood of biddies is sitting cackling away when a couple more crones drop by to share in the morning hearsay and the cackle becomes even more animated.

  “Finally done it,” says one old girl, trotting over to her friend on the bench.

  “Done what?” asks her seated friend, rising to a slight crouch so as not to miss a single word by sitting out of earshot.

  “We whupped him!”

  “Whupped him and whacked him!” says another old maid just arriving. “Felt good too.”

  “Whupped who?”

  “That mean ol’, you know …” stammers the second old maid.

  “S’no good. Better you start all over from the beginning.”

  “Oh, suppose so. Well, you heard about the Elders decidin’ not to respect Guili, didn’ya?”

  “And them choosing the seventh Yuuka as their messenger, canoed over here to tell the man? Sure, I heard. The President was come-upped. He shut hisself in the back of the villa.”

  “Aw, who cares about Guili anyway? It’s Island Security I got a bone to pick with. ’Course Guili’s the one gave ’em their orders, but they’s the ones who come bargin’ in and pissed in my house!”

  “Same here. Them IS boys come and throwed buckets of water all over my sittin’ room. Got everything sopping wet.”

  “Me too. My sister’s husband’s nephew got beat up in a back alley by the IS.”

  “And just to grab up the land to build that lousy hotel.”

  “It’s all Guili’s fault.”

  The old girl who rose from her seat wants to slump back down again, but her friend obviously isn’t in the mood for a quiet talk. She keeps waving her hands and stamping her feet, mussing her hair and grimacing, the better to make her point.

  “It was Guili brought in that goon from Japan when he became president. Tamang was gonna disband ’em, but he didn’t have time before Guili was back in.”

  “That’s why we all went down to IS Headquarters. To have us a look around.”

  “That we did, this very morning. Had us a good long look-see.”

  “And whadya know? Them snotty bastards come tiptoein’ out one by one.”

  “Out of uniform, in regular old aloha shirts and T-shirts.”

  “So you whupped ’em?” asks an old woman who’s been sitting there all along.

  “Sure wanted to, but when they saw us glaring at them, they got all sorry-eyed and ran off. Didn’t have the heart to chase after ’em, they’s just a bunch of kids.”

  “We just stared ’em down. Then we went in and had us a little talk.”

  “With who?”

  “The Jap with the dark glasses. The one Guili brought in to head up the IS.”

  “You mean Katsumata?”

  “Right, him. Katsumata.”

  “He was just comin’ out, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.”

  “Looked like such a loser with no glasses and those frightened puppy eyes.”

  “We surrounded him.”

  “We told him off. ‘You’re the guy who put Island Security up to all those terrible things, aren’t ya? Dressed our boys in uniforms and had them piss in my house!”

  “Was he ever scared! He pretended he didn’t understand Gagigula. Tried to make excuses in broken English like we had the wrong person and he had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s when I spoke in Japanese. ‘I know you. You’re that no-good Katsumata. You’re the biggest bully of them all.’ ”

  “What a laugh! Shocked him out of his socks. He didn’t have any idea we could speak Japanese from the war. He broke down and started shaking.”

  “Told him, ‘Your people made us learn the language when we were kids. Glad it finally came in handy!’ ”

  “And then all of us gave him a whack on the head.”

  “A little something we owed him for taking all the best property.”

  “And it felt good?” asks one of the plaza biddies.

  “Sure did. We whacked ’im till our arms were sore.”

  “Didn’t kick him. We could’ve, though, with him cowering there like that.”

  “Thad’ve been unfair. And besides, rubber sandals ain’t much for kicking. Better our hands and fists for pummeling.”

  “So we whacked him and whupped him until enough was enough, then we pushed him out of the HQ holdin’ his achin’ head and came here. Had to tell people, if anybody wants to give him a whack or two, there’s still time. He’s still there.”

  “Sounds like fun. Let’s go.”

  With that, several old women get up and head for Island Security Headquarters, leaving the others on the benches to return to less pressing gossip. As the excitement ebbs, the conversation turns to speculation about Guili’s undoing.

  Parked a short distance from these ever-so-satisfied matrons are two taxis. Hired wheels are few in this country, and only tourists ever use them, which makes it difficult to catch a cab except between the airport and the Navidad Teikoku Hotel. Or to put it another way, any cab driver who wants to take it easy has only to steer clear of those two locations. No tourist ever walks to the plaza expecting to find a taxi; this, then, is the drivers’ customary rest area.

  “Just had me a strange customer,” says one cabbie.

  “Strange, like other than foreign?” asks the other driver.

  “No, that was the flight from Guam he come on, so he musta been a Jap.”

  “Not a tourist?”

  “No, businessman type, but real dark for a Jap. Had a big trunk and a black briefcase. Standing on his lonesome like a burnt tree in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Okay, sounds pretty spooky the way you tell it. What else?”

  “ ‘Go straight to the Presidential Villa,’ he tells me.”

  “At a time like this?”

  “Yeah, says, ‘Gotta say hello to the Prez. Just wait in front of the villa, then we’ll go to the Teikoku.’ ”

  “So?”

  “So I drive and don’t say nothing. That’s my job, okay?”

  “Yeah, but what’s a foreigner have to see Guili about? Sounds shady to me.”

  “Maybe, ain’t none of my business. So anyway, I make straight for the villa, let him off at the entrance.”

  “And he went in?’

  “Just like he owned the place. Weren’t no guards at the door. But no sooner’s he inside than he comes right out again. He’s looking kinda sick, sweating like crazy.”

  “Someone must’ve told him off inside.”

  “Reckon so. Looked like he stepped in pig shit. He gets in back and lets out this big sigh. So I gotta ask the guy, ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ ”

  “Must’ve heard about what happened to Guili, no?”

  “No, seems he was used to the VIP treatment, but this time they sent him packing.”

  “So what’d you say to him then?”

  “What d’you think? I tell him how the Melchor Elders decided not to respect Guili, and how that meant nobody was going to take no more orders from him. How this really was the end of the road for the big man.”

  “And?”

  “And when I start off for the Teikoku like he wanted, he asks, ‘What time’s the afternoon flight to Guam?’ Okay, what now, I’m thinking. ‘Go straight to the airport,’ he tells me. So we turn around and I drop him off and collect my fare and that’s that. Three hours in the country, and the guy doesn’t talk to more than two people—me and somebody in the villa—before he’s outta here. I’m telling you, strange.”

  “Musta been buddy-buddy with Guili. Bet we gonna see
a lot more of his type.”

  Late in the afternoon, people gather in the plaza. Nobody knows who put out the word, but it soon spreads around the capital. All who hear put down whatever they’re doing and head straight for the plaza, until their numbers swell to overflowing. Yet even as they all crowd in, they spontaneously leave an appropriate space in the center. There, some enterprising souls have cobbled together a bunch of crates borrowed from behind Guili’s Supermarket to build a makeshift stage. Standing at attention to the left and right, the yellow-uniformed boys and girls of the Children’s Fife and Drum Corps hold their instruments, ready to play at a moment’s notice. Unlike at the airport, however, there are no flagpoles in the plaza. Flags or not, everyone is waiting for a ceremony of some kind.

  At four thirty, the people gathered on the side toward the road that leads to the airport and Diego begin to stir. The commotion soon spreads across the entire gathering, then dies down as people gasp and stare. The crowd parts and slowly, portentously, a green and yellow striped bus drives into the plaza, and through the large blue-tinted windows they can see members of the Japanese Veterans’ Delegation waving. The driver nudges the bus forward like a boat slowly parting the tides of humanity. Right next to him in the tour guide’s seat is the junior official from the Navidadian Foreign Office. The people in the plaza, all smiles, cheer and applaud the bus’s return. It isn’t like the heroes’ welcome accorded victorious troops or a record-breaking mountaineering team or even successful negotiators returning from a decisive international summit; no, if anything it’s more like teasing a naughty boy come home at long last from a wild escapade—only the prodigal son here is the bus, rather than anyone on board.