He may have been a despot, but he was never overconfident, never imagined he’d come this far under his own steam. The path to power was a long one, with many people pushing him along, especially at first. None of that he’d ever lose; it’s all part of his grounding, his constant landscape. A politician’s job is to see what’s in the offing, but for that he needs a headland from which to scan the seas and warn his people of incoming ships. Not all will bring wealth, of course, not right away. That’s why he stood his high ground and agreed to the Brun Reef plan, a token exchange for all the precious Japanese cargo he could see further over the horizon.
Stop making excuses, he hears a voice saying. You’re just an old biddy brooding over her dead chickens, like Lee Bo was trying to say. It’s a strain just listening to himself. He plops down on the sand, the hot sun in his face. All this walking must have overheated his system. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. He’s made too much of himself; he’s not so special one way or another. If only he could defend his record before the Council of Elders, tell them that if he hadn’t come along, somebody else would have. If it hadn’t been close ties with Japan, then it would’ve been America or the Philippines or Taiwan. Someone who’d gone abroad in his youth would have played up those connections.
Or is he rationalizing again? Still, he’s hardly a dictator, not by a long shot. He never killed anyone—well, aside from that one man—never detained or tortured ordinary citizens. He may have taken his share of kickbacks, but that’s just standard business practice. He never drew on the national coffers for his own pocket money. Everything deposited in a Swiss bank account is legally his, and he planned to return it all anyway. He didn’t cruise the streets in his limo looking for pretty girls to take back to the villa. He was first and foremost a citizen himself. If only Tamang hadn’t been such a pompous ass. If only the fool had addressed himself to the real national concerns at hand instead of poking his nose into the ex-president’s misdemeanors to boost his own popularity. If only that fifty million yen weren’t jinxed and had been delivered safely. If only, if only, if only—a swirling spiral of self-justification.
There’s no one else on the beach. It’s so peaceful, so nice just to sit here and watch the waves roll in for hours on end. This far inside the coral reef, he can’t even hear the roar of the surf. Look, hermit crab tracks on the sand. Clouds are lofting on the horizon, but overhead the azure blue is as clear as ever.
What to do? Should he retire here, withdraw into seclusion on this island? Not that he has much choice, now that no one will give him the time of day anymore. Would people leave him in peace, let him live in that house he owns here? Would they accept his money at the market in exchange for fish and vegetables and instant ramen? Would they let him take part in the next Yuuka Yuumai eight years from now? Of course he’ll relinquish his chairmanship of the M. Guili Trading Company and parcel out his various duties there to the respective department heads. No matter what happens, he won’t speak up. He’ll publicly renounce all political aspirations. He’ll lie low, for whatever the quiet life might be worth.
There is something familiar about this beach. Maybe he just doesn’t recognize it by day. Come back on a moonlit night, he might see a place where he used to play as a boy. Or no, the memory seems too near, too clear, yet somehow the vantage point is wrong. He must have been looking from over there between those two tall trees.
Suddenly it hits him: he’s at Sarisaran, the very last ceremonial site where the Yuuka formed a circle afterwards and changed clothes. That’s where they were, over there. The air surges with absent figures.
Out of nowhere, a butterfly flits across his vision—a lilac butterfly. He hadn’t seen it against the dazzling sea, but now his eyes follow it … and there’s another. Seemingly blown about on the breeze, but actually winging their own way, still more of them appear. Before they can engulf him, Matías turns around and—
Sure enough, Améliana is standing there, looking straight at him, arms folded in front of her white dress. Of course they would have to meet up here in Sarisaran: the symmetry of it strikes them both at the same time.
Matías rises silently to his feet. Three paces away on higher ground, she is the taller of the two. Have they ever stood face-to-face like this before? At the office, he was always sitting. At Brun Reef, she had stood beside him.
He just looks at her. Is there anything he should say? Améliana must have something to tell him, but she doesn’t speak. He can’t read her even, unbeautiful features—neither attractive nor ugly, a mysterious face. Odd snatches of emotion all blur into one strange sensation. Here he is, alone with the person who brought him down, and he feels nothing like animosity. No, her presence here seems inevitable, as all she did was inevitable. She wasn’t the will behind it. Any more than he willed himself to go abroad, or build his own company, or climb the ladder to the rank of president—and eventual disgrace. Nothing in this world is shaped by individual volition; everything molds to the contours of the terrain, the ley lines that run through us. Even his leadership followed the rise and fall of these islands. He sees it all: Navidad made Matías, Navidad now gathers up the pieces.
He nods slowly, takes one brief glance at the sea, then—just as he did on the last night of the Yuuka Yuumai—signals to Améliana, who silently starts walking several steps behind him. The sun is high in the sky, but Matías doesn’t even feel the heat.
The house is cool inside. He’d have thought the place would get all hot and stuffy closed up like this, but no, the interior is much cooler than outside. For a second, he almost thinks it’s air-conditioned, but this isn’t an artificially manufactured chill. The shades are drawn against the sun, yet he feels a draft from somewhere.
Coming into the main room, he sees a patch of sunlight through a curtain, a cheap cotton print with big green leaves and yellow flowers. The color combination reminds him of something. As he stares at the softly billowing folds of light on the floorboards, he hears Améliana’s footsteps entering behind him. Green and yellow—the colors of the bus, it’s that nowhere-and-back-again bus.
He runs his hand over the top of the large desk in the corner of the room; there’s not a trace of dust. The old caretaker must really be doing his job. He had too many other things on his mind last time to notice, but this time he’s impressed. If he remembers correctly, there was a typewriter in the big bottom drawer. As he bends down to look, he senses that Améliana is taking a seat on the sofa diagonally opposite. Her movements are fluid, without hesitation.
Matías tries not to think about that last time he was here together with her, the bed that must still be in the back room. No, mustn’t dwell on what he did then, on what it might mean. Too late the realization that not all acts are born of due consideration; some things simply cannot be contained. Whatever the eventual outcome, at least she herself doesn’t seem concerned. Just like the time before, she’s followed him in and now sits waiting on the sofa in this yellow-green room. Let her wait.
He opens the drawer to find the ancient Smith-Corona that he bought to write business letters in the back room at Guili’s store. It brings back memories of his startup days. He carefully lifts the heavy old machine and places it on the desktop, then finds some letterhead stationery in an upper drawer and puts it in the platen.
Immediately he feels the urge to type and sits down at the desk. For the moment, he forgets all about Améliana’s presence as clear, well-ordered directives claim his thoughts. Sentences come into his head fully formed and unhindered by entangling sentiment. His fingers pound at the rusted keys. The H and C keys stick, the M lands halfway above the line while the K and P dip below, the letter L invariably strikes at a slant, but somehow it still works. Can’t type too fast or the lever arms jam; hunt-and-peck speed is just about the limit. The old baby is dusty as all hell. Should have told the caretaker to keep this clean too—but no, he mustn’t go off on a tangent, he has to con
centrate. Got to keep up his rhythm. What he’s writing is important. Keep it simple and to the point. No overblown phrases. People distrust exaggerated expressions even before they get what’s being said.
An hour of typing and he’s done. Améliana has sat there and said nothing throughout. He reads over what he’s written. Fine, everything’s in order. He pulls several envelopes out of the drawer, addresses them, then folds and stuffs the appropriate letter in each. That was simple.
Matías gets up and walks over to Améliana, admiring her relaxed, half-reclining pose. But no, she also rises. She’s much taller than Matías even here. More than outside, the white dress sets off her dark skin, her emotionless face as she waits for him to speak.
“I’m leaving these with you. Please see that they get to the right people. Doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow, by boat will be time enough.”
Améliana nods and takes the envelopes. Their hands touch.
“Just don’t you and your brothers paddle them over by canoe,” he says, trying to make a joke, but she just shakes her head and doesn’t smile.
“Well, then, I’ll be going. You be well.”
He turns to go, before he can say anything more stupid. She sees him out as far as the door. She just stands there, her hands folded over her belly. He walks a few steps, then turns to take one last look. Her hands are exactly at eye level. His gaze rests on the white cotton fabric and the waistline beneath, then he glances up to see her grin. A pleased, proud, confident grin.
He inadvertently asks the question with his eyes and she nods.
“It’s a girl,” is all she says, quite softly, then laughs.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen this young woman laugh. Never before—not at Angelina’s, not at his office, not on that trip to Brun Reef, of course not during her stint as a Yuuka, or when he brought her to this house before—never did she even smile. Only now, at the very last. She smiles at a future in which Matías will play no part. As if a vague inkling had all of a sudden taken on reality. A future he’ll never hear or see or hold in his arms. The thought fills him with great pangs of sadness. A feeling of utter hopelessness. It’s all he can do to shut his eyes and breathe deeply to keep his head from spinning. It’s okay, he can still stand, he’s not going to keel over. It’s all right to cry. He waits. Slowly he opens his eyes and looks up at the sun.
Then slowly, with only a nod, he turns his back on Améliana and his house, and starts walking toward the airfield. His shadow falls short at his feet.
The pilot is napping in the shade of the airplane wing. Matías would like nothing better than to stretch out beside him and take a little rest too, but now is not the time. He crouches down and shakes him awake.
“Wha—? Where the heck?” the man groans, straining to make out the other’s face against the glare. “Aw, yeah, right. Sorry, I mean, excuse me, sir. I musta dozed off there.”
He gets up and yawns. “Ready to head home?” he says finally, still looking half asleep.
“Uh-huh, going home.”
“Be right with you. Just let me get a drink of water.”
While the pilot trots off toward the supply shed a short distance away, Matías opens the right-hand passenger door and climbs into the same seat as before, locking the door behind him. Settling back, he watches the pilot come running back. What’s the hurry? He could have walked at a normal pace—they’ve got all the time in the world.
The man gives the plane a quick once-over, checks all the major parts, undoes the Pitot tube covers and lock pins, removes the blocks under the wheels and throws them in the hold. Then he settles into his seat and carefully closes the door before beginning his pre-takeoff rundown of the control panel. He’s a conscientious guy, not one to skip procedures. As he said himself on the trip over, he’ll never die in any accident; he’s reliable.
The pilot flicks on several overhead switches, turns the fuel cock to OPEN, adjusts the choke, and reads the gauges one by one. Once everything checks out, he presses the ignition, and the hum of the right engine gradually builds, the propeller starts to spin and pick up speed, and after brief adjustments to the throttle and fuel mixture, strong vibrations pulse through the plane from front to back. Now he repeats the same steps for the left engine. Outside the window, the tall grass whips back in the slipstream. He conducts one last check, then dons his headset, switches on the radio, selects the frequency and calls in for clearance to take off.
The pilot turns to look at his passenger a couple of rows back.
“Seat belt fastened, sir?” he shouts over the roar of the engines.
“All set,” Matías shouts back, poking his head up between two seats in the middle row. He could have just nodded, but the words came out first.
“Door latch?”
“Locked.”
“Well, then, shall we?”
“Hang on, I’ve got a request,” Matías speaks up before he can face forward.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Before heading back to Baltasár, could we circle a couple of times over Melchor?”
“Sure thing. She’s your plane,” shouts the pilot. His standard line. As loud as ever, always cheerful and eager to please. “I’ll take her around as many times as you want, just tell me when you’re ready to make for Baltasár. Fair enough?”
“Fine, thanks.”
The pilot puts his hand on the throttle and by only the slightest maneuver pushes both engines to high velocity, then releases the parking brake, and the plane creeps forward.
No one else is leaving or landing at this hour; the long runway is all theirs. Like a clumsy stiff-winged bird on a pebbly path, the tiny aircraft rattles over the rough tarmac. Until it attains flight speed, until airborne, the Islander is an ungainly thing.
At the end of the runway, the pilot brakes one wheel and revs the opposite engine to bring the plane about in a U-turn. The flaps are down, the runway stretches wide open before them. Now comes the tricky part: taking off and climbing to cruising altitude. The roar of the engines redoubles, sending shudders down the fuselage, as the pilot coaxes out the full power of the machine, then slowly lets out the brakes. Warily at first, like a captive animal suddenly set free, the plane needs gradually to get up the nerve to make a break for open spaces. It runs and runs, picking up speed. The drooping wings buoy up on the wind and spring taut. Still the pilot reins in the eager plane, pacing the engines until they gain sufficient thrust to fly. Gently he pulls back on the stick to nose the aircraft up; the front wheel lifts off the ground, the weight eases up on the wheels behind, and the plane rises skyward. Air temperature twenty-nine degrees Celsius, combined pilot and passenger weight 160 kilograms, headwind eight knots—and 225 meters of runway in which to clear the nine-meter palm trees—flying is an exacting business.
“Circle a couple of times above Melchor” must mean his passenger wants to view the scenery below, the pilot assumes, so when they reach the three-hundred-meter mark a minute later, he levels off and trims the engines. The plane is all confidence now, ready and willing to take the two of them wherever they want to go for the next few hours.
One nice thing about the British Norman-built Islander is the raised-wing design, which allows an unobstructed field of vision below. Matías gazes down fondly at the peaceful hills of Melchor like some obliging carpet dealer unrolling rare kilims for an unlikely customer. The plane circles clockwise with its right wing dipped slightly, affording Matías an even clearer view of the topography. Seen from this height, Melchor looks so big and bountiful. Directly below is Sarisaran Beach, where he stood and faced Améliana only hours before—a point in time now speeding off into the distance.
Unlike flying over unknown territory, viewing familiar places from above is oddly poignant. So near and dear yet far out of reach, the now-deserted landmarks seem to lie there beyond real life. It’s
as if every coco palm, each trunk, is now untouchable, inviolate. Tin-and-thatch rooftops cluster in a pattern recognizable as Zaran, chalk-white streets stringing the houses together into a necklace knotted with childhood memories, sandy paths never to be walked again. The tropical rainforest canopy offers up a damp leafy smell, but no trace of the fragrant flowers hidden beneath. The sugar fields radiate an intense emerald gleam, but the forbidden fun of chewing stolen sugarcane, the sweet trickle of milky green juice, escapes him. There at arm’s length is a Yuuka Yuumai site, a clearing by the beach the size of his hand, but nowhere he will ever visit again to share in the fervor of his fellow islanders. This must be how Lee Bo sees the world: each particular in uncanny clarity, the entirety remote and unapproachable.
The pilot completes the first circuit, bringing them back over the airfield to start another loop. Presently Sarisaran comes into view. It won’t be long now.
The pilot doesn’t think anything special as he starts the second go-around. He’s fine just taking orders. Do as many circuits as requested, then head back to Baltasár City. There’s plenty of fuel, the weather is perfect for flying. Maybe the President is trying to make his presence felt overhead. Everybody knows this government Islander is used almost exclusively by him; flown at this altitude, everybody on the ground will know it’s the President up here. A good leader needs to keep his eye on the people, and what better way to get a general perspective on all the villages? Or maybe he just wants to reminisce, to revisit childhood haunts and courting places?
Just as he’s thinking this, a sudden gust of wind bursts into the cabin and the plane veers sharply to the right. On the left side of the control panel, a warning light flashes on. He steps hard on the aileron pedal by his right foot to correct the yaw and glances back over his shoulder to find the right-hand passenger door ajar. Through the narrow opening he glimpses a dark mass drop away and disappear, before the wind slams the door shut. The pilot quickly banks the plane to the left, jamming his foot on the left pedal to send the plane into a tight spiral while he cranes his neck to look behind to his left. Far below, at the edge of his field of vision, his eyes barely catch the tiny black speck of a falling object. He strains to see, even as it vanishes into the green mosaic of the ground below.
The Navidad Incident Page 36
