Natsuki Ikezawa

Translated by Alfred Birnbaum

NAVIDAD INCIDENT
The Downfall of Matas Guili

THE

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NAVIDAD INCIDENT
The Downfall of Matas Guili

THE

Natsuki Ikezawa
Translated by Alfred Birnbaum

SAN FRANCISCO

THE NAVIDAD INCIDENT: The Downfall of Matas Guili

Original title: Mashiasu Giri no shikkyaku by Natsuki Ikezawa Copyright Natsuki Ikezawa 1993 Originally published in Japan by Shinchosha, Tokyo. English translation copyright Alfred Birnbaum 2012 English rights arranged through Bureau des Copyrights Franais Map illustration copyright Shinchosha Publishing Co. Ltd. Cover design by Sam Elzway All rights reserved. This book has been selected by the Japanese Literature Publishing Project (JLPP), an initiative of the Agency for Cultural Affairs of Japan. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holders. HAIKASORU Published by VIZ Media, LLC 295 Bay Street San Francisco, CA 94133 www.haikasoru.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ikezawa, Natsuki, 1945 [Mashiasu Giri no shikkyaku. English] The navidad incident : the downfall of Matas Guili / by Natsuki Ikezawa ; translation by Alfred Birnbaum. p. cm. ISBN 978-1-4215-4222-5 I. Birnbaum, Alfred. II. Title. PL853.K45M3713 2012 895.6'35--dc23 2011047498 The rights of the author of the work in this publication to be so identified have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed in the U.S.A. First printing, March 2012

Excerpt begins on page 30

NATSUKI IKEZAWA

An hour later, President Matas Guili is back in his office. The burning flag is still in his thoughts, of course, but hes given Katsumata instructions, so he might as well put it out of mind. Hes got the whole night and early morning hours ahead to ponder what it might mean. The executive secretary shows in a guest, another Japanese from the same flight as the veterans, though he reached the hotel well ahead of them. He didnt see the burning flag. Instead, he found a message to come here while the veterans have some free time to stroll around townalthough, considering their average age, they might all be in bed recuperating from the heat. They have that luxury; the President has no rest. The man stands in the doorway and bows to the prescribed angle. Hes in his fifties, tall and slim, sharp features, dark for a Japanese. A burnt tree of a figure, thinks Matas. Now where did that image come from? Leaves and branches seared away leaving only a charred trunk. Did he see it as a child on his mothers island? Or somewhere in Japan? Matas stands and greets the man. Then, cueing his secretary to leave, he indicates a chair. The man presents his name card and takes a seat. Kanroku Suzuki, wasnt it? says Matas in Japanese before even looking at the card. Yes. Most honored. Ive long awaited the opportunity to meet Your Excellency. Never mind that. Like I always tell people, Im not here forever, so lets get to the point. Hard words to cut a hard image. Not that he believes for a minute his time is so short; he just uses the line to preempt idle chatter. In a developed country he could keep his thumb on the media, but here any two people can talk up no end of rumors. And those rumors spread quickly. A real pain. Very well, as you say, lets get down to business. Suzuki opens his attach case and pulls out a stack of papers. The project is shaping up nicely. Which is why, rather than write or telephone, I felt I should come and explain things personally.

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Polite he is, thinks Matas, politely pushy. No getting a word in edgewise. Suzuki talks fast. I believe you will have had the opportunity to look over the proposal I sent, along with the cover letter from Jitsuzo Kurokawa. However, allow me to review the main points, just to refresh your memory. Never did care much for long-winded formal Japanese, Matas reflects. Toomany empty words. As if the man cant talk straight and respectful at the same time, whatever his ilk. Not a government functionary. Name card makes him out to be director of some globalspeak consulting firm, but thats a red herring. They make up paper companies left and right in Japan. Cant trust corporations. An individual lives only so long, but corporations? Theyre reborn or gobbled up by other corporations. Cant trust a directors title. Does this Suzuki have the face of a corporate man? More likely a free agent flitting between politicians and finance and bureaucracy. What drives a man like this? What makes him tick? Money? Personal glory? Craving for power? The thrill of toying with the machinery of nations? Confidence that someone behind the scenes wields more power than the officials out front? Almost makes him wonder what drives a president like himselfbut no, hell push that to the back of his mind. More late-night material. Obviously Kurokawas taking his cut on the deal along with everyone else. So will any money swim all the way here? A small country like this, its hard to balance what benefits the people with what profits oneself. Still, why all the pseudo-officialese? . . . which is to say, the crux of the plan is the petroleum stockpiling facility to be built at Brun Reef by the Japanese government. Construction will of course be funded entirely from the Japanese side, with maritime area leasing to be paid in perpetuityas long as the facility staysinto your state coffers. Still, the enterprise will require creating a quasi-governmental corporation for negotiations and project implementation . . . Whats this man saying? What kind of talk is this? Matas knows only too well: the kind of talk that moves money and people, the most spellbinding language in the world. Specifically, Suzuki is voicing almost to himself, the facility is to be

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constructed using the simplest and safest methods. Only the smallest portion of the reef will be dredged, just big enough to moor ten refurbished tankers, each with a three-hundred-thousand kiloliter capacity to be filled by other tankers. Alternatively, all ten might arrive already full. I dont have the final word on this. Either way, the tankers will remain at anchor, with no offloading to other ships. Whats the good of that? Matas interjects for the first time. Guaranteed security. After the oil shocks of the seventies, the Japanese government understood that as a singularly vulnerable consumer nation we should lay in emergency stores against fluctuations in oil supplies. For decades, weve built stockpiling facilities at various locations throughout Japan, bringing our reserves to a 180-day supply. Half a years worth of oil. The proposed facility would form one small part of those stores. So why build here? asks Matas. Decentralization. Not putting all our eggs in one basket, so to speak. Less to go wrong in any one place. I know what you must be thinkingwhy so far away? Well, of course, theres the safety quotient of distance. But also, Navidad is situated just off the shipping lanes between the Middle East and Japan. Sounds like weapons, mutters the President unintentionally. Nothing you ordinarily need, but handy to have just in case. Just like nuclear weapons. To be perfectly frank, Your Excellency is absolutely correct. In peacetime, petroleum is a resource, pure and simple. But should international tensions arise, it suddenly becomes a weapon. Though unlike conventional weapons, it has no offensive attack value. Still, those on the supply side can cripple their enemies just by turning off the tap, making it a negative factor weapon. By planting sufficient caches here and there, we guard against such eventualities. Suzuki pauses here in anticipation of some comment, but the President says nothing. Not only is Navidad in a prime location for Japan, with negligible population to be affected by the construction, but the capital investment would

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key into this countrys economic development, its maintenance and management generating a steady rate of employment. Using old ships, isnt there a danger of oil spills? Every precaution will be taken. And if they still leak? Everyones so vocal these days. Five fish belly up, the whole country goes crazy. And not just here, half the world will be up in arms, pointing fingers at us. We stand ready with oil fences and other technologies, and in the improbable event of any mishap, financial compensation. It is a Japanese undertaking after all. And the remuneration for the maritime leasing? An extremely delicate question. (At last we get to the heart of the matter, thinks Matas.) We may propose various bases of calculation. One way might be in terms of land value, but how exactly to establish equivalents? Whereas compensation for the fishing there, however important to the lives of the local populace, amounts to practically nothing monetarily. Various options deserve consideration before we settle on a plan. Wouldnt bet on it, thinks Matas. This man hasnt come here without a specific sum in mind. What if we look at it from the viewpoint of how much this will help Japan? Meaning? Meaning, what if we regard your petroleum as a kind of insurance, then hash out premiums. Say we value the peace of mind from having three hundred thousand kiloliters stockpiled here at one percent of its market valuepurely hypothetical numbers. That should be simple enough to figure out. At twenty-five dollars per barrel . . . Suzuki wriggles his fingers, telling the beads of an imaginary abacus. That makes 4.7 million dollars a year, or a little over five billion yen. Quite a tidy sum. My one percent was purely hypothetical. Insurance premiums are highly arbitrary. In any case, theres plenty of room for negotiation. Matas bides his time, just to impress upon his visitor that hes the one running this discussion. The main issue is much more basic.

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And what issue might that be? Namely, why should my country let you line up your ugly tankers on our beautiful coral reef and run the risk of an oil spill just to ensure the security of Japan? Did you think Id jump at the mere mention of money? Nothing could be further from my mind. Which is precisely why, in the order of business, or rather of proper etiquette, I took it upon myself to go over the main points. Right. As you say, why Navidad? Again, rather than go into all the details, let me just cite the proximity to Japans oil routes, ideal reef conditions, the small population, the welcome absence of intellectuals to object to a project of this sort, and . . . . . . and a president whos easy on the take? Curiously enough, I myself advanced that very same opinion. To whom? Matas looks the man in the face but shelves the question. Well, consider it an achievement that hes showing a shade more honest slime. Suzuki smiles back at Matas. But forget our position. What matters here are your countrys long-term priorities. I wouldnt claim to be an expert, but let me offer a few, perhaps untoward observations. My apologies in advance. What a funny man, thinks Matas. The way he keeps changing colors. Up to a minute ago he was a dyed-in-charcoal-gray bureaucrat, now suddenly hes the visiting lecturer in international relations. Slippery, but also a prime mover. Lubricant that turns to fuel. To put it bluntly, your country is too small. Say we posit the optimum size for a country to be a million or more; anything less is a logistical disadvantageyou survive in peacetime, but come war you disappear. A population of seventy thousand is nothing. You get by as islands, but in the middle of a continent your country would never exist to begin with. Likewise, economically, Navidads national budget derives almost entirely from foreign aid, from US and Japanese ODA, Suzuki argues, hammering home his disagreeable logic. Point taken, acknowledges President Guili. Up to now that was fine. The underside of Cold War tensions was safe.

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Materially sufficient. But in the century to come there will be shortages, north and south will fight over resources, foist toxic wastes onto one another. Were entering a period of global realignment. And when elephants fight, the safest place for a mouse is on an elephants back. So youre saying we should ride with Japan? In a word, yes. Fortunately, Your Excellencys affinities with Japan run deep. Navidad looks to its farsighted President to secure relations between our two countries. By means of an oil tanker stockpile? asks Matas. To entrust something of importance is to forge a bond of trust. The bureaucrat resurfaces with his specious phrases. With Japans strategic materials kept here, any attack would be an attack against Japan. A security pact by default. No, what scares me is that the bond will become too strong. The bond is not cement. Only a few million dollars a year, surely? There are prewar precedents. What is that supposed to mean? I mean, Navidad and the other League of Nations island protectorates in your so-called Domestic South Seas effectively became Japanese colonies or military bases. We saw terrible fighting during the war, then later the Japanese government made no appreciable reparations. I grant that youre our closest major power, and Im personally acquainted with Japan. That still leaves me plenty of reasons not to trust your country implicitly. Most regrettable, Suzuki apologizes. A sentence without a subject. Who regrets? The Japanese people? The government? The man himself? But those days are gone. Open warfare is a thing of the past. Whos to say? The surest way to secure resources is to colonize the resource country. You yourself said as much a minute ago, talking about the century to come. All the more reason to find safety under Japans wing. Suddenly elephants sprout wings. Enough. Lets leave it there for today and meet again tomorrow. We each have things to sort out before then. Not a bad start, thinks Matas, even more inclined to favor the project than before.

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At the dinner reception, the delegations deputy leader, former Naval Ensign Saigo, makes a speech: At this time, on behalf of our entire delegation, I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to His Excellency the President and to the Republic of Navidad for the magnificent banquet that has been laid before us. Thinking back, it was nearly fifty years ago that we sailors of the Imperial Navy came to defend these islands. When I reflect that half a century has passed, my emotions know no bounds. Can fifty years really have gone by so quickly? Can we have aged so much? It makes me realize all the more the impermanence of human life. When we were stationed here, we comrades-in-arms were mere youths in our twenties. Leaving home for the sake of our country, with pride in our chests we sailed to these solitary islands and engaged in mortal combat with the encroaching enemy, losing many before returning to Japan desolate and bereaved. Now fifty years on, treading these sands once again to comfort the souls of the many noble comrades who died, I cannot help but feel their sacrifice was not in vain. In my heart of hearts I know it is because of them that Japan prospers, that the world is at peace, and that their children and grandchildren enjoy the happiness they have today. Losing ones comrades is hard, blusters the big bald-headed old officer. Losing ones subordinates is hard. Men forced to drink muddy slurry for lack of water, to eat grass for lack of food, only to perish with fever for lack of medicine. Harder still is it to see ones friends with arms and legs torn asunder by mercilessly superior American firepower, covered with blood, screaming in agony. It was hard to see them die that way. Yet is it not precisely because of what we endured that we worked so arduously after the war, pushing forward on the battlefield of industry to build up todays Japan? We have come this far thanks to those buddies of ours looking over our shoulders. And so it is only fitting that finally, fifty years after leaving behind their earthly remains to board the sadly departing ships, we return with renewed respect.

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And yet the souls of our comrades-in-arms, the courageous spirits of our bright-eyed shipmates, never thought to linger in this remote and alien place. For though they left their corpses scattered in the jungle gloom, their souls took wing, each and every one, to fly back to their beloved Japan. Some may scoff when I say this, his voice creeping up a note, but I saw them. I shall never forget the day, April 25, 1944, in the harrowing aftermath of the saturation bombing that obliterated our Command HQ, when I watched as one white bird then another flew up from the bodies of our comrades strewn about the smoldering ashes and, once the American planes had gone, circled the blue sky, then went winging off to the north-northeast. What was that flock if not the courageous souls of the Greater Japanese Imperial Forces who selflessly met their deaths on these lonely South Sea isles? I have heard similar reports from other places on the islands. Not a few of you, Im sure, may also recall such startling scenes. Thats right, those fallen heroes turned into pure white birds and flew off to their beloved Yamato. Unable to defend their ancestral homeland in life, they flew northward over the vast ocean to guard the nation in spirit. Indeed, I would submitand in no uncertain termsthat as hard as we have worked these fifty years to give our comrades-in-arms comfort by rebuilding postwar Japan, in a sense it is they who have comforted us. They who have tirelessly watched over us. And so we come now to these antipodes not only to remember those painful times, to grieve together with them as fathers, husbands, brothers, but to dedicate ourselves anew. If by some oversight any of their bones were missed in the repatriation of remains, let us find them. Let this be our cause: to consecrate an altar upon which to offer our deepest, purest prayers! Recalling those days of sufferinghis voice sinks low and sinisterthe spiritual strength of our generation must rise again! Those who have betrayed their heritageour mindless youthmust be opposed! That above all is the true purpose of our noble mission. Is it not time to take action, to lay anew the foundations of the once-and-forever Greater Japan? Right, mutters President Matas Guili in native Gagigula, just keep telling yourself that.

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The President has visited Angelinas place once or twice a week since 1977 when she first set up on the island. Unlike the Japanese bath in his official residence or the limousine that came with his presidency, this affair with Angelina is strictly private; shes the only true love hes ever known. Most decisions he talks over with Angelina; he needs her to let him see the issues objectively. Hes always demanded a lot from his women, but never lots of women. That much hasnt changed from the time of his long stable marriage to Mara Guili. Matas makes a brief appearance at drinks after dinner with the veterans, but cant bring himself to join in their mellow mood of nostalgia and ducks out without fanfare. Their positions are now decisively reversedthe politico who was once just an errand boy, the servicemen who are now doting old losersbut they dont know that. They dont recognize the Japanese-speaking local big shot as the little brat they used to boss around: Get me some palm wine! Get me a woman! Get me some decent fish! And Matas hasnt the least intention of telling them. Heinrich drives slowly as he always does these nights, easing the Nissan to a stop behind Angelinas brothel. Matas opens the car door himself and enters the building by an inconspicuous green door. Straight on down a dark hallway, he heads up a small staircase and opens a hardwood door to another dark hall. He pauses to part the heavy curtains along the wall to peer down on the floor below where men in suits or aloha shirts lounge with scantily clad young women, talking in hushed tones or tipping back drinks as they hold hands. The usual peaceful picture, jazz playing softly in the background. At a table to the far right sit two white men, Ketch and Joel. They never seem to change. Indeed, ever since they started coming here, doing odd custodial chores during the day, theyve become a permanent feature. Look in at this hour and theyll be at a table for two with a bottle of twelve-year-old I.W. Harper planted in the middle. Every night its the same: they down a bottle of bourbon while playing chess or teasing the girls or whispering secret in-jokes. Sometimes they just sit and stare. The two of them polish off the bottle, then

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retire to their private room where they fall asleep on a queen-sized bed in each others arms. There was a time when Matas couldnt stand the sight of them. They reminded him of something, but now theyre such cornerstones of his existence that its become a ritual to check in on them. Seeing the two of them there, he feels relieved. He can dismiss the awkward associations they arouse. Hes even grown rather fond of them, and if it suits his mood, hell go have a drink with them. Theyre witty, veritable fountains of information, the best kind of drinking partners. Not that it diminishes the problem, though. Its been almost a year since it all happened. Still, what will he do when they finally up and leave? No chat with them tonight, however. Matas heads on into Angelinas room and pulls a half-hidden cord. The bell makes only the faintest ring, yet Angelina never misses it. At this hour shell be downstairs directing drinks to different tables, catching up on the talk of the town, fielding gripes from the girls, but as soon as she hears the tinkle shes out of there. Evening, says Angelina, a slight Filipina lilt to her English. What you drinking? Whew, am I tired. Todays been a killer. You always say that. But really you got plenty of spring in you. Its just pretend bounce. Better give me a hit. Yeah, and a small bottle of champagne. Oh? Thats fresh, she says, pulling a thin gold chain from her cleavage to retrieve a tiny pendant key. She unlocks an ebony chest and takes out a tiny jar. Then, opening the icebox fitted into the lower compartment of the chest, she extracts a half-bottle of Mot & Chandon. What, no glasses? How many times do I got to tell them? Always keep a pair chilled! She picks up the telephone by the door and calls down to one of the girls. The maids gone home by now, and Ketch and Joel only work days, their noontime energies evaporated in a cloud of alcohol. Unexpectedly, a slim young woman Matas has never seen before appears. Not Filipina by the look of her. Dark rosewood complexion, with big eyes. Big lips too, but drawn tight, giving the impression of someone who gets her own

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way. Wheres this face from, thinks Matas, watching her deposit the glasses and leave. Who was that? New face. Now dont you get ideas. Hired her as a maid, chides Angelina as she pops open the champagne and pours two glasses. Remember Magda, used to work here? Not really. You had her once. Short girl, big tits. From Melchor? That jogs the Presidents memory. Another Melchor islander, eh? Ah yes, her. Well, this one comes by her introduction. Said shes a friend of a friend. Come looking for cleaning work. But you never know, once she see how much the other girls make, she might change her mind. Matas is still eyeing the door where she disappeared, champagne flute held between his chubby fingers. He meets a hundred people a day and forgets ninety-nine. Others remember him, of course; thats the privilege of position. Somehow, though, he just knows hell remember her tomorrow. Hard to forget such an unusual face. Something about her, says Angelina. She sees things. Usually doesnt say a word, just cleans and does laundry. But sometimes she look up and say, Storm coming. And honest to god, storm really does come. She can predict the weather? And not just weather. She see a new customer, she say, He gonna get drunk and fall asleep. Thing is, its true. The john just drink himself to sleep on the sofa. Think she can predict the future of the country? Oh cmon, shes not that good. His face clouds over, hes said something he shouldnt have. He drops the subject and concentrates on the bubbles in his glass. Meanwhile, Angelina scoops a dab of thick black paste from the jar onto a miniature plate, lights it with a match, and carefully lowers the smoking resin into a coffee cup. Then, covering the cup with a saucer, she passes it to the President. Putting aside his glass, he slides back the saucer lid and inhales.

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A warm, familiar, mown-grass smell fills the room. The smoke soon takes effect: pleasure liquefies in the depths of his brain, drowning him happily. Makes the champagne taste completely different. Even turns water into champagne. Still, you asking for a hit, been a long time. Mm. Just so dead tired today. Dont like dealing with the Japanese. You, the leader of the pro-Japan faction? Thats ideology. Business. Personal feelings are something else. Undress, will you? Angelina rises to her feet and peels off what shes wearing, one piece at a time. Not making any special show of stripping for him, nor simply going through the motions, but enjoying the feel of letting each layer lightly graze her skin and fall away. No, everything, drones Matas, drowsily pointing to her underwear. I see you there and the whole world is mine. All the women in the world stand before me while I just watch. You know why? Ignoring the query, Angelina reaches around behind her back and unhooks. She bends over, holding her breasts, and lays the bra on the chaise longue. One leg at a time, she steps out of her last article of clothing. Give it to me, says Matas, handing her the hash cup. She savors the warmth in the palm of her hands, the smoky sweet fragrance infusing upwards. Id be happy just to spend each night like this. So why dont you? Just hole up with me someplace. Cant. This is what every man in the world wants, and yet its still not enough. Its the workday that makes the night such magic. Or am I wrong? Do I look like a philosopher? Angelina stands just out of reach, running her hands leisurely over her skin, midriff to breasts. She takes three steps back and pulls aside a heavy velvet curtain to reveal an alcove bed, where she now reclines. Matas grabs up both champagne flutes together with the hash cup and moves to the bedside chair. Really ought to export more of this stuff to Japan. Not for the money. I just want that country to loosen up a bit. One diplomatic pouch at a times not much business, says Angelina.

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And I cant say I much care for dealing with Kurokawa on the receiving end either. Got to branch out. Such a big, rich country, and theyre so uptight. They think theyre so together, no foreign riffraff. Too damn well behaved for their own good, never making waves. Flood the country with this shit, and we might see some real honest-to-goodness egos. Egotists, the whole lot of em, but each one alones such a wimp, slurs Angelina, breathing in a puff of hash. She raises one knee to spread before him the part of her shes most proud of, the part he loves the best. That tuft of pubic hair is beautiful: wispy brown against her pale skin, the way it divides into whorls left and right as it covers her little mound, fertile with promise of joys to come. He feels an urge to put his hands together and pray to her, a divinity liberated from the individual person of Angelina. The least bead of dew glistens in the chandelier light. Is this the sanctum, the transcendence that Matas seeks? To worship or not to worship? Aw, fuck em, he concurs. Theyre so simple, so bound to morals. Swallowing every word from the top down, no questions asked. No one thinks for himself. Just give me the proper endorsement, every corner convenience stored be selling the stuff. Worth a try. Team up with some bigwig. Not bad. Not bad at all. Get it legalized, supply it single-handed. Itd be fun, he mumbles, fingertips poised not in prayer, but ready to dive in.

Two hours later, the President heads out without a word to anyone, just like when he arrived. Angelina sees him to the door in her dressing gown, then returns to her room. Stepping back inside, she notices the lingering hash odor. She takes a deep breath and yawns. The salon downstairs is quiet, with probably only Ketch and Joel still around. She goes to her ebony chest, kneels to open a drawer, and pulls out what looks like a letter. Stripping off her dressing gown, she climbs back onto the messy bed and unfolds the paper. She stares at it for a long timefive minutes, ten minutesthen silently, secretly, begins to cry. Her tears drip onto

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the page, and soon its all wet. Big wet words. Words that someone has been posting all over town for more than a week now: The earth shall accept thee Angelina doesnt understand what its supposed to mean. Nobody does. Nobody but the person or persons who stuck them up. All she knows is, it has something to do with the President. Why does she cry when she looks at it? Its been like this for five nights running. Why cant she bring herself to tell Matas, whom this surely concernswhy keep the handbill hidden away? She doesnt even want to think about it. But at night, after the President returns to his villa, she takes it out and contemplates what must bode some grave fate for the President and herself. Just how and when that fate will disclose itself, she has no idea. She feels like praying to this handbill, just as Matas felt the urge to pray to her pubic hair and moistened lipsbut she too refrains. She touches the page and goes on weeping.

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