The Navidad Incident by Natsuki Ikezawa Page B

Katsumata down the hallway, then returns to his office.
    â€œThe strangest thing just happened,” he tells Suzuki. “The veterans delegation has disappeared.”
    â€œAll of them?”
    â€œThe whole bus.”
    â€œWith how many people in it?”
    â€œForty-seven Japanese and one of ours, a staffer from the Foreign Office. Plus the driver.”
    â€œForty-nine people. Do you think it’s a hijacking?”
    Uh-oh, didn’t think of that . Could someone on the island really pull off something like that? Never any kidnappings here. The only crime’s when some joker gets drunk and goes berserk, or a village idiot threatens people with a shark harpoon. No one even thinks of nicking a tourist’s handbag. So then who was it knocked down the torii gate? Who put up all those handbills around town? A bus can flip over or run into a palm tree or something, but vanish without a trace? “Impossible,” he says, dismissing the hijack hypothesis flat out. “But just in case, I’m going out with the search team myself, so with your permission I’d like to continue our discussion tomorrow or the next day.”
    â€œVery well then, I’ll stand by at the hotel. Let’s hope and pray they come back safely.”
    That sounds ominous , thinks Matías as he sees Suzuki off.

    It’s late at night in the President’s private apartments. All is quiet. Outside, the night sky swirls with stars, but the only ones who’d care are fishermen eager to read next morning’s weather conditions. As ever, the beauty of nature bores the locals.
    President Matías Guili sits on the sofa and mulls over the afternoon’s events. Earlier in the evening, he visited Angelina’s for a small snifter of cognac and commiseration, too preoccupied for much else. It’s been one hell of a hard day.
    Today’s events call for otherworldly insights, the kind a spirit he knows can provide. He must summon him properly but can barely bring himself to say “Lee Bo,” the ghost of a name.
    He rises from the sofa to fetch a candle, which he lights with the seldom-used coffee table cigarette lighter and places in the equally clunky ashtray beside it. Then he gets up again and turns off the room lights. No drafts enter the room, yet the flame wavers briefly before coming to a stable pinpoint of illumination. As age increases, so does ceremony. He looks at the candle and shakes his head; nothing but protocol lately. Politically, he pretends to tackle each and every situation, but it hardly takes more than a superficial mental swish. Real judgments are rare; he merely moves from ceremony to ceremony. Not once in the last year has he actually had to shift out of autopilot. Probably the last time was that Tamang decision. And he wonders why the days are so monotonous.
    The flame stays perfectly still, not a flicker of movement. He stares until all thought settles like ash. Presently the flame appears to flare. He strains his eyes, then looks up to see sitting there before him … Lee Bo, glowering head-on. Matías nods. The apparition nods back.
    Lee Bo—the erstwhile Leigh Beau—is formally attired in late eighteenth-century English frock coat, kinky hair tied behind in a queue, an intense scowl on his black face. His dark complexion could make him a Navidadian beachboy who chases pale-limbed Japanese tourist girls as they deplane; only his clothing and stern expression would seem out of place.
    â€œBeen a long time.”
    â€œAye,” says Lee Bo in a mannered basso profundo. “How fare the islands in my absence?”
    â€œLots going on, but nothing new at all. Same as ever here below.”
    â€œWords becoming a man half unencumber’d of this mortal sphere.” The voice trails off into echoes, this visible form a mere shadow of his real self millions of leagues away. “Or do you feign this distant air?”
    â€œJust as you might be