Mimi was not alone in her disappointment about Mama’s sudden disappearance—just about everyone in the town had been pleased by the arrival of Mama and Quick Fox. The townspeople knew of Mimi’s two friends more formally as the aircraft carrier Tancho and the destroyer Suzume of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
A year before the arrival of the two ships, three Japanese bars had been established on the waterfront. For the first few days, the existing bars had naturally seen these newcomers as competition that would have to be shut—one way or another. But before any action could be taken, the three spotlessly attired Japanese proprietors had entered each established bar as a group and bowed deeply. The Japanese explained—speaking beautiful Spanish—that Japanese tradition demanded that the Japanese compensate their honorable colleagues for any lost business. The leader of the trio explained that the Japanese would like to pay 500 U.S. dollars each week as “Honor Rent” to each of the established bars.
“Would this be acceptable?”
The established bar owners could not believe their luck. Like clockwork at noon every Wednesday, the leader of the trio would appear at each of the bars, bow deeply to the amused owner, and pass over a small brown paper envelope containing the “Honor Rent.” A local gang had planned a robbery of this arrangement, but Little José of the Spanish Mermaid had heard of this and had the leader’s legs broken—“just to tell all what would happen” if anyone had ideas of hurting the golden Japanese goose.
The three Japanese bars became the focus of drinking on the waterfront, not only because of the cleanliness of the bars—“my God, even the heads are clean,” marveled one U.S. Marine on shore leave—but also because the prices of drinks were the cheapest in the town. Between themselves, the local fishermen mocked the dimwitted Japanese who always paid top-dollar for the fishermen’s catch, and the Japanese always paid in cash, and always in U.S. 100-dollar bills—no more pleading with the local bar owners. Over time, the Japanese opened a restaurant specializing in seafood, which attracted people from all over town. And the Japanese were wonderful hosts; when news reached them of a local family in need, the local parish priest was dispatched with a meal of fish and a small red packet of three U.S. 100-dollar bills, enough for the family to feast every day for six months.
So when the Japanese announced two war ships of the Imperial Japanese Navy would be visiting, a sense of excitement filled the town.
When the Tancho and the Suzume arrived, the first act was a visit by the two captains and the ships’ officers to the mayor at the town hall. The captains and officers lined up in front of the mayor and bowed deeply. The leader of the three Japanese bars from the waterfront acted as translator and explained the nature of the goodwill visit, and suggested to mayor that the town be paid $2,000 per week for anchoring rights in the bay. This delightful surprise raised the mayor’s eyebrows and he smiled, showing the gap of his two missing front teeth. The translator had been careful to ensure the two editors of the local papers were present, but “no photographers please, as we Japanese believe taking photos is bad luck.” As with the phantasy of the “Honor Rent,” this silly explanation was not questioned, especially as the Japanese had become the largest advertisers in the two local papers, and they always paid in cash, “even before the ad runs,” marveled the editors.
It was an ideal arrangement: the Japanese officers had the Japanese bar owners buy fresh fish each day from the fishermen as well as fruit and vegetables from the local farmers. The editors had made some very tentative suggestions about touring the ships; the officers explained that, sadly, this would not be possible and instantly the matter was dropped.
From the shore the sailors could be seen painting and cleaning the two ships; initially, this was seven days a week, but after a priest had mentioned that working on the Sabbath might upset many of the devout local people, Sunday work was immediately stopped. The townspeople could see sailors in different uniforms moving about. Little did the watchers know that the Tancho held only a skeleton crew of 60 sailors who would change their uniforms three times a day to create the illusion of a full complement. Not that this was of concern—the locals were all benefitting from presence of the Japanese and their bottomless supply of dollars; all 100-dollar bills, or as Sasaki had called them, “Franklins.”
News of Cristobal’s good fortune spread quickly. Then the curious news came back to the town that its sister city at the other end of the isthmus had experienced similar good fortune. At first, the local townspeople dismissed this as simple boasting in the truest of Spanish machismo, then some local merchants returned to say, “No, it is true—Vacamonte has a big, big Japanese warship, also accompanied by a little sparrow. And there were also the new Japanese bars—two in this case. And these Japanese bars were as clean as the ones in Cristobal, and the Japanese business men were just as naive and inept as the ones in Cristobal.”
17: The Swede’s Bridegrooms
JOSÉ RODRIGUES SHIVERED as he stood by the black walnut tree in the forecourt of the compound. It was already past ten in the morning and the thin sheet of ice on the pond across the road had just melted. But it was still cold; this was Mexico—wasn’t Mexico always supposed to be warmer than his Spain?
It was the first of the month and he was looking forward to a visit from his exotic visitor from Mexico City. Sure enough, the dust indicated the arrival of the tall Swede’s white car. The 12-cylinder Cadillac came to a stop in its regular parking place. The Swede emerged from the back seat and greeted José,
“All ship shape, eh, José?” (Always, it was this greeting.)
José nodded. The Swede was something to do with the Swedish embassy in Mexico City. José never quite knew and thought it wiser not to ask too many questions as the money was very good and regular and plentiful, and after the past five-year’s torment in Spain, this was a very pleasant change indeed.
“Well, let’s get on with it, I have a second meeting after this.”
José knew of this meeting, as the Swede was distinctive in appearance and had been seen entering the Hotel Centrale, according to some of the other Spaniards. The Swede kept a full-time suite there as well as his three Mexican girls, all under 18, who he frolicked with after the duties of the “Bus Company” were completed. And the Swede made no attempt to hide it—as a diplomat, albeit a corrupt one, he had complete immunity, and more importantly, his dollars were always plentiful to everyone with whom he came in contact.
Together they climbed the external stairs to the catwalk that ran along one side of the building. From the catwalk the Swede could see the progress of the work on the five buses. Later, he would inspect them in detail. But first he needed to check the morale and the state of his “troops,” as he called them.
On the ground floor a single large office occupied the corner by the large double doors. In the office stood 50 men. When the Swede entered, they snapped to attention.