Gang of Four

I’m not superstitious and I do not talk to the dead, even if they do seem a bit restive. This is the season of the ending of a great horror a long time ago, and there are those who do talk to those that died, and their voices still rise, strident for those who cannot speak.

Or maybe I can hear something. I don’t know.

It is tomorrow in Guam now, across the dateline, another anniversary of something good coming from something awful. It is the anniversary of the surrender there, an arbitrary date to commemorate a radio broadcast of a reedy voice announcing a surrender, a small party of bewildered little men in top-hats and morning coats assembled on the deck of a mighty ship, submarines bobbing to the surface on the wide Pacific, crews arguing about what to do, men in the jungle melting back, rifles in hand, convinced it was all a trick.

So arbitrary dates are just that. The dog took me for a walk in the relative coolness of the morning. He made it three quarters of the way around the placid campus and then gave up and sat down. I agreed with him. This will be a day for sitting and waiting for the temperature to break.

I coaxed the dog back into Big Pink with the promise of a biscuit for his cooperation, and even told him we could use the front door into the marble foyer so he would not have to walk too far. We entered the outer glass door and I fished in the pocket of my khaki shorts for the ring of keys that held the key to the front door.

The new Sunday lady buzzed us in before I could insert the key. She appears to be from South Asia somewhere, with a gentle smile and gracious manner. I thanked her for the courtesy, and yet I wondered about it.

I didn’t know her, and as far as I knew, she did not know me. I did not recall any incidents that would have brought me to the lobby in the small hours of a Sunday morning.

Besides, if there had been some interlude that I did not immediately recall, I would be written up in the Red Book, and someone would have talked to me about it, either with a grin or a summons to appear before the Condominium Association.

The protocol here is to call the desk, and see if they can resolve things locally before calling the cops.

The dog was already tired, and when we were back in the safe coolness of the poolside unit, I glanced at the Times on-line.

I am not going to give up on the internet, not now that I have invested so much in it, but the security features of the Windows computer operating system seemed to be at war with the America On Line enhanced viewing experience and the Times server seems to have some problems of its own.

I must have logged in five or six times attempting to forward an article that suggested that all the new cars with Bluetooth hands-free telephone connections are vulnerable to a simple commercial eaves-dropping device, and that the ubiquitous OnStar system that is in my car seems to be at the same risk.

I know a lot of people who have very serious discussions in comfort and privacy of their own cars, not to mention other things, and I was naturally alarmed. But I couldn’t forward the warning. Maybe I will have to print it out, fold it carefully in my briefcase, and wave it around at the office on Monday.

There was another story, one I didn’t want to forward. It just stopped me dead, stunned. I have been in a contemplative mood the last week or so, thinking about the atomic cities, and my own role in the long twilight struggle. I am at peace with it, by and large, but the story of the morning baffled me.

The Japanese have had their moments that are not “Hello Kitty!” and dignified victim-hood with white doves flying. I am at peace with that, too. Like the morning on the island of Guam in July of 1944. Guam was an American territory when the Emperor’s sailors ravaged Pearl Harbor, and unlike the Hawaiian Islands, the Emperor’s men came to Guam and stayed.

But that morning the Americans were back, and a squad of the Emperor’s men went down to the villages and rounded up the locals who had associations with the previous administration. Then they shot them, and threw grenades on the bodies and bayoneted anyone that twitched. It was, as I understand it, a sort of pro-active anti-terrorism operation.

The people of Guam who lived through it are understandably angry about it. But a treaty signed the year I was born between the new, peaceful government of Japan and the victors absolved the struggling Japanese economy of any liability for the crimes the Emperor’s men had committed.

Consequently, there is a bill before the Congress which would compensate the heirs-and-assigns of the murdered Guamanians from the US Treasury. It would establish a program similar to that accorded the Japanese-Americans who were unjustly interned during the war. That program paid around $20,000 to each claimant, for a total $1.6 billion dollars.

There are eighty-three Congressional sponsors supporting the” Guam World War II Loyalty Recognition Act,” which will cost about $135 million. I suppose I support the program, too. I mean, shouldn’t somebody pay for murder?

I was a little agitated that you and I are going to pay for it, though. I opened the door to the patio where the air was already about the same temperature as my coffee. The dog did not stir.

I was mildly surprised to see a moderately young woman with a fierce gaze stride up the walkway to the side entrance to the building. I don’t know everyone in Big Pink, but this woman did not fit the profile. Big Pink is a place for Yuppies, the elderly and the middle-aged in life transitions. This woman with the hat pulled low on her face did not live here.

She looked neither right nor left and did not acknowledge my presence. She seemed to know what she was doing, though. She strode boldly to the side door, produced a key, and disappeared into the first floor corridor.

Theoretically, the little woman at the desk would see an image of the door on the little TV monitors the Government installed years ago when the Speaker of the House lived here. But I doubted if the flicker of the woman across the screen would be enough to cause her to rise from her chair, much less make an entry in the Red Book.

I looked at the blue water of the pool, deceptively cool. The heat advisory is supposed to go on until the sun disappears tonight. I smoked a cigarette and went back into the unit to see if the computer had come to a truce with itself. I heard the slam of the side door. I glanced out the window and saw the moderately young woman talking to three moderately young men.

I knew the kind. Caucasian. Scruffy. Oily hair, like they lived partially out of their cars. There was some animated discussion and the gang of four disappeared down the concrete stairs to the garage level. There is a lot of stuff down there; the changing rooms for the pool, the exercise room and the men and women’s sauna. And of course, all the cars, the ones valuable enough that people pay extra to have them out of the elements.

I was curious, but it was hot. I advanced my personal readiness condition to “Orange,” and listened for sounds of trouble. Should I maintain a vigil on my patio? Produce my old naval sword like a dotty member of an antique Admiralty?

None of the gang reappeared, or at least they did not emerge from any door near the pool. But of course, there are plenty of exits from the garage, or places to stay, for that matter.

The appointed hour came and Carl the lifeguard showed up and unlocked the gate. I plunged into the blue waters as soon as I could scamper across the pool deck, stopping only to sign the white registry book. The water was semi-cool.

As soon as the sun peaked over the rampart of the west tower, the sun worshippers appeared, and old Jack ventured out before the heat trapped him inside for the rest of the day. He doesn’t swim anymore, but he likes to look at the swimsuits while he still can.

He took a chair close to Marty II and Loren, the lithe tan champion. He was looking at Marty’s bust with great interest.

I mentioned the Gang of Four. “It looked like at least one of them had a key to the outer door,” I said.

Jack shrugged. “That don’t surprise me none. Do you know the last time they changed the outside locks?”

Marty II looked up, vaguely alarmed, since she lives by herself. “When?”

“1973,” said Jack. “There must be a thousand of them keys out there.”

I contemplated that news and a drop of sweat beaded on my forehead, then rolled down behind the lens of my glasses. The salt stung.

“Well,” I said, “Maybe they just use the laundry rooms.”

Jack laughed that dry parchment laugh of his. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe just laundry.”

Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

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