Cryptonomicon

The motorcycle driver is a young Filipino man who keeps grinning broadly, at the risk of getting insects stuck between his big white teeth. He seems to think that he has the best job in the whole world, and perhaps he does. He turns south onto a road that probably qualifies as a big highway around these parts, and commences weaving through traffic. Most of this is produce carts drawn by carabaos--big oxlike things with imposing crescent-moon-shaped horns. There are a few automobiles, and the occasional military truck.

For the first couple of hours the road is straight, and runs across damp table-land used for growing rice. Goto Dengo catches glimpses of a body of water off to the left, and isn't sure whether it is a big lake or part of the ocean. "Laguna de Bay," says the driver, when he catches Goto looking at it. "Very beautiful."

Then they turn away from the lake onto a road that climbs gently into sugar cane territory. Suddenly, Goto Dengo catches sight of a volcano: a symmetrical cone, black with vegetation, cloaked in mist as though protected by a mosquito net. The sheer density of the air makes it impossible to judge size and distance; it could be a little cinder cone just off the road, or a huge stratovolcano fifty miles away.

Banana trees, coconut palms, oil palms, and date palms begin to appear, sparsely at first, transforming the landscape into a kind of moist savannah. The driver pulls into a shambolic roadside store to buy petrol. Goto Dengo unfolds his jangled body from the sidecar and sits down at a table beneath an umbrella. He wipes a crust of sweat and dirt from his forehead with the clean handkerchief that he found in his pocket this morning, and orders something to drink. They bring him a glass of ice water, a bowl of raw, locally-produced sugar, and a plate of pinball-sized calamansi limes. He squeezes the calamansis into the water, stirs in sugar, and drinks it convulsively.

The driver comes and joins him; he has cadged a free cup of water from the proprietors. He always wears a mischievous grin, as if he and Goto Dengo are sharing a little private joke. He raises an imaginary rifle to his face and makes a scratching motion with his trigger finger. "You soldier?"

Goto Dengo thinks it over. "No," he says, "I do not deserve to call myself a soldier."

The driver is astonished. "No soldier? I thought you were soldier. What are you?"

Goto Dengo thinks about claiming that he is a poet. But he does not deserve that title either. "I am a digger," he finally says, "I dig holes."

"Ahh," the driver says, as if he understands. "Hey, you want?" He takes two cigarettes out of his pocket.

Goto Dengo has to laugh at the smoothness of the gambit. "Over here," he says to the proprietor. "Cigarettes." The driver grins and puts his cigarettes back where they came from.

The owner comes over and hands Goto Dengo a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches. "How much?" says Goto Dengo, and takes out an envelope of money that he found in his pocket this morning. He takes the bills out and looks at them: each is printed in English with the words THE JAPANESE GOVERNMENT and then some number of pesos. There is a picture of a fat obelisk in the middle, a monument to Jose P. Rizal that stands near the Manila Hotel.

The proprietor grimaces. "You have silver?"

"Silver? Silver metal?"

"Yes," the driver says.

"Is that what people use?" The driver nods.

"This is no good?" Goto Dengo holds up the crisp, perfect bills.

The owner takes the envelope from Goto Dengo's hand and counts out a few of the largest denomination of bills, pockets them, and leaves.

Goto Dengo breaks the seal on the pack of Lucky Strikes, raps the pack on the tabletop a few times, and opens the lid. In addition to the cigarettes, there is a printed card in there. He can just see the top part of it: it is a drawing of a man in a military officer's cap. He pulls it out slowly, revealing an eagle insignia on the cap, a pair of aviator sunglasses, an enormous corncob pipe, a lapel bearing a line of four stars, and finally, in block letters, the words I SHALL RETURN.

The driver is looking purposefully nonchalant. Goto Dengo shows him the card and raises his eyebrows. "It is nothing," the driver says. "Japan very strong. Japanese people will be here forever. MacArthur good only for selling cigarettes."

When Goto Dengo opens the book of matches, he finds the same picture of MacArthur, and the same words, printed on the inside.