The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  The cleaner shook his head and continued with his toil. He didn’t notice the young man looked faint and needed air. He didn’t see him stumble towards the window and open it. Far below him, a crowd gathered, like a swarm of ants, in front of the New York Stock Exchange.

  The young man gasped, unable to comprehend what was going on. He looked around – his large office, always buzzing with excited brokers, bragging about their latest deal or buttering up a wealthy client on the telephone, was now empty. Even that latest machine, the telex, continuously spewing out reams of paper with market prices, was dead. His boss had left town. His colleague on the desk beside him had rushed to the bank, to rescue his savings.

  As he held the window wide open, the cold air on his face gave him a chilling sense of impending liberation. He shuddered and thought of his lovely wife and two small kids. He started sobbing but knew there was no other way out. He didn’t turn around when the cleaner screamed, “Don’t do it!”

  The NYPD policeman patted the old cleaner on the shoulder once he’d finished his terrible tale, and kept the newspaper reporters at bay.

  In Boston, John came home to find his apartment building in commotion. His father met him on the stairs and the old man’s face crumbled – John had never seen him in tears before. Gerry Murray was dead.

  What the hell happened? Everyone admired how Gerry pulled himself out of poverty. Nobody really fathomed how he’d done it – an investment bank clerk living it up. Now it emerged those financial deals he’d dabbled in had gone sour and his investments had become worthless when the stock market crashed. His father sobbed: Gerry had become bankrupt almost overnight – unable to repay his large loan. And who had he borrowed from? The Irish mob.

  Gerry would have known the mob would come after him and the only way out for him was to kill himself.

  His father poured him a furtive glass of whiskey and John dried his tears. At least Mick Faughnan wouldn’t have to harass his childhood friend Gerry for repayment, he thought.

  Mick had done well for himself since joining the Irish mob. A new suit or two, a gold watch and that voluptuous, blonde girlfriend, Sally – always willing to help Mick spend his money – impressed his new friends but worried his family. His father’s landlord loved him but not so his old boss, Mr Kelly – Mick visited him monthly and smirked at the look of disgust on Kelly’s face as he handed over the protection money.

  Protection from what… from whom? Those hoodlums, of course; nobody dared say who they were, but they enjoyed smashing shop windows and looting. The police just shrugged when Kelly implored help.

  The following day, John summoned the strength to break the tragic news about Gerry at the boxing club. Best to go early in the morning, before the funeral, he thought, so he could also see Mick, who trained hard every day, building his body and sharpening the tools of his trade, as he put it.

  They’d already heard the news at the boxing club, but Mick wasn’t there.

  “Haven’t you heard? He’s back at Charles Street jail,” said the club receptionist.

  “What the hell happened?” said John, wailing.

  The boxing gym trainer took John aside, “Do you remember that night in the speakeasy when a man fell and died after the brawl?” How could John have forgotten: he’d also ended up in jail that night. “Well, the prosecutor needed to find someone to charge for manslaughter and a witness – a guy called Kelly – swore Mick was to blame.”

  But the Irish mob would wade in to defend one of their own, wouldn’t they? Well, apparently, Mayor Crowley needed to show he was cleaning up his town – a deal had been struck, with a mobster to be sacrificed.

  The trainer gave John a hug, “See you later at Gerry’s funeral.”

  Back home, John embraced his father and they stood in silence. What the hell was going on? First they’d lost Gerry and now Mick was in danger. It had always been like that – success was a mirage for the poor. In reality, they either sought a patron like Mr Randall, played high stakes games like Gerry or flouted legality like Mick.

  John swallowed hard: the only way for him was to get that doctorate and secure an academic job like his father. He sighed as the smiling faces of Gerry and Mick tormented him.

  John craved consolation. At least he was seeing Lisa this weekend. He needed to share some good news. So, better get down to the library to see when that job started.

  Sure enough, there was Jones, looking as sullen as he’d been for the past ten years.

  “Hi Jonesy, how’s it going?” said John. Jones looked up and his index finger found his lips – silence. Good, at least we’ve established contact, thought John.

  “I just came to see when I can start work,” said John, smiling.

  Jones appeared surprised but, eventually, his face managed a smile. Something’s up: Jonesy’s never been seen smiling, mused John. After what felt like an eternity, Jones spoke,

  “Ah, yes, the job… bad news, I’m afraid… err, John, is it?”

  Although it was a struggle, John managed to extract the news from Jones, “The university has cut the library’s budget. There’s a shortfall in funds from usual benefactors. You know… the economic crisis. So they can’t employ another person in the library.”

  “Oh no… when do you think there’ll be a job?” said John.

  “Umm… maybe next year, maybe never,” was the best Jones could offer.

  In the past days, hours, John’s life had been turned upside down. First Gerry, then Mick, and now the job he needed to marry Lisa. Jones had hammered the last nail in the coffin. Damn it, where had he gone wrong? Why had Jesus abandoned him?

  At first, Lisa couldn’t find words when he told her. Then, her lips twitched and her eyes moistened. John could almost read what was going through her mind. Gerry, Mick… she knew they were John’s best friends; and now, no job. Her mind processed the facts and reported to her heart – it felt numb; nature’s protection. She couldn’t think, so she said nothing. What had been a few days ago, was no longer. Their little apartment, the simple furniture she’d chosen; struggling upstairs with a small baby – no longer a problem. Simply, no job meant no confrontation with her father, no wedding, no children and no life together. No, don’t think. Cry, just cry and find comfort.

  She turned to John and kissed him. Which of them needed more consolation, her or him? A hurricane had engulfed them and right now they had to seek refuge. Sitting there, in each other’s arms, somehow, they fell asleep. Yes, that was the best way to pull through.

  When they woke, Lisa was still in shock, but John had prepared himself. There was only one way out.

  “Honey, you know I’ve got to take Randall’s offer,” he said.

  “Yes, I know. Perhaps it’s all worked out for the better. You never really wanted that boring job in the library, did you?” she said.

  “Of course I did – I told you I was going to accept it,” he said.

  “No, John, you were suffering when you told me you’d turn down Randall’s offer: it was what you really wanted, wasn’t it?” she said and then sighed, “When will you go to Peru?”

  “Umm… soon.”

  “And when will you return?” He shook his head, “Don’t know.”

  Lisa sighed: instead of marrying and living together, there’d only be letters with stale news; pieces of paper arriving in the post every other week. Would she be able to bear it?

  She did know that continuing to live under her father would be unbearable. She sniffled, then pulled herself together, pursed her lips and nodded. John said nothing – there wasn’t anything he could say.

  I’ll never get another opportunity like Randall’s, thought John. And I’ll get away from here and not end up like poor Gerry and Mick.

  The Santa Clara ship would leave Boston on 3rd November. A long but exciting trip, with stops in New York, Panama and Guayaquil, before arriving a
t Callao, Peru’s main port, near the capital, Lima.

  Randall summoned John the day before embarkation. For the first time, John saw him smile.

  “Now, listen to me, boy. The sweeter life is… the more sugar we consume. Until this crisis arrived, the American economy grew, year after year, and so did our consumption of candy, soft drinks like Coca Cola and ice cream. So we needed to import more and more sugar.” John nodded – where was Randall leading?

  “This economic crisis won’t last long, so now is the time to secure supplies of sugar. If we can buy Peruvian sugar plantations cheaply now, we can earn bigger profits selling sugar in the USA in the future” said Randall, his eyes shining brighter and… had John noticed him on the verge of drooling?

  “And if we send ships to Peru to load sugar, we can also bring bananas from Ecuador instead of Central America. That son-of-a-bitch Sandino even wants to take over my banana plantations, for God’s sake. If we stopped buying their bananas, you’d see how soon those miserable Central American peasants ditched Sandino and begged us to buy from them again,” said Randall, chuckling as he puffed on his cigar.

  But Randall’s smile swiftly vanished as he waved an arm in the air and fumed, “Sandino, Leguía, Sánchez-Cerro, Haya – why do these stupid Latin American politicians have to interfere with my business?”

  Then, Randall recovered his composure, “Anyway, the Foundation has important business in Peru and you have a role to play. I’ll be waiting for your information. Now, Peter Bush, our man at the embassy in Lima, will explain everything and introduce you to Professor Kemmerer,” said Randall.

  John nodded, “Yes, sir.”

  “By the way, Peter has arranged for you to be met at the port in Peru by a young man called…” Randall checked his papers, “Yes: Pedro Vargas – apparently a law student. He’ll arrange your accommodation and help you find your way around.”

  “Great, sounds really great, sir,” said John as he bid farewell to Randall, recalling his father’s words: “With Randall it’s black or white: you’re either with him, all the way, or against him.” So far, so good, thought John.

  The Santa Clara was a cargo ship with a section to accommodate the crew and a few passengers in cheap cabins. Due to the economic crisis, the ship hold was half empty, but it would return to the USA full of raw materials and foodstuff bought at rock bottom prices in South America.

  The first night on board, John was walking across the deck to join the crew and fellow passengers for dinner when he made out a female silhouette coming towards him out of the darkness.

  Under a lamp, John met a smiling face, framed by short, styled black hair, curled at the ends, under a simple but fashionable hat. Her light cinnamon skin matched the Latin air about her. Her light make-up emphasised smooth cheekbones and warm red lips. He courteously took his hat off.

  “You’re John, right? I’m Yolanda Ramos. A friend from Harvard told me you’d be travelling on this ship,” she said.

  “Hey, what a coincidence,” said John.

  “Yeah, and I’ve heard you’ll be working with Professor Kemmerer’s mission in Peru,” said Yolanda.

  “That’s right,” said John, battling not to frown – why did this lady know so much about him?

  Yolanda was a brilliant young Peruvian student, from a poor family, returning to Peru after a year at Harvard on a scholarship, preparing her doctorate in international law. She’d researched and proposed reforms into Peru’s laws and regulations for foreign investments, monopolies, exchange controls and remittance of profits abroad, customs rules on imports and other factors affecting international business. Her supervisor at Harvard was impressed by her ground-breaking research. But her findings were taking a turn unexpected by her sponsor: foreign investment approval decisions at the whim of corrupt Peruvian politicians, customs officials becoming rich, foreigners monopolising oil and mining resources with little benefit for Peru, or the Peruvian elite keeping their wealth abroad.

  Was she falling under the influence of those damn socialists and communists? Perhaps not but, anyway, Yolanda’s research scholarship wasn’t renewed and she was going home.

  Listening to her, John thought about Professor Kemmerer’s mission advising the Peruvian government – those politicians and officials wouldn’t like to be confronted with the stuff she’d unearthed.

  “Is this your first trip to Peru, John?” she said. John nodded.

  “Did you know there’s a general strike and the new government has declared a state of emergency?”

  John shook his head as Yolanda continued, “Yeah, the new president won’t allow anyone challenging him – he’ll crack down hard on demonstrators.”

  “Sounds bad,” said John.

  “And miners have taken two American engineers hostage. As you’re American you’ll have to be careful,” she said.

  Yolanda was a great conversationalist and John reflected how his father, and even Randall, would enjoy listening to her.

  “So, what part of Peru are you from, Yolanda?”

  “From the north – I was born and grew up on Hacienda Chicama, a large sugar plantation, near the city of Trujillo. You know, much sugar consumed in the USA comes from northern Peru.”

  “Aha… and what’s the hacienda like?”

  “It belongs to a German family, the Schultz. It’s so large they’ve even built a town to house their employees and their own railway to transport sugar cane across the hacienda,” said Yolanda.

  “And what’s the latest news about how things are going on the hacienda?” asked John, assuming the economic crisis was wreaking havoc.

  “Umm… not good. Not good, at all. The problem is the price of sugar is falling on international markets, so many haciendas are making horrendous losses,” said Yolanda, frowning.

  John assented – yes, Peruvian haciendas were dependent on selling to large foreign food companies, like Randall’s.

  “All my family rely on Hacienda Chicama for a living. My father is the train driver, my elder brother works in the sugar mill, and the younger one in the rum distillery, and my mother washes clothes in the Schultz family home. If Hacienda Chicama were to close, I don’t know what would become of us,” said Yolanda with a sigh.

  “And what are the hacienda owners doing?” asked John.

  “The Schultz have reduced salaries and sacked workers. In his last letter, my father told me hacienda workers are affiliating to APRA – you know, the growing socialist political party – they’ve held demonstrations in Chicama and Trujillo, and even threatened to get rid of Schultz and take control of Hacienda Chicama. I have no idea what I’ll find when I get home,” said Yolanda.

  “Let’s pray and hope for the best,” said John.

  “Umm, pray…? I gave up on that a long time ago.”

  “You shouldn’t. Praying may not always work, but it gives you strength… hope…”

  “Hope? They say Schultz may have to sell Hacienda Chicama to a large American company, the International Food Company – the IFC. That may be our only hope,” said Yolanda sighing.

  The IFC? Of course, John remembered it was Randall’s family company – better not reveal to Yolanda what he knew about Randall: the IFC might not be what Hacienda Chicama workers should hope for.

  As John listened to this passionate lady, eyes sparkling and hands waving, he thought of Lisa. How different they were. Lisa was quieter, for sure, but also had a strong character. She was bright, like Yolanda, but her priority was to escape from her overbearing father by getting married and having her own family. John was expected to play a key part in Lisa’s plans but, although he missed her, he was glad to be away, travelling to an exotic new world, far from Boston, far from New York art galleries, far from…

  Anyway, John reflected that, unlike Lisa, Yolanda was absorbed by the changes happening in the world around her and figuring out what role she co
uld play. Still, Yolanda hadn’t talked about her private life. Was she married, had a boyfriend; perhaps, a platonic lover? They’d only just met, but why was he comparing Lisa and Yolanda? Perhaps it was only natural, they were so different.

  The ship had few passengers, so you bumped into the same people throughout the day. Yolanda was always there when John came out of his cabin. Despite a limited wardrobe, she displayed an infinite variety of images throughout the day. In the morning she was bright under the rising sun, like a mermaid with a silver tail coming out of the ocean to greet him. In the middle of the day she sheltered under a large sun hat and all he could see of her face was her bright red lips, shaping into a warm smile when she saw him. By the evening, the bright sunset on her pale copper skin transformed her into a golden statue. And at night, a mysterious, dark silhouette appeared and disappeared as she walked around deck, in and out of the glow of the ship’s lamps. Against the monotony of the same sea, he enjoyed the graceful motion of her contours. Well, she was the only lady on board.

  With not much to do during the long sea voyage, John and Yolanda spent a lot of time walking around the ship deck and talking. John had studied Peruvian history but Yolanda provided a marvellous introduction to present life in Peru and what to expect on arrival in a country on the verge of revolution.

  John had heard from Peruvian exiles in Boston that Sánchez-Cerro believed it was his duty to save his country by overthrowing the corrupt Leguía regime: Peru had been too long in the hands of self-serving politicians and now the masses needed him to rescue them from the misery brought by the Great Depression.

  To fellow army officers, Sánchez-Cerro was arrogant, temperamental and violent, and they soon nicknamed him ‘The Dictator’. Yet, he thought of himself as a defender of the people and, above all, the leader his country needed to impose order amidst growing chaos. He was convinced Peruvians loved him, but he really despised them: they needed a firm hand to control them.