The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  “Uh… so what?”

  “When a nun goes in, she has no contact with the outside. I had an aunt who went in and we never heard from her again,” said Carmen.

  “But there must be a way” said Pedro, but even as he spoke he didn’t believe it himself. Carmen was right. He’d heard you couldn’t even deliver a letter to a nun. When they went in, they were dead to the world.

  Pedro buried his head in his hands, “Why? Why did she do it?”

  Carmen put her hand on his shoulder, “When you died… I mean, when we thought you were dead, Carolina’s desire to live must have died too. Her mother said she locked herself in her room and wouldn’t come out. Then, a couple of days later she was gone.”

  “But… hasn’t anyone seen her?”

  “Pedro, even her father hasn’t been allowed to speak to her – there’s nothing we can do.”

  Pedro left Carmen’s house and drifted aimlessly, ending up in the Plaza de Armas again. He didn’t care anymore if someone recognised him. If he bumped into Mr Piérola, he’d punch the bastard. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

  Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his arm. He turned around.

  “John… John, what the hell are you doing here, man?”

  “Well, you’re still sick, so I figured you needed someone to take care of you. So, here I am,” said John smiling.

  “How did you get here? And… how did you find me?” said Pedro, squeezing his friend’s arm, slowly getting over the surprise.

  “Yeah, you’ve heard of that American pilot, Elmer Faucett. He was flying to Arequipa. Then, I figured if I came to the Plaza de Armas, I’d bump in to you sooner or later. So, Pedro, have you found Carolina?”

  Pedro waved John into a cafeteria. They sat down and ordered coffee. Pedro explained he’d been to see Carmen Forga and what had happened to Carolina.

  “John, I don’t know what to do. In Arequipa, nobody knows what goes on inside the Convent of Santa Catalina. Nobody’s allowed in… and nobody comes out,” said Pedro, shaking his head and biting his lip.

  After a moment’s silence, John said, “Umm… I might be able to help.”

  “Uh… what do you mean?” said Pedro. John was a foreigner. He’d never been to Arequipa. What would he know?

  John explained, “You see, at Harvard, my history degree dissertation was about the Spanish colonial period and the influence of the Catholic church. You know: missionaries, religious education, monasteries; that sort of thing.”

  Pedro stared at him as if to say: so what?

  “So, as I was interested in Peru, I did some research into the Convent of Santa Catalina.”

  The convent was more than 350 years old and like a small town, sealed within thick walls, four metres high. Originally built for women from upper class Spanish families, who paid a large dowry to enter, at one time it had up to 450 people – nuns, servants and slaves – living in seclusion. It was partly built of white and pink volcanic rock from El Misti, the snow-capped volcano towering over Arequipa. Inside, the convent had quaint little cobblestone streets linking squares, cloisters, courtyards with bubbling fountains and neatly trimmed greenery, leading to humble dwellings, simple dim chapels, rustic stone baths, basic kitchens, a laundry and most essential facilities a town would need. Nuns took a vow of silence and lived completely cut off from the outside world – this was what Carolina would’ve wanted when she thought Pedro was dead.

  “Pedro, I think I know where Carolina is,” said John.

  With Pedro open-mouthed, John went on to explain, “During my research, I saw maps or sketches of Santa Catalina. There’s a courtyard, surrounded by small cells, where novices, new nuns like Carolina, spend their first year. If I can remember well, that should be on the south-western side of the convent. That will be where Carolina is.”

  “Umm… the south-west? You mean, the corner of Bolivar Street and Ugarte Street?” said Pedro.

  “Ah… I don’t know the current names of Arequipa’s streets. I was looking at maps at least two hundred years old. That would be a couple of streets from here, wouldn’t it?” said John. Pedro nodded.

  “John, you’re amazing. You know more about Convent of Santa Catalina than most people in Arequipa. Great, we know where she is. So, what do we do now?” said Pedro.

  “Yeah, the problem is how to get in,” said John, scratching his head.

  How to get in? In more than three centuries nobody had gone in, except new nuns and their servants. When nuns went in, they never came out – they were buried there. If they were sick, they were nursed by fellow nuns, mostly with prayers. Even when slavery was abolished in Peru in 1854, the African slave maids stayed – they’d nowhere else to go. And nobody had ever gone in? Well, workmen would’ve gone in to repair buildings. Tradesmen delivered goods at the convent entrance for servants to take in.

  There was a story about a nun getting pregnant centuries ago – an unlikely miraculous immaculate conception. According to the story, the baby was buried within the convent walls. No – no men were allowed in: strictly forbidden.

  They sat in the cafeteria, silently sipping their coffee, desperate for ideas.

  John noticed a ripple in his coffee. His cup started trembling. Next, a tinkle of bells, or was it glass. Looking up, the chandelier above him was swaying. Then, the whole room started shaking.

  Someone shouted, “Earthquaaaake.”

  “John, let’s get the hell out of here,” shouted Pedro. They rushed out, John dragging Pedro as he hobbled, with windows shattering around them. Pedro grabbed John by the arm and they took cover under an arch of the arcade surrounding most of the Plaza de Armas. With his heart pounding in his chest, John looked across to the cathedral – the tallest building in the square. It was swaying like an oriental dancer but held to its foundations, as it had during other earthquakes over the centuries.

  It only lasted seconds, maybe a minute. By the time they got outside it was nearly over and they got their breath back.

  Folk had flooded out of buildings on to the square, some screaming, others more composed – earthquakes weren’t uncommon in Arequipa.

  Pedro looked around in case anyone on the square knew him. Covering his face again with his hat, he beckoned John back into the cafeteria. A waiter swept up cups fallen off tables and smashed on the floor. John looked up: the chandelier was still hanging above them.

  “Wow… do you think the earthquake will have caused much damage?” asked John, his heart beat returning to normal.

  “Perhaps – it was fairly strong,” said Pedro as he got back to sipping his coffee and trying to reassure John.

  “I wonder if Carolina is okay…” said Pedro, stopping mid-sentence before continuing, “That’s it… come with me, John,” said Pedro.

  With John’s support, Pedro painfully hauled his mending leg and body, to find a policeman friend.

  “Man, I thought you were dead,” said the policeman.

  “No, only injured, but I’m better now. Listen, I need your help,” said Pedro as he went on to explain.

  The policeman sucked his teeth. Pedro pleaded. Then, when the policeman finally nodded, Pedro squeezed his arm and smiled.

  John and Pedro rented a room at a hotel close to the convent and to Carmen Forga’s house. Pedro again made sure nobody knew him at the hotel. They ordered dinner at the hotel and ate in silence.

  The following morning, Pedro wore some old clothes borrowed from Carmen’s chauffeur and went to find the policeman.

  “Sorry, Pedro – I can’t do it. You’re gonna get me into real trouble,” said the policeman.

  “Come on, man, you can’t let me down now,” said Pedro, imploring. The policeman shook his head, waived his arms and protested. John bit his lip. Pedro shook the policeman by the arms. Finally, the policeman nodded slowly and capitulated.

  Out in the street, Pedro again
looked right and left, like someone who’s already committed a crime, not like someone who was about to commit one. The convent was a few blocks away, and near the Piérola family home.

  When they arrived, they knocked on the convent door. No reply. The policeman stared at Pedro and turned to walk away. Pedro grabbed him by the arm, nailing him to the spot, “You can’t abandon me now.”

  They knocked harder, and now heard footsteps within. Then, the door opened, a bare inch. A female servant stared at them. Pedro smiled – city folk were used to being assertive with native Andean Indians, especially women.

  “Good morning, the earthquake yesterday… we must check the building for damage… we need to come in…” said the policeman, trying to remember the lines rehearsed with Pedro. John held his breath.

  “Uh… you need to come in? But no men are allowed into the convent, sir. Wait here. I’ll have to ask Mother Superior,” said the servant; her voice trembling.

  “That’s alright, Mother Superior knows already,” said Pedro, lying. The servant tried to close the door but Pedro blocked it with his foot.

  The servant looked at Pedro’s foot, alarmed, unsure what to do. She insisted they wait there, by the door, whilst she found Mother Superior.

  The policeman grabbed Pedro’s arm, “I gotta go. If that servant describes me to the police chief, that’s the end of my career.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You’ve been great,” said Pedro as he closed the door on the policeman, with John waiting just outside.

  Quick – no time to lose. Mother Superior could arrive at any moment and I’ll get thrown out, thought Pedro. So, as soon as the servant was out of sight, he pulled out the ground plan of the convent’s inner streets that John had sketched from memory of his university studies.

  Let’s pray John’s ground plan is reliable enough, Pedro thought, as he limped from the convent entrance along a hallway straight ahead, with the pain in his leg stabbing him at every pace. He found the two doorways on the plan, leading to another hallway, and continued straight. He struggled forth, looking around. Good – nobody in sight. Where would the nuns be? Possibly praying or at breakfast.

  Next, he turned right when he arrived at the building ahead and then straight again along another hallway. The convent was a maze. He fumbled around in his pockets. Damn it, where was John’s ground plan of the convent? It must have dropped out of his pocket. He had to keep a clear head to remember how to retrace his steps to get out of the convent later.

  His heart thumped in his chest; sweat dripped from his brow. The servant must have informed Mother Superior by now. They’d have gone to the main door, and found nobody there. Perhaps they’d assume he’d left. Of course not, they’d check if the man was inside the convent. Any moment now they’d appear, searching for him. Time; he needed time. For God’s sake, Carolina, where are you my love?

  On and on; stumbling around, his leg throbbing with pain, not having been able to fully memorise John’s lost plan; looking up and down hallways; scared to open any door. He must be near now, mustn’t he? Turning left, he came out into a courtyard, with small rooms around its perimeter.

  This must be it. Well done John, he’d got him there – the novices’ courtyard. Now, where was Carolina? There were voices in the distance – the servant must have alerted the nuns. Mother Superior would be storming up the hallway, maybe accompanied by the police, ready to shoot the irreverent intruder. Quick; he had to find Carolina, now.

  Suddenly, nuns started coming out of the little rooms around the courtyard, one behind the other. Hiding behind a column, Pedro spied the nuns walking in silence, head down, arms folded. They were going into a building to his right. He couldn’t see their faces. They all looked the same with their robes and heads covered. Was that last one Carolina? He stepped forward to grab the nun by the arm and gulped: if he got it wrong he’d be discovered and have to escape without Carolina. He hesitated and stumbled.

  Another nun was coming out of her cell. She turned towards him and froze, dumbfounded. He looked into her eyes – Carolina, he’d found her.

  With his leg in agony, he rushed over to her with a finger covering his mouth – be silent. Don’t say a word, my love.

  She wasn’t only silent but also about to faint. Pedro put one hand on her mouth and the other held her as she swooned.

  He turned around – the other novices had walked ahead, without looking back, and hadn’t noticed Carolina wasn’t behind them.

  Struggling to hold Carolina in his arms, he dragged her back into her cell with all the strength his decrepit body could muster. The cell was very plain: a small bed, a desk with a bible, a crucifix on the wall and a chair. Looking up, he saw a small window high above, with iron bars allowing light into the cell. No, there was no way they could get out through there.

  They sat down on the bed. Carolina was pale, open-mouthed and speechless – a ghost: the ghost of Pedro? He smiled as he read her face and her thoughts.

  “No, my love, it is me,” he said. Her lips quivered but words wouldn’t come out. He smiled and kissed her.

  Finally, Carolina whispered, “Pedro… they told me you were dead…”

  “No, I’m not dead. I was nearly killed but someone reported me dead by mistake. Come, quickly. I’ll explain later.”

  “But… Pedro… how did you get in? What are you doing here?” said Carolina, struggling with confusion.

  “I want to get out, with you, now,” said Pedro.

  “But we can’t get out… how? You shouldn’t be here,” said Carolina, still on the verge of fainting. He’d have to carry her – he prayed for Jesus to give him strength.

  Any moment now, the nuns and the police would surely burst in. He’d be caught, even shot on the spot. But Pedro didn’t care. He’d found Carolina, they’d been reunited and, even if it was only those brief moments, it was worthwhile.

  But don’t give up now; you’ve come so far, he thought. You may get caught, but you must try to get away with her.

  He heard voices coming towards them, from the hallway leading into the novices’ courtyard. A group of elderly nuns rushed into the courtyard but turned into the building on the right and past Carolina’s cell. Thank God. They’d be following the novices, to see if they were all there, and if the man was after them. Now; now was his chance.

  Pedro took a deep breath, grabbed Carolina’s arm, stepped out from the cell into the courtyard and dragged her towards the hallway from where the nuns had come.

  Now, where? Damn it, he needed to find his way out of this labyrinth without John’s plan. Luck; he needed luck, to not take any wrong turning.

  Let’s see, yes, straight ahead. He struggled to enlist his memory, to get out of the convent’s maze by retracing his steps. Now, straight ahead and he’d get to the convent’s main street entrance, wouldn’t he? Yes, he remembered that corridor. There it was: the main entrance; down there. Thank you, sweet Jesus.

  As he got nearer the main entrance he bumped into a column and fell; pain cutting through his leg like a knife.

  “Help me, my love, you’ve got to help me walk, or we’ll never make it,” he pleaded to her.

  Then, a loud shout behind him, “You. Stop. What are you doing?”

  He turned to see a plump elderly lady, surely Mother Superior, storming down the hallway towards him. But no police – he blew out his cheeks with relief.

  Breathless with pain, with Carolina’s help, Pedro limped to the main door, and tugged at the latch. Jesus Christ, why wouldn’t the door open? But then, it did and, with a sigh of relief, they welcomed the blustering street din invading the convent’s sacred silence.

  Pedro breathed deeply but, suddenly, gasped as a hand grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the convent – Mother Superior was strong.

  Yet, outside, there was a stronger hand that pulled Pedro back out into the street. From the street, the hand s
lammed the convent door closed.

  It was John, thank God. He took Carolina by one arm and Pedro by another. Across the street, turning a corner, out of sight of the main entrance door to the convent, they took refuge under an archway and then in a doorway. A finger pressed against Carolina’s lips as she was about to speak. Hush – they weren’t safe yet.

  Still, they were out of that fortress that was the Convent of Santa Catalina and into the bustling city of Arequipa. They were two different worlds.

  They waited a minute, whilst people walked past. On the street, there was no commotion from Pedro’s trespassing on the convent’s privacy, but the police would surely arrive any moment now.

  As soon as there was nobody in sight, they walked down the street – Pedro wincing as he battled with his leg – towards Carmen Forga’s house nearby. John fretted what people would do if they saw two men escorting a nun. Thankfully, Carmen was waiting at the door and let them in. She gave the still startled Carolina a big hug and led them into a room beside the entrance hall. Sighs of relief – they were safe; at least for the time being.

  Next, the men were pushed out into the entrance hall – gentlemen shouldn’t see a lady getting dressed. Minutes later Carmen came out and beckoned Pedro to come in; Carolina had now changed out of her religious robes. When they were alone, Carolina and Pedro melted into a strong hug and a soft kiss. But time was precious. There was a knock on the door.

  “Umm… sorry to interrupt you, love birds, but the car is waiting to take you to the train station,” said John. Hugs and kisses from John and Carmen to the departing Pedro and Carolina and they were gone. As their car pulled away from the Forga residence, a police van rushed towards the convent.

  Later that day, Carolina’s family received the news from the police. Mr Piérola was speechless at first, then livid, and finally spurred into action. It was the most disgraceful thing to have ever happened to his aristocratic family – his daughter going into the convent to become a nun could be explained, although with difficulty. But what on earth would the snooty upper echelons of Arequipa society think of his daughter, a novice about to take her vows, having been kidnapped – no, absconded – from the Convent of Santa Catalina by a strange man, and then disappeared.