Mr Piérola gave his lawyer clear instructions – speak to contacts at the newspapers and radio stations in Arequipa and Lima: no news coverage of this affair was to appear. Nothing. Understood? Next, he gathered his household to discuss how best to protect the family’s honour.
Days later Mr Piérola received a letter from Carolina – still fuming, he tore it open. She made no apology but neither blamed her family for interfering in her relationship with Pedro. In fact, she made no reference at all to Pedro. Why should she? It was of no concern to her family who she decided to marry. She simply staked her claim to taking decisions about her own life. Mr Piérola read it twice, twisting his moustache. Perhaps he’d underrated his sweet little daughter. Maybe she was more of a Piérola than he realised. The world was changing around him, but he remained a puzzled man.
John managed to find an aeroplane flying back to Lima from Arequipa. Pedro caught a ship along the coast to Lima from Mollendo, after leaving Carolina at the Forga Castle. As he walked away, he looked back and reflected on the mansion’s beauty, atop a cliff, like a castle embattled by the waves of the mighty Pacific Ocean below. He smiled – it was a simile for Carolina herself.
It took Carolina a couple of days to speak on the telephone to her godfather, David Samanez, who, as president of the provisional government junta was a busy man, with only weeks to go before the presidential elections he was organising.
“I’ve been thinking about you, my dear. I was wondering when you’d call me. We’ve all been very worried about you. In fact, when I heard you’d become a nun I feared I might never see you again. How wrong I was. As was your father, of course,” said Mr Samanez.
“Yes, godfather, my father has been wrong about me for a long time,” said Carolina.
“You must be patient with us old men. We think we can do things as we always did: protecting our families, telling people what to do, thinking we know better… but it doesn’t work like that anymore. The world is changing and we’re struggling to change with it. People want to take their own decisions. Look at me: organising presidential elections where most people will be voting for the first time. I fear they’ll take a wrong decision, but they’ll have to live with the consequences. Anyway, we old men do ramble on. When are you coming to see me?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, godfather. I also want to take decisions about my own life and I’m willing to live with the consequences. But I need your help.”
“Come to Lima, my dear, and I’ll help you. Your father will be angry but he asked me to be your godfather and I’ll try to do the job as best as possible. God bless you, my child. Travel safely,” said Mr Samanez.
Chapter 11
Lieutenant Colonel Luis Sánchez-Cerro arrived at the port of Callao on 3rd July 1931, barely three months before the presidential elections. The sea voyage from Europe had been long and tedious, affording time to think.
How much his life had changed, from a tough childhood, running around the poor backstreets of the northern city of Piura. His father had instilled in him the virtues of hard work, discipline and patriotism – but would he have imagined his little Luis one day becoming president of Peru? Surely not; he smiled.
He’d rid Peru of President Leguía’s corrupt regime. Now, he had to stop Peru falling into the hands of Haya and his APRA – that bunch of unpatriotic, atheist fanatics, who hated the army.
Those strikes organised by communists and terrorists to stir the ignorant masses must stop. Those stupid people must be beaten with a stick to make them understand that what they wanted to achieve with their strikes didn’t compensate the destruction and hatred they caused. Yes, he had to save his beloved Peru from those degenerates.
When his ship docked at Callao, crowds welcomed him like a hero. His destiny was to lead them. He wanted it. They needed it: businesses going bust, folk losing jobs, workers striking and despair everywhere. Of course, they first had to go through the formality of an election, but why did other politicians attack him? They were bad people. Yes, there were two types in Peru: those who supported him and bad people.
And Haya returned to Peru a few days after Sánchez-Cerro. The presidential election date drew closer and closer. The two gladiators had arrived in the arena. The contest was about to begin.
Haya disembarked in Talara, in the far north, where a month earlier many oil workers had died demonstrating for better living conditions. As he toured northern Peru, Haya was received like a saviour. He was a hero of the resistance to the Leguía autocracy that had sent him into exile, and now returned to, as many hoped, bring justice and a better life for common people.
Through the Kemmerer mission and the American embassy in Lima, John had met many journalists. The political scene in South America was boiling and The Washington Post’s correspondent had settled in Buenos Aires, to cover the tumultuous events in Argentina and Brazil. So who could cover the equally tumultuous events in Peru? The correspondent thought John was a good candidate: he had a degree in Latin American history, spoke Spanish, and worked with Professor Kemmerer at the heart of events in Peru – he was confident John could write good reports for The Post, which he could edit from Buenos Aires.
For John, it was a great opportunity. The Washington Post was one of the leading newspapers in the USA, renowned for its international news reports. John smiled: working with Kemmerer’s mission; informing Mr Randall and his Foundation partners; and now reporting for The Post. He’d arrived in Peru less than a year ago but he couldn’t have dreamed of such a change in his life since leaving the USA. He recalled those hesitant first days after stepping ashore from the Santa Clara. He’d wondered whether to rush to the USA embassy for safety. Now, the chaos and dangers of everyday life in Peru had become a given.
In Boston, John had been an unemployed graduate, with bleak prospects. Lisa hadn’t dared introduce him to her parents, knowing they’d despise him as a prospective husband. He sighed and struggled to contain tears: what would Lisa be doing now? If she’d married Jack, he’d have heard from his father, or from her. Would she still love him? Perhaps he could write to her again. Tell her what he was doing; that he still loved her. Maybe her parents would be impressed he was working for The Washington Post. Maybe there was still a chance, for him and Lisa.
Still, he couldn’t go ahead of himself: he hadn’t even started writing for The Post. The man in Buenos Aires might tell Washington John wasn’t up to it. And Kemmerer’s work would only last a few more months. Then, what? He’d be without work, return to Boston, and be a nobody again. That’s why Lisa would marry Jack. No, damn it, he didn’t stand a chance of holding on to her, did he?
Haya was soon due in Trujillo, his home town, and sure to receive a godlike welcome after seven years in exile – The Post needed John to be there. The Post might even arrange an interview for John with the man himself – politicians were eager for press coverage during election campaigns.
John had heard so much about Haya – the messiah for some, the devil for others – that he relished the opportunity to meet him. Now, before going to Trujillo, John had to do his homework. An imposing personality like Haya could manipulate the inexperienced reporter. What questions could he ask? His mentor at The Post advised him to anticipate a range of possible replies from Haya so he had relevant follow-on questions prepared. That way, the interview would flow and, if he were lucky, or skilful, he might extract a scoop.
Anyway, they’d be time to think about reporting for The Post, but Walter Van Heusen was waiting for an urgent document – must finish it, thought John. But what’s this? A telegram – shit, bound to be from Randall, and John knew exactly what he’d be wanting.
“Everyone has his price… I’m relying on you – don’t fail me,” was how Randall had ended their telephone conversation. Be brave: open the envelope and read the telegram. But John didn’t have an answer for Randall, because he didn’t want to help him bribe politi
cians and government officials.
Yet, Randall had dangled the bait, big way: do his dastardly deeds and he’d help John get Lisa back. John’s heart beat faster and faster until he forced himself to tear the damn envelope open.
As he’d expected, the telegram read:
Awaiting news of names and amounts for donations. Stop. Need reply ASAP. Stop. Randall.
Donations – Randall’s code for ‘bribes’. John bit his nails. Now, what?
Chapter 12
Carlos Medelius puffed on his cigar in Zapata’s bar, whilst Susy and Rosy played being socialites.
“Oh, it’s very warm for winter, isn’t it? And I’m wearing my new dress. My mother will kill me if I go back home sweaty. Carlos, dear, please order another Coca Cola for me,” said Susy.
“Don’t drink too much Coca Cola, Susy, it’ll make you fart.”
“Ah… Rosy – mind your language. If you speak like that, no man from a good family will marry you. Honestly, if my mama heard you, she wouldn’t allow me to be seen with you.”
Rosy changed the subject to avoid quarrelling with her best friend, “Carlos, what time does the wedding dress shop open? My sister will kill me if I don’t see it before she has to choose.”
“The shops are closed today. Those damn communists are on strike again,” said Carlos.
“Oh no, those communists, again? Why doesn’t the government send that rabble back to the Andes where they belong. My papa says Lima used to be nicer, until those smelly people arrived from the provinces. And just because they’re on strike I won’t be able to see my sister’s wedding dress. Carlos, why are these wretched people striking now?” said Rosy.
“The communists are always asking for more: to be paid even when they’re sick and can’t work, to go to hospital or to school without paying, to avoid road conscription…” said Carlos.
“Uh… what’s road conscription?” said Susy.
“You know, these idle Indians must build roads to their lousy little villages.”
“But if they get paid, why don’t they want to build roads?” said Rosy.
“No, they don’t get paid. It’s a free service they must give our nation.”
Susy interrupted them, “Oh, I must go home. Mama’s gone to the hairstylist and we have a new maid starting today. I hope she’s more reliable than the last one: always going back to her village because her mother was sick. We had to dismiss her.”
“These winter clouds are so dreary. Let’s go up to the mountains tomorrow for some sunshine. John, are you coming with us?” said Carlos, as John read his newspaper nearby.
“I’ve been invited to play soccer in La Victoria,” replied John. Susy and Rosy raised their eyebrows – why on earth would John want to go anywhere near a working-class district like La Victoria?
“La Victoria? You’ll get mugged. I bet that’s where that loser Pedro Vargas and his friends go. Come to Chosica, to my mountain resort club, with more classy people. I see Carolina is back in Lima. Ask her to come too. I’ll never understand why she wastes her time with a useless guy like Vargas,” Carlos insisted as he put out his cigar.
John had mixed feelings about Carlos – he could be charming some days but unbearable other times. He liked mixing with foreigners, so John had introduced him to people at the American embassy, and a grateful Carlos invited him to his social gatherings.
After Yolanda’s brief trip to Lima, correspondence with John increased. They now knew more about each other. Congratulations on his appointment as correspondent of The Washington Post. Well, no, he hadn’t really been appointed correspondent – it was like a trial period. Don’t be falsely modest, she teased. Everyone in Chicama would love to see his name in print. Everyone in Chicama? he asked. Yes, she’d told her family and friends about him, how they’d met on the sea voyage from Boston and his important work with the Kemmerer mission. John smiled – it would be good to see her again.
The Washington Post needed John to be in Trujillo to report on the return to his home town of APRA leader Haya. But how to get old Kemmerer to agree to the trip without revealing why he had to go?
Then, a stroke of luck – John didn’t need to give Kemmerer some excuse: Mr Randall’s telegram request was taken by Kemmerer as an order. Randall wanted John to visit Trujillo on Foundation business. And that business was nothing less than Hacienda Chicama. John was to discreetly gather information. Bluntly: was old Schultz on his last legs? Were the workers in rebellious mood? John knew it – the eagle was soaring lower and lower over its prey. No way could he tell Yolanda; but, deep down, he wanted to.
Yolanda was excited to hear John was coming to Trujillo. He’d be coming during Fiestas Patrias – 28th July – Peruvian Independence Day celebrations.
On returning from the USA, Yolanda had started working in the offices of Hacienda Chicama. As she’d studied law and spoke English, Schultz involved her in dealings with foreign financiers and sugar buyers. What a major step upwards, socially and moneywise, for a poor family like the Ramos. Yolanda even had meetings with Mr Schultz himself.
Yolanda confided in John the dire financial situation of Hacienda Chicama. Late payment of salaries was becoming the norm. What would happen if Schultz couldn’t find buyers for this year’s sugar crop? They’d already had to sack workers and reduce salaries. What next? Closure? Chicama workers protested and even threatened to take over the hacienda and kick out Schultz.
John rubbed his face: this was getting out of hand. Randall wanted him to spy on Hacienda Chicama. He’d befriended Yolanda and she’d trusted him with confidential information – if only she knew what Randall had instructed him to do.
John hated his situation, but saw no way out. Would he end up loathed by Yolanda, or by Randall?
Yolanda was in the midst of crucial developments. Handling Schultz’s correspondence and telephone calls, she realised the IFC was considering buying Hacienda Chicama. Randall’s IFC? But, would that be a solution? The APRA faithful denounced American imperialism and would think it was another step towards foreign control of the Peruvian economy. But for many workers it didn’t matter whether they toiled for Peruvian, German or American bosses as nothing was likely to improve their wretched lives. Still, if a future APRA government nationalised the hacienda or turned it into a workers’ cooperative, would Hacienda Chicama really belong to the workers? Would their salaries allow them to feed their families… live in houses instead of pigsties… shorten their dawn-to-dusk working days?
John travelled north by ship from Callao to the port of Salaverry, near Trujillo. The sea voyage would take a day and, after disembarking, a short train ride to Trujillo.
A damp and cloudy winter day engulfed the ship leaving Callao but, as they progressed north, the clouds receded and it felt like spring was coming. The coast was a long and unending desert. Occasional rivers rumbled down from the Andes to the east and John marvelled at the miracle of water turning the desert into wide green valleys – lush farms appeared like a mirage. The most fertile valley was Chicama – as the river rolled down towards the sea, the desert yielded enormous farms or haciendas like Chiclín, Cartavio, Casa Grande, Laredo and, of course, Chicama. The sea of sand became a sea of green: cotton, corn and, above all, sugar.
John had learned from Yolanda’s letters that Chicama workers lived on the hacienda itself. All the houses belonged to the Schultz. Workers were born, brought up, toiled, married, procreated and were buried on the Schultz’s land. Sons followed fathers, who had followed grandfathers, working for Schultz.
A hundred kilometres inland, the majestic Andes mountain range towered over the coastal strip. From Andean valleys, peasants drifted down to the coast to find work in the Chicama valley. But when the Great Depression arrived, many were no longer needed by the haciendas.
Yolanda had invited John to visit her home in Chicama, about an hour north of Trujillo. He was to get on the go
ods train from Trujillo to Chicama. And, yes, there she was, waiting for him. A lovely smile illuminated her face. A warm embrace welcomed him to a different world.
“It’s great to be here. I can’t believe it’s so green. I mean, after those long stretches of desert all the way up the coast,” said John.
“Huh… don’t be kidded – here, water is a matter of life and death,” said Yolanda.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re so short of water that there is a local government authority that decides how much water goes to each farm. The big haciendas bully the authority to get all the water they need. It’s the small farmers who suffer. Last year, farmers complained their crops were dying and attacked government offices. Troops were sent from Lima – nobody knows how many peasant farmers they killed,” said Yolanda.
John gasped at the reality behind those verdant farms he’d seen appear like a mirage during his sea voyage. The mirage vanished as Yolanda continued,
“My father’s family had a small farm. They worked hard and produced lots of fruit and vegetables.”
“Great – I’d love to see your farm,” said John. Yolanda pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Years ago, a man came to the farm. He said he was a lawyer – the big hacienda nearby wanted to buy the farm. My grandfather said no. The lawyer came back with some papers, saying my grandfather had no legal right to the land. But my grandfather showed him his title to the land. Other farmers who couldn’t read or write told us they didn’t have any papers, so the hacienda paid a judge and just took over their farms,” said Yolanda.
“What a bunch of crooks. But could your grandfather keep his farm?” said John. Yolanda sighed:
“The water authority allocated less and less water to my grandfather’s farm. His crops started to dry up. The hacienda’s lawyer came back. Still, my grandfather refused to sell his farm. But, in the end, all the plants died… and so did my grandfather. So, my father was forced to sell the farm to the hacienda at a much lower price than they’d been first offered… and the family came to work on Hacienda Chicama, like so many other farmers.”
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