“But that’s so unfair… its illegal… couldn’t the judges do anything?” said John, with despair ringing in his voice. Again, Yolanda shook her head.
“Until this international economic crisis arrived, Peru had been exporting more and more sugar, year after year. The big haciendas needed more and more land. So, of course, they took it from the small farmers like my grandfather… Its business, John – no poor farmer will get in the way of big business,” she said.
Those words – John had heard them before. Of course, his father had told him in Boston, as they sipped giggle juice in the speakeasy, “It’s business, John. We live in the land of freedom and opportunity, but nothing will be get in the way of business.”
At the look of disgust on John’s face, Yolanda changed topic to more cheerful conversation.
“Hey, you look thin,” she said, surveying John’s lanky figure as they walked towards the village. John smiled, concealing that his life in Lima was more drinking than eating.
“Don’t worry, we’ll fatten you up. You’ll love our northern food – simple and spicy but filling,” she said.
“I’m feeling hungry just listening to you,” said John.
“Have you tried duck with rice?” He shook his head.
She giggled, “Well, we can’t really afford duck, so instead we use chicken with spices – keep it a secret – but we still call my mother’s favourite dish ‘duck with rice’. You’ll love it,” she said, squeezing his arm.
Walking into the village, John noticed every unpaved street looked alike, and Yolanda’s house was the same as other houses on the street. It was small but with three bedrooms – quite a luxury – one for her parents, another for her two brothers and one for Yolanda. Houses were only one storey high and made out of mud bricks, with a flimsy wooden roof. Outside walls were covered in whitewash – paint was too expensive – with brown stains running down from the flimsy, weathered wood shingles roof.
When Yolanda opened the door to her house, a couple of cackling hens rushed out – there go the ‘ducks’ thought John. Inside, rudimentary furniture rested on an uneven grey-pitted stone floor. A worn-out yet sturdy timber wooden table, surrounded by half a dozen old mismatched crooked chairs were all there was in the plain, dimly lit first room but, as they walked in, they were engulfed in a warm cloud of steam emanating from the adjacent kitchen – John breathed deeply as an aroma of spicy food ravished his senses. The welcoming homely atmosphere overpowered the stark environment effortlessly.
Everyone wanted to meet John. When they heard he was interviewing none other than APRA leader Haya for a famous American newspaper – Wokinton Post, or some such name – he was treated like a celebrity.
John was introduced to two young men – Yolanda’s brothers: Ezequiel, older than Yolanda, and Isaac, younger and clearly the extrovert and charmer of the family. This was a different Yolanda, thought John – carefree, surrounded by her loved ones, compared to the tearful lady he’d lunched at Cordano’s in Lima. In Ezequiel he saw the more serious side of Yolanda; in Isaac, her warmth and allure.
Now, who were these? There were Yolanda’s cousins; her girlfriends – giggling after shaking John’s hand – and even the neighbours. Difficult remembering everyone’s name – must have been introduced to a dozen people.
Finally, Yolanda’s parents: Mr Serafín – with her same sparkling eyes, cinnamon skin and warm smile. He was a short, plump and happy man, tanned by years under the sun, who lived for his beloved steam engine on the hacienda. His children said it was like a second daughter.
The mother, Remigia, wore a shy but permanent smile on her shiny brown face and her long black hair permanently in a bun, like many Andean women. She’d emigrated from her Andean village to work cleaning the houses of the hacienda’s engineers. After meeting John, she rushed back into the kitchen to make sure nothing boiled over. Checking the ‘duck’ isn’t overcooked, John chuckled to himself. Did Mrs Remigia’s speedy exit to the kitchen mean she’d seen enough to approve of her daughter’s foreign friend? Anyway, Yolanda had evidently told her family all about John.
Serafín and Remigia had met at a dance on the hacienda. Life was simple, entertainment sparse; dancing was a prelude to courtship. They say Serafín was a marvellous dancer and, after spotting the shy girl newly arrived from the Andes, he asked her to dance. She shook her head – she didn’t know how to dance. Well, she meant she wasn’t used to the graceful dances popular on the northern Peruvian coast. Don’t worry, you can learn, she was told. He insisted, she relented and they were off, with him leading as they whirled around. They say the elegant marinera is a rapturous dance and even the shyest can fall in love dancing it. They say that by the time they got married, Serafín and Remigia were the finest dancing partners on the hacienda.
John had only just met them but felt as if he was being welcomed as part of the family. But in the midst of the gathering he couldn’t keep his eyes off Yolanda.
John’s memories of meeting Yolanda on the ship from Boston came flooding back – how passionate and charming she was, but now there was something else: that lively mingling with family and friends. She wasn’t beautiful, but those bright black eyes, warm smile, and…was she looking at him differently today? No, it was just his imagination.
Yolanda had to go to the washroom – a brief moment for her thoughts to wander. Why was he looking at her like that? This was unlike when they’d last met in Lima, and on the ship. She’d liked him when they’d first met. He was handsome, and intelligent, but she thought there was no chance. He’d mentioned a girlfriend in Boston, surely prettier than her. She was being stupid; he would only be after one thing, wouldn’t he?
Later, they all headed for the village square, where the hacienda workers socialised and partied. Today, with Independence Day celebrations in full swing, they were certainly partying. Approaching the square, John heard music – guitars and drums – and saw flames rising and falling, with the familiar aroma of anticuchos – ox heart with blended spices, fried on skewers. Around the square there were a variety of food stalls, women cooking the anticuchos, preparing ceviche – the marinated seafood John had first eaten with Yolanda when he’d first arrived in Peru – corn on the cob, stuffed potatoes and picarones – the rings of soft fried dough, served with honey and syrup. John’s mouth watered – determined to try something from each stall.
How about a drink? Yolanda’s brother, Ezequiel, read John’s mind, “Hey, Yoly, ask John if he wants a Coca Cola.” They laughed when John frowned. “Here in Chicama we fortify Coca Cola… with our rum,” said Ezequiel, drawing John’s smile – that was more like it.
And so, they strolled around the square, tasting here and there. The music was getting louder. More folk were dancing. Some falling over – too much rum. Two men were flying punches and shouting unflattering adjectives about each other’s mother. Some elder men separated them and shepherded them out of the square and homeward – end of the party for them.
John eyed Yolanda’s brothers, cousins and friends, pairing off to dance. “Come on Yoly, get the gringo to dance” shouted Isaac, grinning. They didn’t expect the foreigner to dance with them but, if he did, it would be fun seeing him make a fool of himself. John knew that dancing was in the soul of Peruvians – no celebration or party without music and dancing.
Yolanda looked at him and smiled – better let him off the hook. But, as John said nothing, she chanced, “Shall we…?”
Surprisingly, John nodded, took her by the hand and they were off with the rest of them. Not bad, not bad at all, thought Yolanda’s cousins as they clapped him, “Viva el gringo.”
After a while, out of breath and with a dry throat, John suggested they went for a drink.
“Hey, you’re good dancing. You must have been out partying quite a bit in Lima… with those sophisticated city girls,” said Yolanda, teasing him, “oh no, I forgot, of course… you have a gi
rlfriend in Boston, don’t you?” she continued, twitching her lips cheekily.
John’s smile vanished as he sighed, “No… well, she decided not to wait for me. She’s marrying someone else,” he said.
“Oh… I’m sorry… I didn’t know,” said Yolanda, gasping, with her hand covering her mouth – how stupid of her; but she couldn’t have known.
Why was that little devil now whispering in her ear that she didn’t need to be sorry at all?
John looked at her and managed a smile, “Don’t worry Yolanda. It’s okay.” But, was it? The pain inside was healing, but only slowly.
As he beheld Yolanda, muddled thoughts swept through his mind. She was different from the girl he’d first met on the ship. Maybe she wasn’t different – maybe he had changed, or his life had changed, faced with the reality of losing Lisa.
Now he was looking at Yolanda with different eyes. Was it her, or the enchanting atmosphere of this humble but welcoming village, or was there some sort of magic encircling him? Well, northern Peru was known for its witches, who cast spells on people.
He frowned as his little devil whispered in one ear that he’d had too much to drink – snap out of it, boy. But then, his little angel murmured in his other ear that there was something special about this girl; it was alright, he could let himself go. And so, John’s mind receded and his heart came forward.
“Yolanda, I…” said John. She looked up at him, smiling, wondering what he was about to say, “Yes, John?”
But John didn’t know what to say. So he just put one arm around her waist, his other hand gently raised her chin, and he kissed those soft, red lips.
Then, his mind came back: what would happen now? Would she slap him or…? Yolanda gasped, took a step back and looked around: her family weren’t looking. So she looked into his eyes, smiled, put her hands around his neck, drew him close and returned his kiss. Her lips melted into his.
He took her hand. It felt soft, warm and silky, gave it a kiss and said, “Wow, what’s happened?” But he should have known. Of course, it was those witches: they’d trapped John and Yolanda with their incantations, hadn’t they?
She just smiled and they walked back, hand in hand, towards her friends, who were either too enraptured, dancing wildly, or too drunk, to have spied on the new lovers.
Ever since receiving Lisa’s fateful letter, John had wondered if he’d ever get over losing her. At the time, he hadn’t believed he was strong enough to lift that weight from his heart. But time, and distance, had lightened the weight enough to let him continue with his life. His life had been Lisa – could Yolanda be his new life? Time would tell.
Anyway, neither of them would forget the Peruvian Independence Day celebrations of 1931.
Chapter 13
The following day, 26th July, was a Sunday and Trujillo was gripped by an exceptionally festive mood, even for Independence Day celebrations. Everyone was up early and out on the streets. APRA leader, Víctor-Raúl Haya was coming home after seven long years.
The APRA faithful prepared a stage in the main square of Trujillo, the Plaza de Armas. They were careful not to damage the square’s magnificent new symbol: that ornate statue of Germanic design, featuring robust human beings at its base and crowned by an acrobatic figure – the Monument to Liberty: an inspiration to the crowds converging that day.
The square usually came to life with the pleasant morning breeze from the sea, inviting you to go about your business early. Later, with the tropical sun scorching down, and little shade provided by the scarce palm trees, you daren’t hang around the square during the day, except crossing from city hall to Mass in the cathedral, or from confession in the Jesuit church to the archbishop’s palace, or from breakfast in the main hotel to the provincial government house.
When the evening came, bringing respite from the burning star, a crowd of colourful parakeets occupied the palm-tree heights, chuckling and spying on lovers holding hands, priests admonishing heathens, friends on their way for a drink, businessmen striving to close a deal, or kids jostling for an ice cream from the vendor dismounting from his tricycle. And, of course, the ubiquitous young socialites, strolling around the square in the time-honoured way, eyeing potential marriage partners.
Once the cooler evening brought the quadricentennial square back to life, it wouldn’t go to sleep again until the guards chased home the inebriated clients evicted from the last bars closing.
In the morning, a truck arrived at Hacienda Chicama driven by Buffalo Barreto. He hugged the men and pecked the ladies on their cheeks, to loud cheering, “Viva Haya…Viva APRA.”
Buffalo loaded partisans on to his truck, with John and Yolanda sitting beside him in the driver’s seat. Yolanda’s brothers, cousins and neighbours climbed up on the back and soon the truckload was singing all the way to Trujillo. The song sounded familiar to John. Yes, it was the Marseillaise – from the French Revolution. But sang in Spanish, with different lyrics: APRA’s revolutionary anthem.
With the deafening roar of the truck’s engine, few heard Mr Serafín’s paternal advice that politics was dangerous – you could lose your livelihood and, maybe, even your life.
“So, John, you’re going to interview Haya after his speech. Stay close to me and I’ll take you to see him,” said Buffalo.
Caught up in the frenzy, John wondered whether he’d be interviewing a political leader or a deity.
Haya was scheduled to appear at 2pm. The square was already packed by midday. Trains, trucks and buses continued to arrive, delivering folk from villages and haciendas. It would be impossible for all to see or hear Haya. It didn’t matter. Everyone wanted to be able to tell their children or grandchildren they’d been there when brother Víctor-Raúl Haya came back to Trujillo.
It was 2pm; then 3pm, and no sign of Haya. The tropical sun blazed down on the crowd waiting patiently in the Plaza de Armas. Nobody wilted, nobody left, few moved, praying for a cool sea breeze. He always arrives late, agreed some comrades, shrugging. A rumour went around the square: Haya’s car had been blocked by supporters coming through a village towards Trujillo and he was forced to stop and give an unscheduled speech.
John looked around: who were all these diverse people? What did they want? Let’s see: there were sugar cane croppers, like the crowd boarding Buffalo’s truck today; clusters of better dressed people, probably teachers, students or office workers; maybe also shop assistants, restaurant hands and workers; men and women, young and old; none appeared well-off.
John pulled out his notebook and scribbled what he was sensing: sights, sounds, even odour. His notes wouldn’t only be for The Washington Post, but also for Randall. But would he be relaying the same story to both patrons?
At 4pm, murmuring in the Plaza de Armas was in crescendo. Cars were arriving, slowly making their way through the crowd. The square’s atmosphere was electric.
Now, people were backing from a car nearing the stage, below which Buffalo had situated John and Yolanda. As the first car approached, Buffalo directed a bunch of sturdy men to wrestle people out of the car’s way.
The car stopped, a tall man in a smart black suit got out and waved his hat. It was him. At last, Haya had arrived.
The crowd pressed forward and erupted into a fever pitch clamour. Beside Haya was Buffalo Barreto, shielding his leader from the crowd, eager to touch Haya as if he were a saint, able to bestow miracles. Buffalo and his men ruthlessly shoved people out of Haya’s path to the stage. John noticed some of Buffalo’s men carried guns attached to belts or concealed under jackets.
As Haya climbed on to the stage, Buffalo’s men kept guard. Haya waved at the cheering crowd. After a couple of minutes, he requested silence, pressing his hands downwards. Slowly, the faithful obeyed and the cheering died down.
When the square had quietened down and Haya was about to speak, a man below the stage shouted, “Viva Víctor-Raúl. Viva APRA.
Down with imperialism,” until Buffalo punched him into silence. How dare he shout when their leader had commanded quiet? The populace had to be disciplined. Others nearby, who’d also started chanting, soon fell silent – not wanting to be beaten up by Buffalo’s men.
Haya looked down and over the multitude, pausing to take a deep breath, or was it a sigh – at last: he was home.
“It’s been seven long years… I’ve missed you,” as the crowd broke into roaring applause, whilst Haya swallowed hard to clear the knot in his throat.
Haya knew how to keep his audience spellbound, telling them what they longed to hear, although many didn’t understand all the political or economic ideas their leader expounded. As he listened, John considered the implications for what The Post would publish and, on the other hand, information relevant to Randall.
“Until now, we’ve only been offered the alternatives of tyranny or anarchy,” Haya explained – yes, John understood how the strongmen of old had justified holding on to power, “now, real democracy is arriving under the banner of APRA… not the old, so-called, democracy abused by tyranny…
“Independence movements in South America were led by landowners, giving them control of the state, replacing the Spanish king… and, since then, the state has been controlled by the oligarchy and neither represented nor resolved the problems of the majority of citizens,” said Haya, as he prepared his next attack:
“Imperialism is the expansion of countries with advanced production techniques to control more backward countries,” with Haya wagging his finger, “we must control foreign investment to ensure it cooperates with us and doesn’t swallow us.”
The Titans of the Pacific Page 16