Next, Haya aroused feverish cheers when he said, “…and we need agrarian reform: land must be given to those who work on it.…” John transcribed every word, musing how Randall would rant against Haya, calling him a damn communist. John digested both sides of the argument: peasants wanted to own the land they toiled on – and farmers like Yolanda’s family didn’t want their land wrenched from them – but the likes of Randall wouldn’t invest in modern sugar plantations if they risked losing them.
Haya then claimed applause from city folk, “The state must be managed by technicians and experts…with jobs given on merit. Local caciques mustn’t offer jobs to reward their supporters after elections.” John would have to explain to The Post’s readers the ubiquity of the ‘cacique’, the local bosses – usually major landowners – in far-flung provinces, controlling local politics, justice and wealth, with the police and even the church conniving.
John realised there was no way folks at the back could hear Haya – they clapped when those at the front did; but they didn’t care. Despite bursts of applause, many were in a trance; under Haya’s spell. This wasn’t a normal political speech; it was like a father speaking to his children. So, was Haya fostering a paternalistic leadership? And fathers expected children to obey them, didn’t they?
John wrote four words: faith, union, discipline, action. Haya had repeated these words. Therefore, behind the talk of democracy, was Haya really an authoritarian? Okay, Haya wasn’t like Hitler, Mussolini or Stalin. But John scratched his head: did Haya expect faith in him, union under his leadership, discipline to follow him, and action to do what he said?
When he finished speaking, with frenzied roars from his faithful, Haya descended from the stage as slowly as he’d walked up, closely guarded again by Buffalo and his henchmen. Then, the entourage got into their cars and drove away slowly, as fast as the crowd was able to allow them.
Yes, Haya was back. APRA had its adored leader home. Sánchez-Cerro now faced a prize-fighter as mighty as himself, ready to contest the presidency of Peru.
Yolanda nudged John, pointing towards the stairs beside the stage. Buffalo beckoned towards him: time to head to the APRA headquarters – the ‘Casa del Pueblo’, the House of the People, to interview Haya.
On their way, John continued scribbling: Haya’s speech had aroused new questions for their interview. No way could he ask that, could he? Why not? Damn it, go for it.
On arrival, after being body-checked for weapons, they walked through the street door of an old colonial house into a courtyard, then up steps into a large room. Haya sat there, fanning himself as a host of brothers, as they called them, buzzed around their leader. One offered him a glass of water. Another whispered in his ear. Haya looked up, smiled, got up and walked towards John.
“Good afternoon. You’re John Fitzgerald, from The Washington Post?“ said Haya, stretching out a welcoming hand. They sat down.
“Where are you from, John?” asked Haya.
“From Boston,” said John.
“Ah… I visited Harvard once. I remember a pleasant professor called Dr Fitzgerald – a man who loved Peru although he’d never been here; always helping Peruvian exiles. Maybe a relative?”
“Yes, he’s my father.”
“Your father? What a coincidence. Send him my warmest greetings,” said Haya.
John started his questions, “Mr Haya—” But Haya interrupted, “Please call me Víctor-Raúl.”
“Okay, Víctor-Raúl, Americans hear contradictory reports about what you’d do if you became president of Peru. What is APRA, exactly?” said John.
“A short question that would deserve a long answer,” said Haya smiling, “APRA was created to propose solutions to problems common to all Latin America, not only Peru. We believe in equal opportunities for all people. Wealth should not belong only to oligarchs or handed to foreign interests – wealth belongs to the nation. Our people cannot be divided into a small educated elite and a majority illiterate population.”
“Yes – education: I’ve heard you’re against religious schools,” said John, recalling his Catholic school education.
“We propose education that is free for all citizens and isn’t controlled by the church. The church and the oligarchy have shared interests and we must separate the church from the state,” said Haya.
“Okay… and what should be the army’s role?”
“The army must defend our nation but shouldn’t meddle in politics – that must be left to democratically elected governments.”
John scribbled feverishly: what he was hearing didn’t sound as horrific as Randall had predicted.
Now, be brave: time to ask awkward questions and see how the great man reacts.
“Is APRA a Marxist party? One Peruvian newspaper insists you are communists,” said John, with Haya looking at him with an unperturbed smile. He knew John was referring to La Nación, Carlos Medelius’ newspaper.
“I’ve travelled around Europe, I’ve been to Russia – the USSR; I’ve even attended a Communist International congress. But Marxism is a European doctrine, applicable to European societies. I don’t believe it can be transplanted here: our less developed Indoamerica is different from industrial Europe,” replied Haya, to nodding from his acolytes.
“Indoamerica?” asked John, chewing his pencil.
Haya smiled, “We may share the same continent with the USA, but life is very different here, in countries that have their roots in native Indian cultures. Our large indigenous population doesn’t enjoy civil rights. We must improve the lives of the poor; particularly native Andeans Indians.”
John tapped his nose with his pencil before scribbling in his notebook. Yes, he understood what Haya was saying: in North America, the European settlers had ravaged local Indians as they took over their land whilst, from Mexico southwards, native Indians still made up the majority of the population in most countries.
Now, John decided to raise another controversy, “I’ve read you propose the state should promote a mix of free enterprise with ‘state capitalism’ as, and I quote: ‘A bridge towards socialism… but that imperialism will attack anywhere in the Americas where it loses political influence, as that would mean losing its economic empire’.”
“APRA certainly opposes imperialism – that is, interfering in the government of other countries – but we welcome foreign investment that brings new production techniques. John, we’ll no longer allow foreigners to control our country, but I’m sure we’ll be able to reach agreements with investors,” replied Haya. John frowned as he wrote, unsure what this would mean in practice.
John followed with another incisive question, “But I’ve read you saying, and again I quote: ‘Our only alternative is nationalisation of land, mines and industry and to organise our economy as socialist production. Nationalisation of production is the only guarantee of freedom in Latin America… but imperialism can only be defeated by force. I don’t believe any one country can be free from imperialism by nationalising on its own: nationalisation and political union of Latin American countries must be simultaneous’ – this sounds pretty scary to foreign investors.”
Haya, a seasoned political debater, wasn’t taken aback by John’s sharp questioning:
“We will cancel monopolies given to oligarchs or foreigners, against the interests of our country, and won’t allow wealth freely transferred abroad. But foreign investors can help us industrialise and create jobs. You know, I was speaking to some labourers yesterday and they used to be paid a few cents each day, plus coca leaves and a meal. Now, they work for a foreign company that pays them a good salary, they have shoes and new clothes… they’re much better off. So, I said: Of course we welcome companies that offer you better working conditions.”
John looked at a blank page in his notebook and his hand froze: contradictory; Haya was being damn contradictory. What, or which story, could he report to Th
e Post, and to Randall? Politicians were like that during elections: telling everyone what they want to hear.
Alright, better end on a more personal note, “I understand that, as leader of the Peruvian Students’ Federation, President Leguía imprisoned you on the island of El Frontón?” asked John.
“Yes, I was a teacher at the Anglo-Peruvian school in Lima. Leguía was locking up anyone who opposed him. I spent a few months there.”
“Did you escape or were you released?”
“Nobody’s ever escaped from El Frontón. The island isn’t far from the port of Callao but anyone who’s tried to swim across has drowned: the strong sea currents push you out to sea. But I’ll tell you a secret: I know how to escape.”
“How? I’m sure many would like to know – this could be my scoop from this interview,” said John grinning.
“You have to study the winds – they indicate the direction and intensity of the sea currents. If you’re patient, once a month, the winds change and the current drives towards the coast,” explained Haya, “I believe that life is the same: you have to wait for the current to flow in the direction you want. Then, you must dive into the water and swim as hard as you can, convinced you’re going to reach the other shore. For me, for APRA and for my country, this is the moment the current is flowing in the direction we want.”
“I’ve heard you are a strong swimmer. So, did you escape swimming to the coast?” said John.
“Fortunately, I didn’t have to. I went on hunger strike and Leguía decided it was better getting rid of me and sent me into exile. That started my travels for the past seven years throughout the Americas and Europe. I’ve learned so much. So I can thank Leguía for my education,” said Haya to general laughter.
John’s final question was even more personal, “Are you married?” After thinking for a moment, Haya replied, “Yes… I’m married to APRA… and party members are my children.”
Time had flown – the interview had lasted more than an hour. John thanked Haya for his time, gathered his interview notes, they got up, and Haya gave him a warm hug.
Yolanda was waiting and John gave her a kiss on the cheek. Haya called after them, “John, congratulations, you’re a lucky man. I see you have a pretty girl to take care of you.” Yolanda blushed.
Great – no other foreign journalist had interviewed Haya so far during the presidential election campaign.
Days later, The Washington Post published the report – under the name of the South American correspondent in Buenos Aires – and John received congratulatory telegrams from his father and The Post’s editor in Washington. Well done, good job, for a rookie.
John also received a telegram from Randall: had John read that interview with Haya in The Washington Post? Who was this correspondent? Peter Bush had assured him The Post had no correspondent in Peru. Randall demanded John find out who he was. John smiled and turned crimson – what on earth could he say to Randall?
The Post now entrusted John with reporting on the run up to the Peruvian presidential elections in a couple of months’ time. Great news: as the Kemmerer mission wound down, John could spend more time ferreting for news for The Post.
And, yes, he replied to Randall that he had no idea who had interviewed Haya for The Post. What would old Father Joseph in Boston think of this white lie if John brought it up in confession?
As John sipped another delectable Pisco Sour, he reflected on the power of the written word and the press. Perhaps The Washington Post could be his platform, ensuring the world knew what was really going on and revealing injustice. This beat lecturing to conceited American university preppies any day.
Chapter 14
What John hadn’t expected from his trip to Trujillo was getting a girlfriend, or had he? He’d liked Yolanda when they’d met on the sea voyage from Boston, but their relationship had now blossomed, or erupted. Yet, he was going back to Lima, with Yolanda staying in Trujillo – 500 kilometres apart. How would they keep it going?
John’s few days in Trujillo with Yolanda went too quickly. Spend as much time together as possible; stroke a cheek when nobody was looking; a furtive kiss; but, her brothers joking, her friends giggling as they walked by, and a warm smile from a reserved Remigia. No, their affair was no longer a secret.
They had a lot to talk about – to get to know each other as best as possible, as soon as possible. She held his hand and kissed him when she heard his mother died when he was an infant. She loved hearing his admiration and warmth for his father. Yes, she could understand John wanted to be a university professor like his father, but the lack of a sparkle in his eyes made her doubt. What did he really want?
She wanted to ask about Lisa but, no, better not reopen that box – leave it closed, forever. She held back a tear when he told her about Gerry Murray’s suicide and was shocked by his friend Mick Faughnan joining the Irish mob.
“So, what happened to Mick Faughnan?” said Yolanda.
John sighed, “This guy Kelly – who sacked Mick from his shop in Boston and later accused him of manslaughter… you know, of that man who died the night we were in the speakeasy…?”
“What about Kelly?”
“Well, Kelly was the only person who came forward as a witness… that Mick was responsible for manslaughter…”
“So, what happened?”
“Umm… Kelly’s dead.”
“What?”
“In his last letter, my father told me that… the day before Kelly was to appear in court… you know, to testify against Mick… they found Kelly hanging in the back room of his shop…”
“Oh my God… John, that’s horrible…”
“They say it was suicide… but his wife said he had no reason…”
“So, did someone kill him?”
“They don’t know, Yolanda… but when the mob is involved, anything is possible.”
As John grimaced, Yolanda decided to drop the issue.
John envied her large, warm family. A poor, hardworking but happy family – why hadn’t the Fitzgeralds been blessed likewise? Despite the uncertain future, he admired Yolanda’s determination to help her family. Looming unemployment, economic depression or political upheaval – none of this dampened her resolve. Tough on the outside but caring on the inside – the more he got to know her, the more he loved her.
Yolanda showed John around Hacienda Chicama but stopped when he mentioned working for Randall:
“Do you mean Mr Randall of the IFC?” said an open-mouthed Yolanda.
“Well, I don’t work for the IFC. I work for the Kemmerer mission, but it’s Randall who pays for my doctoral research with Professor Kemmerer,” said John.
In a hushed voice, Yolanda asked, “Do you know the IFC is negotiating with Hacienda Chicama to buy their sugar crop? And the IFC might even buy Hacienda Chicama?”
“Yeah… umm, no. I did overhear Randall talking about buying Peruvian sugar,” said John. He ached to tell her everything but no, he couldn’t; not yet.
John pondered how, unwittingly, they found themselves on opposite sides of Randall’s negotiating table. The information one of them had could be crucial in negotiations. They smiled in complicity: they must keep their affair secret from Randall. If he found out… no, better not even think about it.
Next, it was Yolanda who surprised John, “There was no way I could pay for postgraduate studies in the USA. So, I got a scholarship from an organisation called the FFA – the Foundation for the Freedom of the Americas”.
“What? Did you know Randall is chairman of the FFA?” asked John.
She gasped, “No, I had no idea.”
A silly idea crossed John’s mind: maybe meeting Yolanda aboard the Santa Clara hadn’t just been a coincidence.
Anyway, he suddenly remembered something important,
“Yolanda, I need your help,” said John, “Do you remember Ju
anito, the shoeshine boy in Cordano’s?” She nodded. “Well, his brother is in trouble – big trouble.”
After explaining what Fortunato had done, John said, “He only tried to defend his mother. He’s a good kid… and handy working with vehicles. He needs to get out of Lima or the police will catch him: would there be some work for him in Chicama?” Yolanda smiled, nodded and he gave her a big kiss.
When John got back to Lima, he was happy to see Pedro was back from Arequipa. They embraced: they had a lot to talk about.
“So, where’s Carolina?” asked John.
“She’s here,” said Pedro and, enjoying John’s surprised look, continued, “she’s in Lima; working with her godfather, President Samanez.”
“But what about you? Are the police after you?”
Pedro smiled again as he shook his head, “You don’t know Carolina’s family. They prefer to protect their damn reputation by keeping quiet and avoiding any news in the press.”
“And what about those gangsters Carolina’s father sent to beat you up? Has your father got the police to catch them? If they talked, they could implicate Carolina’s father.”
“Yeah, the old bastard would deserve that,” said Pedro “but even if they caught them, there’s no way a judge would incriminate the Piérola family – that’s how things work here. And you can bet old Piérola now regrets they didn’t kill me.”
“Anyway, what happened in Trujillo? Did you interview Haya?” said Pedro.
John nodded and smiled modestly, “And I got published in The Washington Post.”
“Hey, that’s fantastic, man. And what about that pretty girl, what was her name… Yolanda?” said Pedro. John smiled. “I knew it. She seems a great girl,” said Pedro, softly punching his friend on the arm.
“And how’s your leg doing?”
“It still aches like hell when I get up in the morning, but feels better after I’ve done some walking,” said Pedro.
It was time to celebrate, so Tony brought a couple of beers and, when they’d finished them, a few more.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 17