Would someone at Hacienda Chicama reveal to Randall about John and Yolanda? They prayed gossip would be restricted to their closest friends. Anyway, an insensitive businessman like Randall hadn’t time for subordinates’ romancing… unless a stupid romance interfered with his business.
The following day, Schultz’s chauffeur drove them from Trujillo to Hacienda Chicama and Schultz took Randall with John on a long tour of the hacienda.
Later, John found an excuse to go elsewhere and hunted down Yolanda in her office.
“John, my love, you need to find out what Mr Randall is planning. The jobs of hundreds of us on the hacienda depend on you… He’s coming. I must go before he sees me.” Yolanda gave John a quick kiss and rushed out just before Randall came into the room.
“Ah… I was looking for you, where have you been, boy?”
A tremor ran down John’s spine. Who was it to be: his master or the woman he loved?
Randall smiled sinisterly, “We’ve got them. The poor fools don’t know I’m shareholder of the bank that’s lent them money. Now, listen: the bank will call in the loan unless the hacienda can prove they can repay it. They can only repay if they have a buyer for this year’s sugar harvest. I’ve told them I’ll buy their sugar… but, then, I just might change my mind. No buyer… the bank demands full repayment of its loan… Schultz can’t repay… and I buy the largest hacienda in Peru, railroad and all, for next to nothing.”
Randall salivated as he concluded, “The game’s nearly over, but first I need you to make sure they don’t have another buyer for their sugar… Are you with me, boy?”
Listening to Randall, Yolanda’s desperate plea revolved inside John’s head: the jobs of hundreds of us on the hacienda depend on you… I love you, John…
John felt he was being swallowed by quicksand, as he replied almost inaudibly, “Umm… yes, I think so.”
“What do you mean with: I think so?” thundered Randall. John looked into Randall’s vicious, eagle eyes, like a helpless rodent about to be ripped away by a terrifying bird of prey.
“Yes sir, of course.”
“Good boy. Let me know tomorrow.”
Randall departed, leaving John alone with his thoughts, the quicksand now up to his neck.
I’m so sorry, Yolanda, I just can’t do it – was this what he’d have to tell her? He’d lost Lisa, tired of waiting for him, now engaged to Jack. Was he also going to lose Yolanda? If she really loved him, would she understand he was Randall’s man? No, she wouldn’t.
I don’t know, Mr Randall. Was that the alternative? Daring to tell Randall he didn’t have the information he needed to win the game and make a killing. He couldn’t – Randall would destroy him. The Great Depression was getting worse. He’d end up begging for food in the soup kitchens of the backstreets of Boston. Would Yolanda still love him then? Not only that, but Randall would have John’s father sacked from the university – that would be the end for the old man.
A soft kiss on his cheek jolted John back from his thoughts, but the quicksand now covered his mouth and he gasped for air.
“So, what did Mr Randall say, my love?”
“He… err… asked about Hacienda Chicama’s sugar harvest…” Was that all John could reveal to Yolanda?
Time – he needed time, to think, to decide on his next step.
Help – he was now fully submerged in the quicksand, desperately fighting to breathe.
That night, John struggled to fall asleep and when he did, he was confronted with the shocking biblical image of Goliath. The champion of the Philistines was an intimidating giant, clad in impenetrable armour. No Israelite dared fight him. Until, one day, David, a young man with no weapons, nor armour, except for a sling and a few stones, foolishly challenged the giant. Everyone laughed at David. But David took courage and, as he prepared his sling to hurl a stone, he was surprised he wasn’t facing Goliath, but Mr James Randall III.
David killed Goliath and cut off his head. But Randall wasn’t Goliath and John wasn’t David.
When he woke up, in a sweat, John forgot about his dream of David and Goliath. He washed, prayed, breathed deeply and rehearsed in the mirror what he was going to say to Randall.
John sighed. Randall always got what he wanted. Competitors, partners and politicians all gave in to him. As for Randall’s employees, failing him never crossed their minds.
It was a beautiful morning and John thought the lush sugar cane fields stretched like a green sea around him and all the way down to the Pacific Ocean. In the distance, the hacienda’s railway engine hissed as it stopped to collect sugar cane. What a misleading scene of prosperity – the Great Depression had brought Peru’s largest hacienda to its knees.
The meeting room was empty. John breathed out heavily, taking a moment to steady his nerves. But the door was flung open and Randall marched in. He was holding an enormous cigar in his right hand, like a crab’s pincer holds its prey. He wore a dry smile. His victim was at his mercy. Today, he was going to close a good business deal and make a killing.
“So, tell me, boy, what news do you have for me?”
The time had come. John sensed a shudder down his spine and his armpits moistening, but he steadied up. His throat felt dry and worried that words wouldn’t come out.
“Umm… they… they know your plans. They’re not selling the hacienda to you.”
“What? Impossible.” Randall’s eyes bulged out of his head and he nearly dropped his cigar, but then thundered, “What do they know? Who’s told them?”
“They know that, if you buy the hacienda, you’ll sack Peruvian workers and replace them with Chinese immigrants. They say you’ve got the Peruvian government to agree. They know the Chinese are starving, they’ll come to work twice as hard for next to nothing, they won’t have trade unions and…”
“Who’s told them all this? You…? You! You ungrateful little son-of-a-bitch… I brought you here to get your wretched doctorate with Kemmerer. And this is how you pay me? You are nobody… And your father: I got him his job at the university. This is the end…. for you and your father.”
John felt his blood boiling and his muscles tensing – he was back in his boxing gym in Boston: legs poised, fists raised level with his chin – the punch bag in front of him: one, two.
And John stepped back, stared at his fists, looked down and saw Randall flat on the floor, nursing his jaw, with blood streaming from his nose.
John gazed in shock – I didn’t mean to… what have I done… rushed through his mind. Instinctively, he offered Randall a hand to help him up.
Randall pushed John’s hand away, got on his knees and then struggled to his feet. Still shaking, he stared at John with sheer hatred. Caressing his jaw with one hand, he wagged a finger at him. John gaped: how on earth was Randall still holding on to his damn cigar?
Then, steaming red with anger, Randall stumbled out, slamming the door, after crushing his cigar in his trembling, clenched fist and showering John with the debris.
John breathed out strongly from puffed cheeks, taking a moment to recover, but then smiled as he remembered his dream. David was still alive, but Goliath was not yet dead.
John had to react quickly. Randall was unforgiving – anyone who opposed him was doomed.
That same night, John wrote to his father explaining what had happened. He made no apology for challenging Randall. It wasn’t only loyalty to Yolanda, but a moral issue – Randall was trying to acquire Hacienda Chicama by foul means and didn’t give a damn about the poor people involved. And that was only the beginning of the shady business deals he’d be scheming.
When his father wrote back, he didn’t complaint, supporting John, but reminding him Randall was a businessman, who’d do anything for profit. People came second. Life was like that and, yes, life was tough.
John knew Randall would ensure Dr Fitzgerald lost his j
ob at Harvard and order no more payments be made to John, working with the Kemmerer mission. That was the least he could do to start with, and then he’d think of further ways to inflict pain on the dirty little swine who’d betrayed him. John was now well and truly adrift.
As far as the Hacienda Chicama deal was concerned, Randall would plough ahead. He wouldn’t care if his cards had been revealed. He believed Schultz and Hacienda Chicama only had worthless cards in their hands. He had no doubt he was still going to win this poker game.
So, what now for John? Alone in the bar, he sighed – he couldn’t avoid taking the decision any longer.
John knew Randall’s plans. He’d stop at nothing. He’d make businesses fail and then buy them at distress prices. He’d bribe politicians and plunder natural resources – anything necessary to achieve his goals. What about the consequences for people – they were just another commodity to Randall.
John longed to change the world. But there was nothing he could do. The Kemmerer mission was leaving. He had to think of himself now and go back to Boston, get his doctorate and achieve his dream of becoming a university academic like his father. Thanks to Professor Kemmerer, his dream was within his grasp.
Alone with his thoughts, he almost slipped into a trance, but turned around almost violently when a hand rested gently on his shoulder.
“So, when is my American boy going home?”
John looked into Yolanda’s eyes and was surprised to see they weren’t sad. Had she given up and accepted he was leaving?
Although she loved him, Yolanda wouldn’t leave with him. She wouldn’t turn her back on her family, on her people.
What he’d found in Peru had touched his soul. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had to find a way to stop Randall. He’d come to Peru to research for his doctorate and then return to the USA. But maybe he could become an investigative journalist with The Washington Post, denounce injustice, and ‘change the world’.
“Going home? Who’s going home? I, kind of, like it here in Peru,” said John.
For the first time in days, Yolanda’s face lit up and they merged into a passionate kiss. Yes, Peru was great. He’d stay a while longer
Part 3
After the shipwreck
Chapter 16
When he left for Europe, Sánchez-Cerro entrusted preparations for his return to Peru to his right-hand man, Dr Luis Flores, who was to establish a political party called “Unión Revolucionaria,” or UR for short.
John researched to write a press report for The Washington Post and UR appeared conservative, not wanting anything revolutionary at all. It seemed simply a vehicle to propel Sánchez-Cerro to win the presidential elections. What policies did UR promote? What did Sánchez-Cerro stand for? John scratched his chin – many people didn’t care. They only wanted Sánchez-Cerro and UR, whatever it was, to stop that man Haya and his APRA party.
John was intrigued by Flores – the mysterious man in the background was coming to the fore. His public appearances and photographs in the press became more frequent. What was behind that sad face, small mouth, rarely smiling, clean shaven, with short black hair and a receding hairline? On the radio he sounded passionate, even angry. Some described him as intelligent, skilful and loyal – presumably to Sánchez-Cerro. Others called him dogmatic, cunning and resentful. What a choice of adjectives.
When John first met Flores, at a press conference at La Nación newspaper, invited by Carlos Medelius, he detected a fanatical streak. He’d heard many in Peru expressing admiration for Mussolini and Hitler: Peru needed a strong leader in these chaotic times. Some even said their fellow citizens were lazy, uneducated and unfit to be productive citizens in the 20th century. They needed a leader who’d be strict with them, for their own good, of course.
John frowned as he made feverish notes of the questions and answers during the press conference:
“Everything that is wrong with Peru has its roots in the lack of virtue of its people,” said Flores.
“How would you resolve this, Dr Flores?”
“I’d strictly control education and the press – anyone without necessary moral standards shouldn’t teach or publish,” said Flores.
“Dr Flores, what is the greatest threat Peru faces?
“APRA and the communism they promote, which would be suicidal for our nation,” said Flores.
“What are your key principles, Dr Flores?”
“The indestructible love for my country and my religious faith,” said Flores, beaming with self-satisfaction.
John sensed Flores wasn’t ready to compromise and could be downright dangerous in such volatile times. Would The Washington Post’s editor publish John’s views or water-down his reports to factual news?
The 22nd August, 1931, was the first anniversary of Sánchez-Cerro’s military coup ending the Leguía regime. In celebration, Unión Revolucionaria organised the largest political rally ever seen in Peru. Tens of thousands of supporters would parade through the streets, past the presidential palace, ending up in the Plaza San Martín square, in the heart of Lima.
Tony Guzmán couldn’t offend his boss when Mr Zapata asked him to go with him, so they left Pedro in charge of the bar. John went with them, not wanting to miss such a historical event, and avid for news to report to The Washington Post.
They elbowed their way into Plaza San Martín – largest square in Lima, with a perimeter of six hundred metres. On three sides it had uniform grey buildings with arches covering the sidewalk and, on the fourth, three magnificent buildings: Hotel Bolívar – the best in Lima – Colón Theatre and the Club Nacional – the oligarchy’s bastion.
The square was packed. Everyone wanted to see Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro. There were workers, servants, shopkeepers, clerks, government employees, soldiers in civilian clothes – a very mixed crowd.
As people jostled into the square, Tony Guzmán was squashed against a young man impeccably uniformed in black – he turned around and confronted Tony:
“Hey, sambo, who the hell do you think you’re pushing?” said the guy in black as he spat at Tony. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen… seventeen… maybe only sixteen. Tony grabbed him by the arms, ready to teach the arrogant kid a lesson.
But, suddenly, Tony was surrounded by three… five… then ten young men, all in black. Zapata read the danger and pulled Tony away.
“It’s alright, there’s no problem…” said John, stepping between Tony and the guys in black.
Surprised to see a gringo protecting Tony, the eldest of the men in black said:
“Is this guy your friend? Tell the son-of-a-bitch to show some respect or we’ll beat him up.”
Then, the group in black left, thrusting through the crowd, leaving Tony cursing under his breath: where had these kids come from and who the hell did they think they were? Zapata raised a finger to his lips – silence – as he restrained Tony.
Sánchez-Cerro arrived with military punctuality, uncommon in Peru, but couldn’t start his speech on time, struggling through the sea of people to reach the speaker’s stage. From a distance, it was hard to see who was walking up on to the stage, but from the roar of the crowd it was clear their leader had arrived.
First, the microphone was taken by a man who John recognised: Dr Flores. But, who was behind him? None other than Carlos Medelius – strange to see a journalist so integrated into a politician’s entourage. Flores made a short but emotional introduction to Sánchez-Cerro, who then took over, to the crowd’s delight.
Sánchez-Cerro looked down on the multitude assembled below him and, above their heads and behind them, he saw the lights on at the Club Nacional and its balconies swelling with the nation’s wealthy. He smirked: not long ago, they’d have despised him as a mestizo, junior army officer, whilst welcoming President Leguía into their exclusive club. Soon, they’d have to admit him too. Would they also be calling h
im the new Titan of the Pacific?
But tonight, the people massed at his feet were awaiting his speech.
“Today, we celebrate one year from an important day in the history of our beloved Peru.” The crowd broke into deafening applause.
“One year ago, I fulfilled my patriotic duty; my responsibility as a soldier of our nation, and deposed a tyrannical regime that lasted eleven long years.” More applause interrupted the leader’s speech.
“During those eleven years, Peru suffered the financial orgy of the Leguía dictatorship… corruption, plunder and squander by an unscrupulous ruler,” he said.
“Peru suffered a tyrant who rewarded evil and punished virtue. That is why our nation must be morally purged and I therefore present to you my programme of national reconstruction,” he said, with the devoted crowd listening in silence.
“Leguía’s associates, who became rich performing public duty, and their accomplices in APRA, who now plot against our nation, can expect nothing from me.” Sánchez-Cerro was again interrupted by applause.
“I will strengthen the belief in patriotism… defend democracy… and protect working people,” and rapturous applause broke out from every corner of the square, as Sánchez-Cerro gazed down at his people with a smile of satisfaction.
After half an hour ingesting pure populism, the multitude broke into frenzied chanting, “Sánchez-Cerro, Presidente… Sánchez-Cerro, Presidente…”
What a performance, thought John, once the glorification was over. Those assembled loved every minute of it but, wait a moment, did they really know what Sánchez-Cerro would do if he became president? Patriotism, moral purge, national reconstruction… nice rhetoric, but what did their leader really intend doing? How could John convey this shroud to The Post’s readers?
And poor old Leguía was safer in his pitiful prison cell: after what Sánchez-Cerro said about him, this crowd would have torn him to pieces.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 20