“We will not surrender to force, to fraudulent victory, to the usurpation of power, by those who achieve power without any moral right, capturing the state as if it were booty… They will rule, but we will continue educating, organising and leading by example… The semi-democratic holiday is over and Peru is now returning to despotic rule… Only APRA can save Peru,” said Haya. What would The Washington Post’s readers think of that?
Champagne flowed at La Nación’s offices. John could only speak to Carlos for a minute before they heard cheering in the corridor. Carlos had to go – Dr Flores had arrived.
As he left, John walked past the office into which Carlos had followed Flores. Before the door was closed in his face, John heard Flores exulting:
“Fernández, you’re a magician. How did you do it?” followed by loud laughter.
Fernández? It was a common surname in Peru. He would have loved to find out who this, so-called, magician was. As to the nature of the magic, John had few doubts.
Chapter 19
Then, it happened. During dinner with Pedro at Hostal Zapata, the telephone rang. Tony called John over – it was Yolanda.
Yolanda? But she never phoned – long distance calls were so expensive. Something must be wrong. He rushed to pick up the receiver, dropping his table napkin.
“Yoly, what’s up?”
“What do you mean: what’s up? They’ve stolen the elections: that’s what’s up… and we must do something about it,” said Yolanda, her voice trembling.
“Yeah, there have been rumours, but nothing has been proved about fraud determining the results. Besides, Samanez and Jiménez have accepted the results and—” said John, before Yolanda interrupted him:
“Samanez and Jiménez? Listen, Samanez is a landowner: of course he doesn’t want anything to change – that’s why he wanted Sánchez-Cerro to win. And Jiménez: he was supposed to be on our side.”
“What do you mean ‘Jiménez was supposed to be on our side’? He seems honest and impartial to me. I’ve not heard he supports Haya and APRA.”
“John, your last report in The Washington Post was full of lies. You wrote nothing about the election results being rigged—” said Yolanda, but now John interrupted her, raising his voice.
“Yikes, Yoly, there’s no conclusive proof the elections were rigged. I can’t report hearsay.”
“Hearsay? John, I’m so disappointed with you… I didn’t know you were like this,” said Yolanda, with her voice fading into tears. An awkward silence followed, until John retook the conversation.
“No, Yoly, you can’t expect me to report rumours and take sides. I’ve got to report the truth.”
He heard her sniffling as she replied, “The truth? You believe the truth written by your friends at La Nación, who don’t care about democracy… who only want another autocrat like Sánchez-Cerro to defend their interests… John, I’ve got to go,” and the telephone went dead. They’d been cut off, or she’d hung up on him.
Slowly, John put the receiver down, almost disbelieving what he’d heard. Looking around, Pedro and Tony were staring at him. He only wanted to retreat into his thoughts. Walk upstairs, lock his door, breathe and think.
Above all, think: Yolanda was devoted to changing her country, bettering the lives of her family, and was sure only Haya and APRA could do that. She’d unfairly accused him of believing La Nación, but she only wanted to believe Haya – his speech on the radio came back to him, “Only APRA can save Peru”. Yes, that was what Yolanda believed. But she didn’t want to understand John couldn’t take sides in his reporting to The Post.
Did Yolanda want to use him, to extend Haya’s cause internationally, through The Washington Post? John just couldn’t do it.
Lying on his bed, John tried to understand what had happened. Was Yolanda breaking up with him, unless he reported in The Post what she wanted? Did that mean she didn’t love him anymore? Was her love conditional on his siding with Haya and APRA? If so, that wasn’t love – it was nothing.
He felt his eyes swelling. In the quiet of his room he was alone: his old world back in Boston, with Lisa, was a fading memory, but the new life he’d been building in Peru, with Yolanda, was now crumbling.
Six weeks was a long limbo between the day final electoral results were declared and when Peru’s new president, Luis Miguel Sánchez-Cerro, would take office.
Carlos had been right: Haya and his APRA party didn’t accept their electoral defeat. Day after day, APRA unearthed reports of presumed electoral irregularities. They maintained they’d been robbed of victory. Others thought APRA had believed so blindly they’d win, they were unable to accept defeat.
John wondered if the presumed irregularities, if true, would have given victory to Haya. It didn’t matter. There was too much at stake. The two sides were so entrenched, animosity so great, violence was certain; whichever had won.
In the north, APRA’s heartland, workers went on strike. Demonstrators clashed with police, who called on the army for help. Ten people were killed near Trujillo – John’s heart almost stopped when he heard. Was this in Chicama? Yolanda – would she be safe? Desperately, he rummaged for news. He called Carlos – he might know:
“Yeah, it’s confirmed the deaths happened in Chiclín,” said Carlos.
“Thanks a million, Carlos,” said John. What a relief, thought John – Chiclín; not Chicama.
John imagined Carlos shaking his head as he put the receiver down, wondering why John was so worried about a bunch of communists getting what they deserved.
John read newspapers that supported APRA – Christ, they openly encouraged the army to intervene in favour of Haya. Rumours of dissident army officers preparing rebellion were rife, and not only amongst presumed APRA supporters. Pedro heard that a colonel, head of the personal guard of former President Leguía, was plotting to stop Sánchez-Cerro from taking office.
Incredibly, it was also said that none other than former provisional junta minister Lieutenant Colonel Jiménez, one of the senior army officers most respected by junior officers and troops, had had second thoughts about the decision to declare the electoral results valid. Was this what Yolanda had suggested to John on the telephone? If Jiménez intervened, anything could happen.
Next day, John telegraphed The Washington Post that Peru wouldn’t fade out of the international news with Sánchez-Cerro becoming president. This was no normal democratic transition. He wanted to stay in Peru – there was Yolanda, of course, although their telephone conversation had been shattering. But John also sensed he was witnessing historical events, with international repercussions, affecting American interests.
Washington wasn’t convinced. But John insisted and his eloquence so impressed the editors that they finally gave in – no harm in giving this greenhorn journalist a chance. If what he said were to come about, The Post would have a man on the spot to catch a scoop for their readers.
Great – now John had a reason to stay in Peru, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Yolanda. If he lost her, then… But maybe she was right. Perhaps Sánchez-Cerro had won the elections fraudulently. So, should he side with Haya, whom Yolanda believed was on the side of the deprived? But was he?
John recalled those four words Haya had repeated in his speeches: faith, union, discipline and action. Was Haya a real democrat, a real man of the people, or just another autocrat?
Anyway, it wasn’t all about politics and righteousness. Jumbled thoughts spun around in his head. He’d never met anyone like Yolanda. Okay, he’d thought the same about Lisa, hadn’t he, until he’d met Yolanda. No, he couldn’t compare them, but in a sense they were similar: they both needed him. Lisa wanted to get married and escape from her oppressive father. Yolanda wanted him to take Haya’s side and publish favourable reports in The Post. But that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t believe she was just using him. No, their relationship was special.
; With the elections over, John wanted to continue being in close touch with Carlos Medelius, to unearth, or even anticipate, news. Not only news for The Post, but also find out the truth for himself. And yes, he was aware Carlos’ truth wasn’t necessarily the real truth.
Carlos had been right about the outcome of the elections and what would happen afterwards. Sánchez-Cerro was a compelling character, in control of most of the army, and popular with many Peruvians. Carlos’ admiration for Italian fascism and talk of Luis Flores becoming some sort of Peruvian Mussolini seemed unreal. Yes, John had to hear what Carlos thought – or knew – about how events were unfolding.
Then, a letter from his father arrived. Good, thought John, let’s see how he’s settling in at Princeton University.
Instead, his father’s news was shocking: One of the people I’ve kept in touch with at Harvard is a law professor who was Lisa Barrett’s tutor. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Lisa has decided not to marry Jack Saunders.
John just stared at the paper – he had to read it again: Not to marry Jack Saunders.
John gasped and read on: Lisa has quarrelled with her father, left New York and returned to Boston. She’s talking to her law professor about getting a scholarship or a loan to do a doctorate at Harvard.
John took a deep breath – was he happy, sad or just plain confused? And Lisa, would she still love him – was she waiting for him? Was there still a chance for them if he returned to Boston?
He sighed, lay down on his bed, looking up at that flaking ceiling that, as always, looked down at him with its white, blank expressionlessness.
Chapter 20
John read his father’s last letter, again and again. He drafted a letter to Lisa; then, threw it in the waste paper bin; days later, the same; and, the following week, again.
Lisa hadn’t written to John, but maybe he shouldn’t expect a letter from her. Maybe she’d know he’d heard about her and Jack breaking up, and was waiting for him to write.
I know what – I’ll send her a Christmas card, he thought.
Up north in Trujillo and the surrounding plantations, despondency was rife. Everyone brooded about the future. After eleven long years, the dreaded Leguía regime was over, but was worse to come?
Life had always been dire for the sugar cane croppers of Hacienda Chicama, so Yolanda’s friends refused to believe it when she told them.
“Uh… Yoly, you’ve done what? Quarrelled with John? Incredible.”
“You caught a gringo, you only had to be sweet to him and he’d whisk you away to the USA, to live like a princess. Then you could forget about your miserable life here in Chicama.”
“Wow… we’d give anything to be in your place. Yoly, what’s wrong with you?”
Yolanda just walked away. Nobody understood her, and they didn’t understand John either. Better not argue. But, alone in her bedroom, she burst into tears.
Remigia was tired after scrubbing the kitchen but, instead of sitting down for a rest, decided to take her daughter for a walk.
“We need to talk,” said Remigia.
“About what?” said Yolanda.
“About life, my dear.”
Yolanda looked up to the heavens: what did her poor mother know about life? She was only a simple peasant woman from the Andes.
As they walked, Remigia stroked her daughter’s hand. Yolanda was used to her mother being demure but, today, Remigia had a bee in her bonnet.
“Did I ever tell you, Yoly, why I came down to Chicama from my village?” Yolanda shook her head. “The local cacique is called Don Eugenio. He owns most of the land in the area. He started out as the local justice of the peace.”
“Yeah, so many do, don’t they?” said Yolanda, as her mother continued:
“Aha… when he bought his first plot of land, he kept cattle on it. At night, he’d let his cattle out of their enclosure and they’d trample and feed on the land cultivated by his Indian neighbours. In the morning, the poor Indians found their crops destroyed and complained to Don Eugenio – they were ruined. He said he wasn’t responsible for what his cattle did and refused any compensation to the Indians, but offered to buy their land. Those who refused, he threatened with conscription into the army or even violence. In the end, he’d buy land for a tenth of what it was worth.”
“What a thief,” said Yolanda.
“And Don Eugenio only paid for the land in goods from his store, not in cash. So Don Eugenio took over more and more land. And when he became provincial governor, his speeches were full of words like freedom, democracy, justice and fatherland… but those poor Indians who’d been forced to sell their land to him had become his slaves,” said Remigia.
Yolanda nodded – she’d heard stories like this before. This was nothing new. It had been going on for centuries throughout Peru. Even President Leguía denounced it, but did nothing.
“Don Eugenio even believes he owns people in his area. Everyone does what he says: the police, the priest, the judge… everyone – except your grandfather.” Yolanda stared at her mother: what was she about to reveal?
“Don Eugenio said it was his right to deflower – that’s what he called it – any girl he fancied. And he did.”
“What a bastard. How was he allowed…” said Yolanda. But her mother pressed a finger to her lips: silence – she must continue her story.
“One day, Don Eugenio came for me. But my father put me on a donkey and sent me away to the coast. I rode day and night. Your Uncle Gumersindo was working in Chicama and took care of me. So I was safe – but not your grandfather. Do you know what Don Eugenio did?” Yolanda gaped at her.
“Don Eugenio tied your grandfather to a horse and dragged him into the village square. There, he shackled him to a pole and whipped him like an animal. He said it was your grandfather’s punishment for offending him,” said Remigia, without shedding a tear.
“But, mama, why didn’t anyone go to Trujillo, or even Lima, to get justice?” said Yolanda, bursting with anger.
“Justice, you say? Who’d believe poor, illiterate peasants against an important landlord? No, there’s no justice in my village, or in Trujillo or Lima – only in heaven, when we die. But here, in Hacienda Chicama, I’m safe from Don Eugenio. We complain we’re poor, working from dawn to dusk and water coming through our roof when it rains, but I’m married to a good man, who doesn’t beat me and I have three lovely children,” said Remigia, wiping the tears sprouting from Yolanda’s eyes, before she continued.
“Now, I understand you fighting for a better future, but you must also value what you already have,” said Remigia, coming to her key point as she saw Yolanda’s confused look.
“John comes from a different world; he is a gringo and won’t always understand us. But, in his eyes, I see the same look that your father had: a good man, who’ll treat you well and, above all, loves you,” said Remigia, clasping her daughter close and kissing her.
Yolanda knew her parents meant well. And, her friends dreamed of catching a gringo and being spirited away to the promised land of the USA. But Yolanda felt a fire burning inside her: they should mind their own damn business. They didn’t understand anything: she didn’t care about any foreign promised land – her people and her life were in Peru. Anyway, how could she love a man who didn’t share her beliefs? She locked her bedroom door and sobbed, until exhaustion brought peace and she fell asleep.
Meanwhile, in Lima, Luis Miguel Sánchez-Cerro took office as president of Peru on 8th December, 1931.
The following day, John went to see Carlos. He was smoking a big cigar – playfully making looped puffs of smoke – and the offices of La Nación still smelled of stale champagne, after celebrations long into the night before. John glowered at the shocking example of journalistic impartiality he was seeing. The old boys at The Washington Post would feel nothing but contempt.
“Hi, Carlos, I s
ee you’ve been partying,” said John, stating the obvious. Carlos smiled, got up, gave John a big slap on the back and, with his arm on his shoulder, led him to a chair.
“We’ve finished the champagne, but would you like some wine?” said Carlos. John shook his head. Carlos knew why John had come.
“You see what I told you. Your foreign investors have nothing to worry about,” said Carlos, reclining in his chair.
“Yeah, but APRA won’t lie down and accept Sánchez-Cerro as president,” replied John.
Carlos puffed at his cigar and dismissively waived his hand in the air, “Aha… I already told you APRA’s reaction was predictable. But it doesn’t matter.” The unconvinced look on John’s face enticed Carlos to be more candid than he probably should.
“Listen John, Dr Flores has already planned what to do: APRA will put themselves outside the law with their strikes, rebellion and, of course, treason by encouraging the army to rebel against the legitimate government…”
“But Carlos, wasn’t that what Sánchez-Cerro did last year? He led an army rebellion against President Leguía – wasn’t that treason?” said John.
The smile disappeared from Carlos’ face – John had provoked him with the question Sánchez-Cerro’s supporters couldn’t answer. Carlos leaned forward and stamped out his cigar on the floor: John wasn’t going to outflank him.
“APRA are a menace, they’re communists, atheists, and the enemies of Peru. What would your foreign investors do if APRA were in power? They’d run away with their money. Only Dr Flores… I mean, Sánchez-Cerro, can save Peru. We must eliminate APRA,” said Carlos, frowning.
“Eliminate APRA? They’ve lost the presidential election but they’ve got many representatives in Congress and…”
“For the moment,” said Carlos, recovering his composure and smiling.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 23