“What do you mean ‘For the moment’?” asked John.
“John, nobody will get in our way. We’ll allow congressmen to debate. But if APRA want to enjoy democracy in Congress whilst rebelling in the streets, we’ll not allow it.” Great, thought John: he’s about to reveal what they’re really up to.
“Dr Flores has prepared a special powers Act,” said Carlos.
“Special powers?” asked John. Come on Carlos – tell us about it, man. I won’t tell anyone, John said to himself. What a liar I am, he thought – The Washington Post readers must hear this.
Carlos looked at John straight in the eye – that meant he was to keep to himself what he was about to hear. John nodded. He’d built up an understanding with Carlos.
“APRA will stand in our way. We’ll have no option but to implement special powers to stop them abusing democratic freedom and starting a revolution against us. Imprisonment, deportation abroad, forbidding public gatherings and strikes… it’s all in Dr Flores’ draft. We’ll also have to close their newspapers and radio stations, of course. We cannot have them spreading phoney news and hatred against us,” said Carlos.
“… but the army won’t…” said John as Carlos nodded, anticipating him, and continued,
“We’re making sure the army doesn’t rebel against us – we’ve got a list of army officers who sympathise with APRA. They’ll be removed, given early retirement or sent abroad; the same with police officers. The more dangerous ones will be locked up. After that, the rest will give in. They must understand we’ll not tolerate any unpatriotic behaviour.”
“Umm… but what do you mean by ‘unpatriotic behaviour’?”
Carlos ignored John’s impertinent interruption, sipped a glass of water and continued, “Trade unions will be banned – they’re all communists anyway. Especially those damn miners, oil workers and sugar cane croppers up north. We’ll rid government offices of anyone who isn’t loyal to us. We’ll cleanse universities and schools of those subversive teachers who have no moral right to educate anyone. We need teachers who instil religious and patriotic values, and explain to future generations the splendid path on which Dr Flores will take our nation, on its way back to the most glorious days of our history.”
“Carlos, do you mean back to the days of the Inca Empire?”
Carlos shook his head, “Umm… not really. You’ve been up to the Andes, John. It’s a different world. The Indians have degenerated over the centuries, chewing coca leaves and all that. Many still believe in mountain spirits and superstitions, not in God. They don’t understand what it is to love their country. During the war with Chile, some Indians were willing to fight against any white man: Chilean or Peruvian. We need to educate them – they must learn our values and be inspired by patriotism.”
John pondered that racial prejudice was as bad in Peru as in the USA, where the European settlers had not only quarrelled amongst themselves but had also massacred the native American Indians and, even in the 20th century, many treated Africans as if they were still slaves. Was there any hope for humanity?
Walking back to Hostal Zapata for dinner, he thought of Yolanda – he wanted to warn her about what Carlos had divulged. The operator had found a telephone number for Hacienda Chicama, but every time he’d called there had been no reply.
When John got back, Tony rushed to meet him: Yolanda had telephoned.
As he waited with Pedro for Tony to serve dinner, he bit his nails. What would he say when she called again? He couldn’t reveal his conversation with Carlos. Still, what was more important, respecting Carlos’ confidentiality or telling Yolanda that maybe… maybe she’d been right about how Sánchez-Cerro had won the elections? Anyway, what he most wanted was to get Yolanda back.
At that same moment, Yolanda sat in the dark in Schultz’s office. If she were caught, she’d be sacked for making an expensive, personal telephone call.
What would she say to John? Remigia’s words came back to her, “…a good man, who’ll treat you well and, above all, loves you. That is more important than any disagreement you may have.” She shook her head.
She sighed, picked up the telephone and, then, put it down. Be brave: do it. Alright, she picked up the receiver again and got through to the operator – what a relief, it was her friend Lucia: please don’t tell anyone about this call. Okay, Yolanda, I won’t say a word.
Then, she waited for what appeared like ages until Lucia got back with her connection. Yolanda had time to think, decide what to say, then change her mind, finally deciding on something different and reciting what she was going to tell John. A short ring, she picked up the receiver again and Lucia told her she was connected.
“Can I… I’d like to speak to John please,” she said, hoping the quiver in her voice wasn’t discernible at the other end.
A lively voice took her name and asked her to wait a moment – must be that funny waiter, what was his name, yes, Tony.
“Yoly, is that you?” was John’s voice at the other end. She froze, completely forgetting the words she’d rehearsed. “Hello, are you there Yoly…?”
“Umm… yes… yes, John, it’s me” she replied. Another moment of silence until John mustered some words.
“Yoly, I’m so sorry about our last telephone call, I didn’t intend to… I mean… maybe I was wrong,” said John, as he struggled to find some words.
“No, John, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have forced you to report in The Post…”
“Listen, Yoly… I’ve tried to telephone you – I have important news. You were probably right, I need to tell you… err… keep it to yourself: Sánchez-Cerro is planning to eliminate APRA,” said John, as he bit his lip before continuing, “but what I really wanted to say is… that I want to see you, because I love you,” he eventually bleated out.
Yolanda wondered if John could hear her sniffling at the other end, battling to hold back tears and clearing her throat to be able to speak:
“Yes, I also want to see you… and I love you too,” she finally said.
After a moment of silence between them, which seemed to last an eternity, she added:
“Umm… John, Christmas is coming… you shouldn’t be alone in Lima. Come to Chicama.”
“Yes, it’ll be great to go to Chicama,” said John.
Yolanda sighed… but then felt a sudden shiver: someone was coming up the stairs of the Schultz’s office building.
“John, I must go now. Do write to me.” Then, she put the receiver down and breathed a sigh of relief: it was only the cleaner coming into the office.
John put down his receiver and smiled, as his heart settled down to a more normal beat.
Once upstairs, lying on his bed, his imagination started playing tricks with him: a smiling Yolanda turned away and it was Lisa who came in. Then, Lisa whispered in his ear: she still loved him; she was waiting for him at Harvard, and they could do their doctorates together. John drifted towards the toilet, washed his face and took a deep breath. The next move was his to make.
Chapter 21
A few days before Christmas, John travelled to Trujillo.
He was now familiar with the trip. The one-day sea voyage from Callao to Salaverry gave him time to read and think. He put his book down. He couldn’t concentrate. He was thinking of Yolanda. He had a distant look on his face when the waiter came around announcing lunch was ready:
“Sir, can you hear me?” No answer. “Sir, do you understand me? Do you speak Spanish?”
“Ah… yes, sorry, sorry. What? Lunch? Yes, thank you.”
After the ship docked at Salaverry, he had to wait for a train to leave for Trujillo. Damn it, why was there a delay?
Good, the train was leaving. Standing by the open window, the cool sea breeze abated as the train moved inland, across hot, arid land. The warm air blowing from the desert helped him relax, even doze and daydream as he reclined in
his seat. But no time for that – it was only a short trip. Great, they were arriving. The platform was busy – he couldn’t see her. Now, yes, there she was, at last.
They held hands awkwardly. Was this reconciliation, starting anew or a second chance? They’d both struggled to get back from the brink, buried their differences and refused to lose something so valuable.
As Remigia had said, “John comes from a different world… he won’t always understand us.” As if John had also heard those words, they were both learning to just accept those differences. No, you couldn’t force a loved one to change and be all you wanted.
What could they say? Neither knew, so they just fused into a big kiss. Then, they smiled. There was no need to say it; no need for apologies; they both knew they’d been stupid to quarrel – they were just happy to be together again.
Without speaking, they agreed not to raise anything acrimonious. And, good, John thought of a safe question to ask, “How’s Fortunato?”
“Oh… very well. He’s really handy. Did you know he worked with car mechanics in Lima? He’s helped Buffalo repair his old truck; Kurt Schultz keep his new car in perfect condition; and even my father with the hacienda’s railway engine,” said Yolanda.
John breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t bear thinking of Fortunato’s terrible fate if the police had caught him in Lima. The brothers were much alike and John imagined Juanito as a teenager when he looked at Fortunato.
But Yolanda also had unpleasant news.
“My mother was sick and lost her job because, whilst she was away, the Schultz took on another lady to clean their house,” said Yolanda, before revealing a greater shock:
“We knew Kurt Schultz had married a lady called Rosalinda, a landowner’s daughter. My mother was horrified to discover that Rosalinda was the daughter of Don Eugenio, the cacique in her village,” said Yolanda, telling John about the demon who thought it was his right to deflower the girls in his fief; and from whom Remigia had escaped.
“Yikes… how can that still happen in the 20th century?” said John shaking his head.
“Yeah… I wonder if anyone had a right to deflower Don Eugenio’s daughter before she married Kurt Schultz. Now you can see, John, what we have to put up with. Will it ever change?” said Yolanda glowering, as she continued:
“But my mother’s nightmare didn’t end there. Kurt asked her to clean his house. She needed the money. She didn’t even dare look into Rosalinda’s eyes – she said they were as cruel as Don Eugenio’s. And, then, on her third visit to the house she bumped into him. She said Don Eugenio looked a lot older and more decrepit but…that inhuman look, ferocious voice and monstrous figure, would never change.”
“Oh, my God… and what happened?” said John.
Yolanda grimaced, “Although Don Eugenio didn’t recognise her, my mother felt her heart stop. She escaped and never went back. You can just imagine Kurt complaining about these stupid and unreliable Indian maids.”
But that wasn’t all, “Isaac nearly lost his job on the hacienda,” said Yolanda.
“What the hell happened?” asked John.
“Isaac was carrying a crate with bottles of rum. It was too heavy. The crate fell and bottles smashed all over the floor. So the foreman kicked Isaac. Yes, he kicked him, like an animal,” she said.
“Shit… and what did Isaac do?” said John.
“He turned around and raised his fist. Luckily, the foreman backed away and Isaac froze…swallowed his temper, and didn’t punch him. Kurt Schultz was there and just laughed,” said Yolanda sniffling.
Yolanda was almost in tears, “John, it doesn’t matter who owns Hacienda Chicama – we’ll always be poor, and the poor exist to be humiliated. Would things be different if Haya and APRA had won the elections? Who knows?”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He held Yolanda tight, as she lost the battle to control her tears, with her face buried in his chest. Then, she pulled herself together and smiled: it was him – only with him could she cry and find relief from her suffering, instead of channelling it into anger. She wanted everyone to think she was tough, but she could trust John with her real feelings. She needed him. She’d missed him.
And John was learning it was alright to share your feelings. Crying was no disgrace. Brought up without a mother and surrounded by men, concealing your emotions was necessary for survival.
And so, when Yolanda dried her tears and apologised, he told her it was alright. He’d suppressed any crying – for fading memories of his mother, losing Lisa or Gerry’s death – and could share these emotions only with Yolanda.
They smiled: together, sharing their emotional frailties, made them stronger – let’s pray for no more stupid quarrels.
When they arrived at Yolanda’s home on Hacienda Chicama, John was welcomed like a son. These folk were poor but generous; poor but proud; poor but happy, despite the moments of humiliation. If John’s mother hadn’t died when he was so young, maybe he too could have had a family like this, with brothers and sisters.
The evening before Christmas, John and Yolanda went to town, but they found Trujillo quieter than expected. Walking through the beautiful Spanish colonial city centre, they considered whether tomorrow to visit the nearby ancient ruins of the dead city of Chan Chan or go for a swim in the golden beaches bathed by the Pacific Ocean surf, enjoying the region’s year-round spring-like weather. But that night there was a chill in the air.
Suddenly, they heard gunfire nearby.
“What the hell…?” said John.
“It can’t be…” said Yolanda. John stared at her. What was going on? Had the rumoured revolution against Sánchez-Cerro started?
They knew they were in the wrong place – a bar just outside the APRA headquarters, the ‘House of the People’, where John had interviewed Haya months before. Anyone there would be suspected of being an APRA supporter, to be hunted like vermin by the police and the army.
Then, gun shots rang outside in the street.
“John, let’s get out of here. This is the first place the police will come,” said Yolanda.
But it was too late – a truck rumbled past and its brakes screeched. Out jumped a dozen soldiers. John peered out into the street – soldiers rushed into the APRA headquarters next door. Then, he gasped as two soldiers charged towards the bar, with bayoneted rifles.
The barman beckoned towards the back exit. John and Yolanda looked at each other, they’d nothing to fear. They’d done nothing wrong. But, would the soldiers believe them? No. So, get out. Quick.
Far too late – the soldiers stormed in, shooting randomly. One shouted at them, “You two, rebel scum…”
John and Yolanda cringed and daren’t move. Yolanda closed her eyes and held John’s hand tight. John was sure he’d heard the clicking of triggers: the soldiers were about to shoot again – only paces away, with a cruel look in their eyes.
In moments of fear, you can’t think; you cease to exist. But to survive, you must react. And John’s hand felt the top of a chair and grabbed it. With his other hand grasping Yolanda’s, he pulled her behind him and down on to the floor, and flung the chair at the soldiers.
Shots rang out, whizzing past John’s head. Thank God almighty, they were still alive – the chair had unsettled the killer’s aim.
Then, it all happened so quickly. An explosion out in the street burst in, showering wood and glass, and a cloud of smoke and dust swallowed them. They fell to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. They picked themselves up and, as the dust began to settle, the soldiers had gone.
But as the cloud receded, the soldiers emerged from a sea of dust, fumbling for their rifles on the floor.
John dragged Yolanda towards the back exit. Another shot – glass shattered around them. Don’t look back. Just run.
Out on a street, they ran, just ran for their lives. They turned a
corner as another shot grazed the wall, inches from them, and then they were out of sight from the shooting soldiers.
They found themselves on the main street, engulfed by chaos after the explosion, with civilians and soldiers rushing around. John and Yolanda mingled with the people escaping the mayhem and slid away from the scene. They looked at each other, sighed and held hands.
John remembered Father Joseph saying: God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.
Outside the APRA headquarters, smoke floated towards them and they bumped into Yolanda’s brother, Ezequiel, clutching his left arm with his right hand. He was bleeding.
“Yoly, what the hell are you doing here? Let’s get out of here,” he shouted.
When they were safely away John asked, “What’s going on? Are you alright Ezequiel?” Ezequiel nodded unconvincingly.
“A friend invited me to the House of the People for a Christmas Eve drink. Nothing special – most Apristas are not very religious anyway. It was just a gathering of friends and family. Suddenly, some guys with guns rushed in, shouting, “Where is he? Where’s Haya?” They weren’t in uniform, but I’m sure they were policemen. My friend recognised one of them,” said Ezequiel, with a pained look.
As they got away they heard more shots coming from the APRA headquarters. Ezequiel, breathless, grimaced with pain but continued telling them what had happened.
“Then, soldiers came in, shooting. My friend was the first to fall. I tried to lift him up but he was dead. Nobody had fired at them. The bastards just shot at us without warning. They’d come to kill Haya, for sure. Some people had arrived in Haya’s car, but he wasn’t there.”
Yolanda checked Ezequiel’s arm – it looked bad. Quickly, they must get to the nearby house of a friend who was a nurse.
They arrived and hammered on the door. Nobody answered. They’d have locked themselves in for safety.
Yolanda shouted, “Teresa. It’s me, Yolanda.” The curtains moved at the window above. A minute later the front door was unbolted and Teresa urged them to come in, before bolting the door again behind them. More shots rang out from the direction of the APRA headquarters.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 24