Silver, Sword, and Stone

by Marie Arana

  * * *

  Leonor, Carlos, and Xavier will never meet, but their stories are inextricably bound, just as the history of silver, sword, and stone have marched together in this hard and hopeful land. There are other narratives in Latin America, to be sure. Happier ones. But it is these, and the resolution of these, that define the hemisphere and its future. They have certainly defined its past.

  Latin America’s resources, its violence, and its religions were vital forces long before the conquest that birthed the land as we know it. Plunder, cruelty, and the imposition of faith were well known to the pre-Columbian people. But Columbus put the first brick in the lie of the Americas when he insisted he had found Asia, that he was in a land rich with gold, that its people were docile, easily enslaved, handily outfoxed. He had not; it was not; they were not. Although the natives were eventually reduced to servitude—men for their labor, women for their sex—their new masters never really learned who they were. The native Americans were never really appreciated, never understood as a people who might eventually claim their birthright. They were sent to the mines, herded into fields, their life force appropriated and their culture obliterated. Violence, meant to cow them, became the wound. Faith, meant to soothe them, became the unguent. Eventually they were subsumed. Mestizo-ized. Indoctrinated. Or, in the case of the countries of the Southern Cone—Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay—obliterated entirely. And the lie continued. Orwell, in all his genius, could not have imagined a more surreal, mind-bending universe. Europe, Latin America’s most prolific mythologizer—and its most prodigious profiteer—established the notion that the culture didn’t matter, that Europe was superior, born to lord over them and bring them progress. In time, North America would expand the notion. And Latin Americans believed it all.

  As James Baldwin once wrote, American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful, and more terrible than anything we have ever said about it. That much is certainly true about the Americas of the South. Chroniclers of old have accustomed us to see history from the eye of the invader, from the perspective of conquest. We imagine Latin America, as one eminent historian of pre-Columbian cultures has said, with a conquistador at its start. A Hispanic tale. The rest scatters into the haze, into the wings of history, into oblivion. We tend to think of the arc of these Americas as the story of Columbus and the Taíno. The story of Cortés . . . and the Aztecs. Pizarro . . . and the Incas. Cabeza de Vaca and the Guaraní. Spain and its colonies. The tinpot dictator and his unfortunate casualties. The Roman Catholic Church and the pagans. The vast world economy and the coveted veins that lie dormant in the earth. Even here, in this book, the juxtaposition of winners and losers seems to be the only way to frame the past.

  But it is the “ands,” the second parties to each dyad, that reveal the underlying and often more enduring aspects of the story: it is the Taíno, the Aztec, the Inca, the Guaraní, the colonies, the pagans, the casualties, and the veins that lie dormant in the earth that tell the deeper tale. These are the constituent parts that, however trampled, remain deeply imprinted on the region’s psyche. We cannot turn back time. We cannot unmake the world we have made. But until we understand the “ands” of history—the ghosts in the machinery, the victims of our collective amnesia—we cannot hope to understand the region as it is now. Nor will we ever understand the character of its people. To look at it squarely: a long litany of iniquities lies at the heart of the Latin American narrative. Until Latin America understands how its people have been shaped, sharpened, and stunted by those iniquities, the crucibles of silver, sword, and stone will continue to write its story.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book arose from a long conversation with the late María Isabel Arana Cisneros, my aunt and godmother, whose sparkling intellect and Brobdingnagian erudition never failed to make me look beyond my crimped horizons and think deeply about why things are the way they are. We had been sitting in her comfortable living room in Lima, talking about the differences between North American and South American revolutions, an exchange prompted by my book, Bolivar: American Liberator, when I began to list the characteristics that made Latin America’s wars of independence (1804–1898) unique in history. My Tía Chaba peered over the rim of her glasses and said, “Well, that is all very well and good, Marisi, but here’s a goal if you’re really interested in explaining us: Get at what it is—exactly—that makes Latin Americans so different from the rest of the world, and you will be clarifying things.”

  Getting at things “exactly” is the rub. I am reminded of a sobering passage by the great Argentine novelist Ernesto Sabato, who once wrote that history is made of fallacy, specious argument, and forgetting. It all brings to mind Sir Walter Raleigh, an extravagant raconteur if ever there was one, who—sentenced to life imprisonment in the Tower of London—set about writing a sweeping history of England. Legend has it that as he was in the thick of the first chapters, there was a resounding uproar in the streets below—nothing less than a riot prompted by an assassination attempt on the king. The reports that reached him in his little aerie were so confusing and contradictory that he threw up his hands and gave up on the entire project, complaining that he could hardly write another word of history when he didn’t even know what was happening outside his window.

  So it is with me. Attempting a history of Latin America is a task filled with folly, given all the distortions that have gone before, not to mention the constant flux and reinventions to which our nations are prone. Change is constant. Volatility is the norm. A definitive history is impossible when so much is happening just outside the window. Clarifying things, as my aunt would have me do, is a job for Sisyphus. Trying to get at “what it is exactly” that makes Latin Americans the way we are has made me throw up my hands with every chapter. So let me be clear: This is not a book of history, although I have plowed through copious stacks of chronicles to tell it. Neither is it a work of journalism, although I have followed each of my subjects’ lives with all the intensity of a hungry hound. This book is, like everything that comes out of Latin America, a mixed breed. A mutt. And it has many fathers.

  I have had the extraordinary good fortune to know and collaborate with historians, journalists, and intellectuals, living and dead, whose works have guided me in myriad ways. None of them is in any way responsible for the errors in this book, and my shortcomings should not reflect on their excellence. I owe much, for instance, to the late, great Colombian historian Germán Arciniegas, whose highly original works I helped bring into English as a young editor in New York and whose good humor about the slippery Latin American past always made me laugh. I have learned much from friends: From Mario Vargas Llosa, my brilliant compatriot, whose penetrating insights via fiction as well as nonfiction have shed much light on the character of the region. From the Uruguayan Eduardo Galeano, with whom I shared many an evening’s conversation about the long view, the millennium that precedes us. From the distinguished British historian John Hemming, whose profound knowledge about Latin American civilizations and unstinting generosity have been indispensable to my work. From the intrepid American explorer Loren MacIntyre, who called me on the phone in his last days on earth to demand that I get the facts of the terrain right. From the Mexican sabios—wise men—Carlos Fuentes and Enrique Krauze, whose unflinching gaze on Mexico’s glorious and tumultuous history has taught me much.

  But there are so many others who have been my teachers in this enterprise: Julia Álvarez, Cecilia Alvear, José Amor y Vázquez, Elizabeth Benson, Patricia Cepeda, Sandra Cisneros, Lawrence Clayton, Ariel Dorfman, Ronald Edward, Gustavo Gorriti, Alma Guillermoprieto, John W. Hessler, Leonardo López Luján, Javier Lizarzaburu, Colin McEwan, Alberto Manguel, Senna Ochochoque, Mark J. Plotkin, Elena Poniatowska, Jorge Ramos, Laura Restrepo, Tina Rosenberg, María Rostworowski, Ilan Stavans, Richard Webb. I owe them an insurmountable debt of gratitude. There are also those, whom I may not know personally, but whose work, listed in my bibliography, has made deep impressions on these p
ages.

  Then there are those who contributed concretely to this curious crossbreed of history and reportage. I am indebted to the late James H. Billington, Librarian of Congress and brilliant mentor, who welcomed me to the Library in 2013 and invited me to sit at his side and be a part of that great institution. I owe big thanks to Jane McAuliffe, former head of the Library’s John W. Kluge Center, who invited me to leave that desk and spend a full year as the Chair of the Cultures of the Countries of the South, combing through the vast riches of the Latin American and Hispanic Collection. The Kluge Center has now been my benefactor for two books of history. I thank Erick Langer of Georgetown University, who suggested casually many years ago that I should look into the work of an elderly Jesuit priest in Bolivia whose life seemed a curious mirror on the past. That man was Xavier Albó, and his story lies at the very heart of this book. Similarly, I want to thank Richard Robbins and Kayce Freed Jennings of the Documentary Group and Girl Rising for sending me 18,000 feet into the Andean sky to write about a fourteen-year-old girl in the gold mines of La Rinconada. It was there that I met Leonor Gonzáles, whose life is not very different from her ancestors’ who inhabited those mountains five hundred years ago. I am grateful, too, to my friend Clara, who gave me her blessing to take my Washington Post story about her Cuban husband, Carlos Buergos, and expand it to the fullness it finds here.

  The bedrock on which this book stands is my dear friend and trusted literary agent, Amanda Urban. Binky, as all her literary brood knows, has no equal. She is a fierce warrior with a heart of gold, and I am fortunate to have her in my corner. My editor at Simon & Schuster, Bob Bender, was the soul of patience as two years stretched into five and a flimsy notion became a sprawling project. Bob is my ideal reader: firm, exacting, and thoroughly committed to his authors. I am grateful to him and his stalwart assistant Johanna Li, as I am to my thorough copyeditor, Phil Bashe; my talented designers, Carly Loman and Jackie Seow; and my tireless publicist, Julia Prosser. I am especially thankful for the encouragement and muscle of my publisher, the president of Simon & Schuster, Jonathan Karp.

  None of this could have been accomplished without the help of countless friends and family: my children, Lalo Walsh and Adam Ward, who sat with me at their kitchen tables and allowed me to rattle on about the joys and indignities of a writing life; my stepson Jim Yardley, who noodled endlessly over the title with me as we lolled in the comforts of his London house; my other stepson Bill Yardley, who steered me from at least one perilous writer’s precipice; my parents, Jorge and Marie, who live on although they are long gone, and who would have argued late into the night about the glories and blunders of this book; my brother and sister, George and Vicky Arana, faithful companions who traveled with me throughout the Americas as I tried to tie down loose ends; my neighbors Don and Betty Hawkins, who carried the final, copyedited manuscript lovingly from Lima to Washington, DC, and then posted it on to New York; and last, but not least, my late, irreplaceable Tía Chaba, who would have squinted at me over her glasses and asked if I really meant all that I’ve said.

  The biggest thank you, however, is to my steadfast husband, Jonathan Yardley, who prompted me to leave my editorial desk twenty years ago and start writing books in the first place. It was Jon who patted me on the back, left me alone to stare at the wall, cooked the dinners, did the shopping, took out the dog, furminated the cat, paid the bills, told me to keep on doing whatever it was I was doing, and then greeted me with a smile and a cocktail at the close of each day. Now that is what I would call clarifying things.

  More from the Author

  Bolivar

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  © VICTOR CH. VARGAS

  MARIE ARANA was born in Lima, Peru. She is the author of the memoir American Chica, a finalist for the National Book Award and PEN/Albrand Award; two novels, Cellophane and Lima Nights; The Writing Life, a collection of her well-known column for The Washington Post; and Bolivar: American Liberator, winner of the Los Angeles Times Book Award. She lives in Washington, DC.

  Visit the author at www.mariearana.net

  SimonandSchuster.com

  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Marie-Arana

  @simonbooks

  ALSO BY MARIE ARANA

  Bolívar: American Liberator

  Lima Nights

  Cellophane

  The Writing Life: Writers on How They Think and Work

  American Chica: Two Worlds, One Childhood

  We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  NOTES

  CHAPTER 1: STILL SEEKING EL DORADO

  Epigraph; “Peru is a beggar sitting on a bench of gold”: This phrase is often attributed to the nineteenth-century Italian scientist Antonio Raimondi, who lived and taught in Peru, but the attribution has never been confirmed. Nevertheless, it is an old and well-known adage throughout South America. The Institute of Mining Engineers of Peru (IIMP) has gone to great lengths to debunk the adage; indeed, its director proclaimed, “Peru is not a beggar on a bench of gold. In our country, mining is the principal motor of the economy; it represents more than 12% of the GNP and 60% of all exports.” Which, of course, proves the point. Almost all its gold leaves the country, and one out of four Peruvians lives in poverty. IIMP, accessed January 29, 2019, www.iimp.org.pe/actualidad/el-peru-no-es-un-mendigo-sentado-en-un-banco-de-oro; Reuters, “Peru Poverty Rate Rises for First Time in 16 Years: Government,” April 24, 2018. About the aphorism: A. Alcocer Martínez, “Conjetura y postura frente al dicho ‘El Perú es un mendigo sentado en un banco de oro,” Boletín de la Academia Peruana de la Lengua [Bulletin of the Peruvian Academy of Language] 41 (2006): 45–58.

  Leonor Gonzáles leaves her stone hut: Information henceforward about Leonor Gonzáles is based on ongoing interviews with her in Peru as follows: La Rinconada, February 17–22, 2012; Putina, February 23, 2012; Juliaca, February 15–19, 2013; Juliaca and Puno, February 19–24, 2014; February 11–15, 2015; February 20–24, 2016; March 2–7, 2017; January 31–February 5, 2019. Since 2013, I have been in weekly, informal communication with the family, visiting them at least once a year in Juliaca.

  “choak’d up with Indian Blood and Gore”: Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, A Short History of the Destruction of the Indies, penultimate paragraph, Project Gutenberg, www.gutenberg.org/files/23466-h.html.

  “His soul rests inside”: Her actual words: “Su alma ahí en el rumi.” The word rumi is Quechua for “stone.”

  slate blades that Chimú warriors used: Carmen Pérez-Maestro, “Armas de metal en el Perú prehispanico,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, I, Prehistoria y Arquelogía, T-12, 1999, 321.

  The ten most dangerous cities in the world: USA Today, July 17, 2018 (Belém, Brazil; Ciudad Guayana, Venezuela; Ciudad Victoria, Mexico; Fortaleza, Brazil; La Paz, Mexico; Tijuana, Mexico; Natal, Brazil; Acapulco, Mexico; Caracas, Venezuela; Los Cabos, Mexico); World Atlas, October 5, 2018 (Caracas; Acapulco; San Pedro Sula, Honduras; Distrito Central, Honduras; Victoria; Maturín, Venezuela; San Salvador, El Salvador; Ciudad Guayana; Valencia, Venezuela; Natal, Brazil). See also David Luhnow, “Latin America Is the Murder Capital of the World,” Wall Street Journal, September 20, 2018.

  a flood of desperate immigrants: US Department of Homeland Security, Office of Immigration Statistics, 2013 Yearbook of Immigration Statistics, August 2014, www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/ois_yb_2013_0.pdf. Miriam Jordan, “More Migrants Are Crossing the Border This Year,” New York Times online, March 5, 2019.

  “turned the world”: Pachacutec, or Pachacuti, literally means “he who turns the world” or “e
arth shaker.” Mark Cartwright, “Pachacuti Inqa Yupanqui,” Ancient History Encyclopedia, last modified July 18, 2016, www.ancient.eu/Pachacuti_Inca_Yupanqui.

  A full 40 percent of all the world’s Catholics: Pew Research Center online, “The Global Catholic Population,” last modified February 13, 2013, www.pewforum.org/2013/02/13/the-global-catholic-population; US Central Intelligence Agency online, “Religions,” in The World Factbook, accessed January 29, 2019, www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/fields/2122.html.

  most trusted institution in all of Latin America: Edward L. Cleary, How Latin America Saved the Soul of the Catholic Church, 3. See also Feline Freier, “Maduro’s Immorality and the Role of the Church in Venezuela,” Georgetown University Berkley Center for Religion, Peace & World Affairs online, last modified, June 15, 2018.

  “a continent made to undermine conventional truths”: Eric Hobsbawm, Viva la Revolución, ed. Leslie Bethell (New York: Little, Brown, 2016). Credit also to Tony Wood’s review of that book in the Guardian (UK edition), July 18, 2016.

  Spain’s custom of sending sons into different walks of life: This is referred to as the abiding power triangle of “los ricos, los militares, y los curas.” In other words: a banker, a general, and a bishop. President Hugo Chávez of Venezuela has been known to refer to this triad of power as a crippling force in capitalism. See the distillation of his thinking in Socialismo del Siglo XXI (Caracas, República Bolivariana de Venezuela: Ministerio del Poder Popular, 2007), 5.