“Okay, I promise you’ll have it before lunchtime, Walter.” Lisa, why have you done this to me my love; you’ve gone and broken my heart. You know it, don’t you? Hell, get to the bathroom – the mission guys will snigger if they see you crying. A stiff drink – could do with that.
John arrived back at Hostal Zapata to find a little friend sitting on the doorstep. What was Juanito doing there? He was usually around Plaza de Armas, tugging his enormous shoeshine box and plying his trade on any corner where there was no policeman to kick him away – a little Indian shoeshine boy was a nuisance in the magnificent square, home to the presidential palace.
Juanito always looked out for John, as he knew the gringo would give him a good tip. And, although John didn’t need his shoes cleaned that often, he enjoyed chatting to Juanito, who was a mine for gossip, which often turned out to be true. In fact, he felt better informed listening to Juanito than reading Carlos’ La Nación newspaper, with its official news line. What did Peruvians think of Sánchez-Cerro, Haya, Kemmerer, Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler, or even the damn stock exchange and foreign currency markets? By listening to his customers chatting, an illiterate street kid like Juanito seemed to know it all. But, do you know who Hitler is, Juanito? Yeah, some weird foreign gringo; always angry, always shouting; but I like his little moustache – when I grow up, I want a moustache like his.
Still, Juanito wasn’t worried about Hitler. He was worried about Paulina, his mother, who’d been abandoned by her husband soon after they’d arrived in Lima from their Andean village, leaving her alone caring for three children. Well, two now, because the baby had died a few months ago – vomiting daily and constant diarrhoea. Why had Paulina given the baby dirty water to drink, neighbours asked; because she had no milk and there was nothing else to drink in the sprawling shanty town on the mountain side overlooking Lima, was there?
John was heartbroken thinking about Lisa, but Juanito’s stoical outlook on life was an inspiration to anyone. But, today, his little friend was close to tears.
“Juanito, what’s happened?”
“Mister John, it’s my mother.” Well, it wasn’t only his mother, also his elder brother, Fortunato – forlornly named hoping he’d bring good fortune.
As usual, Paulina had gone to sell in the market, struggling with her enormous bundle of vegetables. This man, a neighbour in the shanty town, knew Paulina no longer had a husband. Come with me, he told her. No, she replied. You will come with me because I say so, the man ordered, grabbing her arm. No, she insisted. The man pushed her to the ground, punched her, and lifted her skirt. She screamed. Fortunato came and kicked the man. He walloped the kid.
Fortunato went back to their shack, and returned with a knife; a big kitchen knife. Once, twice, three times he stuck the knife into the man’s back as he lay on top of Paulina. Then, Paulina pushed the man off and he lay on his back, groaning, with a trickle of blood making its way down the hillside.
A neighbour screamed. Fortunato ran away. A policeman arrived. Paulina was taken in. Soon, a group of policemen with rifles came, looking for Fortunato. And Juanito burst into tears, as John hugged him.
“You must help me, Mister John. My brother is a good boy. He only defended my mother. But nobody will believe us. Only you can help us. You know many gringos – the police will listen to you.”
“Okay, Juanito, okay. Don’t cry. I’ll help you. Now, you must be brave. Go find Fortunato, tell him to hide and I’ll see what I can do.” Juanito sniffled and nodded. Jesus Christ, please don’t let the police find Fortunato – they’ll say he was trying to escape and shoot him. Why bother taking him before a judge? He was only another little Indian emigrated from the Andes, left his village, came to the big city, made trouble and got what he deserved.
John watched as Juanito walked up the street and out of sight. After that, Lisa just couldn’t return to his immediate thoughts.
Meanwhile, across town, Sánchez-Cerro was settled in comfortably at the presidential palace. He enjoyed his luxurious surroundings. He’d always dreamed of being president of Peru. Now his dream had come true and he was in no hurry to wake up.
Many had supported Sánchez-Cerro when he ended Leguía’s authoritarian regime because he’d promised to call elections, in which he would not be a candidate. But now, flatterers surrounded him and whispered in his ear, “The people love you – nobody better to lead the nation in such difficult times… What – leave power in the hands of another oligarch to rule for the benefit of his friends? Elude your patriotic duty and be judged harshly by posterity? Abandon your people? No, sir, the nation needs you.”
Days later, on a warm summer morning, Pedro and Carolina came into Hostal Zapata for a coffee. Carolina had arrived in Lima on a secret trip as, despite her father’s threats, she refused to give up her affair with Pedro.
Tony Guzmán rushed in from the kitchen with the news.
“Hey, have you heard the radio? Sánchez-Cerro has called elections,” said Tony.
“Yeah, it’s about time, too. Now the army will go back to their barracks and we can elect a civilian president,” said Carolina.
“But Sánchez-Cerro is presenting himself as a candidate for president,” said Tony.
After shocked silence, Carolina was first to react, “You’re kidding? So, he’s not going to let go of the presidency – another soldier who enjoys power too much. He’s cheated us all.”
“But isn’t it okay for him to be a candidate? And if people elect him…” said John. Carolina shook her head,
“John, in Peru, when a president calls an election, he makes sure he wins,” said Carolina.
“Yeah, but the army won’t let him,” said Pedro. “There are generals who won’t accept a junior like Sánchez-Cerro bossing them.”
In the following days, the rumbling volcano erupted.
“Oh my God… don’t go to university today, Pedro. There’s trouble – big trouble,” said Tony, shaking and gasping, when he returned from the market.
“What’s up?” asked Pedro.
“When I went past the university, there were many students in the courtyard, shouting against Sánchez-Cerro – something about him not wanting to leave the presidential palace. Then, police appeared from nowhere. The students kept on yelling and came out on to the street. I heard a police officer order his men to get ready to shoot, but the stupid students just wouldn’t disperse.”
“Shit, man, what happened then?” said Pedro.
“Then… it was terrible… there was a roar, like thunder, and I saw students lying on the floor, groaning; holding their chests, arms, legs; bleeding. Horrible. The rest of the students rushed for cover in the courtyard archways; some just dived to ground. And people shouted at the police: ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot’, but the officer didn’t care. He ordered his men to prepare to shoot again,” said Tony.
“Christ… was anyone killed?” said Pedro.
“Thank God they didn’t fire again: most students had vanished. Man, there must have been a dozen bodies, raked with bullets. And I saw more guys crawling away, bleeding.”
“And what did you do?” said John.
“I was so scared. I just dropped my vegetables and got away. And then… I slipped on something dark and sticky: it was blood – the street was covered in blood,” said Tony, as his voice broke.
Tony switched on the radio – more bad news: at the port of Callao, a few miles away, the garrison of Civil Guards – the militarised police force – at the ancient Real Felipe fortress had rebelled under the orders of General Martínez. Hundreds of Civil Guards were rushing to Real Felipe to join their general.
Real Felipe was an enormous pentagonal fortress – named after the king of Spain, it was the largest built by the Spanish in the Americas – with a perimeter one mile long, walls four metres high and bastions at each of its vertices. It had been built two hundred years earlier to pro
tect the port of Callao from pirates.
One of the regular clients rushed into Hostal Zapata, panting,
“I’ve just come from the Plaza de Armas. They say President Sánchez-Cerro is mounted on a horse, in military uniform, and getting ready to lead his troops to attack the Real Felipe.”
“But why have the Civil Guards rebelled?” said John.
“You know, they say Sánchez-Cerro wants to dissolve the Civil Guards – he doesn’t trust them. He says they still support Leguía and refuse to submit to his authority. He wants to crush them – once and for all.”
Then, the telephone rang.
“John – it’s for you: a lady called Yolanda.”
John raised his eyebrows and rushed to pick up the receiver:
“Hi, Yolanda… what’s up?”
“John, my Aunt Eugenia telephoned from Callao. She lives near Real Felipe… she’s terrified.”
“Yikes… what’s she said?”
“Err… aeroplanes are bombing the Real Felipe… it’s surrounded by hundreds of soldiers with artillery… she’s heard the Civil Guards inside only have rifles and guns… and they’re running out of ammunition… there’s going to be a massacre.”
“Holy shit…”
“John, what’s going on in Lima?”
“We’ve just heard Sánchez-Cerro is on his way to Callao, but there’ve been demonstrations in the streets… and people have been shot… but we’re waiting for more news.”
“Oh no… anyway, I’ve got to go, John. Let’s hope Aunt Eugenia will be okay.”
“Yeah, tell her to lock herself indoors… I’ll pray for her… not much more we can do at the moment. Bye, Yolanda.”
They heard that, elsewhere, armed opposition to Sánchez-Cerro was growing. In the south, his former army comrades in Arequipa – who’d supported him overthrowing Leguía – had also mutinied against him for breaking his promise to not present himself as a candidate at presidential elections.
At Hostal Zapata, they stayed glued to the radio, biting their nails and holding their breath. More reports of street demonstrations and counter demonstrations. Speculation was rife; facts scarce; uncertainty everywhere.
How many people had been killed? Who supported the mutiny in Arequipa? Were the communists calling for a revolution? And where the hell was Sánchez-Cerro?
The army mutineers in Arequipa enlisted the support of David Samanez, an erstwhile follower of former President Nicolás de Piérola.
Samanez – godfather to none other than Carolina de Piérola – was an old-fashioned landowner from the southern Andes and loyal to the Piérola, who still wielded political influence.
The telephone rang again at Hostal Zapata. It was Peter Bush from the American embassy: John must take refuge at the embassy, immediately.
Everyone was waiting for a radio broadcast from the president. What on earth was happening?
John heard shots outside in the street and decided to stay at Hostal Zapata. Tony locked the main door and secured it with tables and chairs.
At last, hours later, the firm and martial voice of President Sánchez-Cerro came on the radio:
“Fellow citizens, the unpatriotic insurrection in Callao has been defeated. General Martínez has been arrested and will face the full power of the law.”
The radio said the president had also ordered troops to be shipped south to fight the mutineers in Arequipa. Was this civil war?
John couldn’t help thinking the situation was similar to when Sánchez-Cerro rebelled against former president Leguía. Only that now, ironically, Sánchez-Cerro was playing Leguía’s role. How would it end this time?
Next day they got fresh news from Abe Mendoza, the cook at Hostal Zapata – his cousin worked as a waiter in the presidential palace.
“Come on, Abe, what do you know,” said Pedro. Abe, used to people ignoring him, enjoyed the moment of attention.
“My cousin was there. He saw it all. He says the military police brought General Martínez to the presidential palace. Sánchez-Cerro called him a traitor and a son-of-a-bitch. He said the General deserved the firing squad, but was going to exile him and he’d never come back to Peru. Martínez replied he was a general and who did Sánchez-Cerro, a mere lieutenant colonel, think he was, talking to him like that.”
“Shit, man… what did Sánchez-Cerro do, Abe?” said Tony.
“Sánchez-Cerro went crazy and shouted: ‘How dare you challenge me? I’m the president of Peru. You’re a disgrace to your uniform. You don’t understand… I have a patriotic mission. I’m not an army officer lusting for power and lining his pockets with riches. Damn it, Peru needs order and discipline and, by God, I’ll do my duty. Only bad people like you are against me’.”
“Yikes… so what happened next, Abe?” asked Pedro.
“Sánchez-Cerro slapped General Martínez, and he challenged the president to a duel – man to man. But they say General Martínez is now on a ship to Panama” said Abe Mendoza.
President Sánchez-Cerro was an extraordinary character. John could just imagine him now, alone in his palatial office, his elbows on his desk resting his chin. Smiling as he recalled the shock on General Martínez’s face after he’d slapped the bastard. He was now the president of the republic and he could slap or kick a general if he wanted to. But smile would have turned to frown when he thought of those mutineers in Arequipa. How dare they challenge his authority and refuse to obey his orders. He’d teach them a lesson.
John had heard that ever since graduation from military academy, Sánchez-Cerro had kicked his way around. He’d enjoyed the fear in the eyes of enemies, subordinates and fellow officers alike. But being president was different; now he had to deal with damn politicians, landowners, businessmen, bankers, foreign diplomats. God, how difficult it was to get his way. He had to be cunning and patient. In time, all those people would also learn to fear him, but in a different way: he could decide to give those greedy folk what they wanted, or perhaps not.
General Martínez had yielded, but the situation got worse in the following days. The news amongst John’s colleagues in the Kemmerer mission was that the soldiers Sánchez-Cerro had ordered to embark and sail south to fight the mutineers in Arequipa never left. The navy refused to transport them, to avoid a bloodbath between different factions of the armed forces, and called for a new provisional government.
Conflicting news arrived from different parts of the country. In Lima, the key Santa Catalina garrison remained loyal to President Sánchez-Cerro, but the military academy and military aerodrome appeared ready to join the rebels. In the streets of Lima, Carlos’ cousin, Oscar Medelius, led dozens of thugs patrolling the streets, shouting “Viva Sánchez-Cerro,” and beating up anyone who didn’t chant with them. In Callao, with General Martínez now in exile, troops loyal to Sánchez-Cerro prevailed. In the north, APRA’s heartland, Trujillo supported the rebels – what will Yolanda be doing? thought John. But in the old Inca-empire capital of Cuzco and in the Amazon region the army supported Sánchez-Cerro. The main army insurgent stronghold was Arequipa, where the mutineers arrested fellow army officers, including Major Gonzalo Vargas, known to be loyal to Sánchez-Cerro.
News arrived too slowly if you waited for the newspapers. Depending on which radio station you tuned in to, you heard official government communications or haranguing from all sides, “All members of the armed forces have a patriotic duty to obey the President of the Republic…” “Comrades, the time has come to rise up and free the Peruvian masses from centuries of oppression…” “It’s the duty of the nation’s soldiers to oppose the tyranny of a president who wants to perpetuate his illegitimate rule…” “Only APRA can save Peru…” “Anarchy: is that what our country wants?” “Revolution, now…”
In Hostal Zapata, as John, Pedro and their friends heatedly discussed the crisis, Mr Zapata slapped a newspaper down on their table and po
inted to an official communiqué on the front page. Pedro read it aloud:
“The government junta, inspired by the highest and purest patriotism and with the desire to avoid bloodshed and harm to the Republic, has decided to invite representatives of all sectors of public opinion to a meeting at the presidential palace at 3:00pm on 1st March, and confirms the junta has suspended all military operations.”
“Hell, what does this mean?” John asked.
“Umm… I think you should go to meet the president, Mr Zapata… and you too, Pedro. You represent our public opinion,” said Tony Guzmán.
“For God’s sake, don’t be stupid Guzmán… and get back to work,” said Mr Zapata, raising his eyes to heaven.
And so, after welcoming his forty-five selected members of public opinion, President Sánchez-Cerro sat, sinking into his enormous regal chair, with one hand lightly scratching his chin and his eyes fixed in the distance. Around him, buzzing like bees encircling a flower to be pollinated, were government ministers, political leaders, army officers, bankers, major landowners, judges, newspaper owners and even the acting archbishop, Monseigneur Mariano Holguín.
“Your Excellency, listen to me… Time is of the essence… You must act decisively… The nation’s future is at stake… Those damn communists are the only ones who will benefit… We cannot allow the country to descend into civil war… Now, do it now…” Sánchez-Cerro heard from the bees buzzing around him.
His Excellency listened in silence as the voices grew louder and louder. Then, he waved his hand and, gradually, the bees stopped buzzing. When they were all silent, Sánchez-Cerro finally spoke,
“Gentlemen, I must go.” Everyone looked around, aghast, as murmuring grew into a crescendo. Then, His Excellency lifted himself out of his noble chair and walked out of the room.
And now, what on earth would happen now?
What happened was that Peru was changing. Government decisions could no longer be taken by a group of ‘representatives of public opinion’ gathered in Lima. And so, the assembly descended from drama into chaos and even farce.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 11
