With Sánchez-Cerro gone, who was president of Peru? Nobody had been named to replace him. But someone had to be president – the position couldn’t remain vacant. Incredibly, the position, coveted by many over the past century, went unwanted. Everyone looked around. Clearly, there were no would-be Titans amongst them.
Someone said, “You – Monseigneur Holguin. You have the moral authority to be president.”
Extricating himself from such a preposterous suggestion, the ageing Franciscan clergyman spluttered, “Gentlemen, please… I couldn’t possibly… I’m only versed in spiritual matters – not temporal matters.”
And so, the honourable representatives of public opinion continued their heated discussion, with Monseigneur Holguín floundering in his attempts to conduct the proceedings and rid himself of the office of president of Peru.
Finally, someone said, “Doctor Elias, you must form a provisional government. You must be the new president.”
Who? Elias? Doctor Ricardo Elias – the president of the Supreme Court? He’d be president of the Republic, for how long? Until the elections?
The honourable representatives looked around, a number of heads nodded and a relieved Monseigneur Holguin congratulated Dr Elias, who offered a lukewarm smile – on waking up that morning, he’d never have imagined that, before the end of the day, he’d be president of Peru.
When John heard, he pondered how old Shakespeare would have presented these proceedings in one of his plays? And would it be a comedy or a tragedy?
Down south, in Arequipa, David Samanez and the army rebels refused to accept Dr Elias as president of a new government junta replacing Sánchez-Cerro. The volcano rumbled again and an eruption seemed imminent.
It was time for Lieutenant Colonel Gustavo Jiménez to come forward. He was a tall man in his forties, with middle-aged spread looming, receding black hair and a toothbrush moustache, like Charlie Chaplin’s.
Jiménez, hardened by a harsh childhood in a bleak mining town high up in the Andes, travelled to Lima and entered the military academy. After long service, he resigned from the army rather than serve under President Leguía’s increasingly oppressive regime. He plotted to remove Leguía from power but spent eight years in prison and in exile abroad.
When Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro rebelled against Leguía, Jiménez travelled to Arequipa to join Sánchez-Cerro and was rewarded with a brief ministerial post in the new government and re-entered the army.
Now, President Sánchez-Cerro had ordered Jiménez to board a ship with his army unit and go south to supress the mutineers in Arequipa, but the navy had refused to sail.
Jiménez’s heavily armed troops were left ashore at Callao. Yet, he wasn’t just going to wait for events to unfold and sweep him to who knows where. He telephoned Sánchez-Cerro – he couldn’t be found. He called Dr Elias – no answer.
Meanwhile, the communist CGTP trade union called its members out on to the streets of Lima, sensing their time had come. Was Peru on the verge of a communist revolution?
Then, Jiménez called David Samanez, leader of the southern rebels.
“We want to call presidential elections, for the country to choose its new legitimate president, accepted by all,” explained Samanez. Well, accepted at least by all Peruvians who counted, in Samanez’s paternalistic mind.
Samanez continued, “We cannot accept Dr Elias as interim president – to do what? Buckle under and deliver the presidency to whoever exerts most pressure on him?”
Jiménez had to decide and act, quickly. He knew Elias had no support within the army, political leaders, oligarchs nor anybody really. Samanez was an old hand and commanded strong support in the south – but would he be trusted in Lima, or by APRA supporters in the north, or by the rest of the army? Could he steer the country away from civil war? Jiménez scratched his head – he didn’t have many options.
Jiménez ordered his troops to board trucks in Callao and headed for the centre of Lima. He placed soldiers at short intervals on the streets leading to the two main squares where people usually gathered, Plaza San Martin and Plaza de Armas – where the presidential palace was. Luckily, no other army units had mobilised.
Jiménez led his troops up to the presidential palace – the guards, taken by surprise and completely outnumbered, offered no resistance. Jiménez marched into the palace at the head of his soldiers:
“Where’s Dr Elias?” demanded Jiménez.
“Who?” replied a guard on duty.
“The president – Dr Elias.” Nobody seemed to know. But they soon found him, alone in the presidential office, sinking into that enormous regal chair where, not long before, Sánchez-Cerro had sat. Yes, he understood it was futile to offer any resistance, with dozens of soldiers pointing rifles at him. The regal chair, once again, became empty.
Next, Jiménez telephoned Samanez again, “I’m calling from the presidential palace.”
“Is Dr Elias still president?” asked Samanez.
“No, Dr Elias is no longer president.”
“Who is president now?”
“Well, nobody.”
“That’s impossible – someone has to be president. You are in charge at the presidential palace at the moment,” said Samanez.
“Who? Me? But I don’t want to be president. Mr Samanez, I’ll arrange for an aeroplane to fly you to Lima,” said Jiménez.
“Umm… but can you guarantee I’ll be able to land?” asked Samanez.
“Don’t worry. My troops control Lima and I’ll explain to the rest of the armed forces what’s going on,” said Jiménez.
But, what was going on?
As they all clustered around the radio at Hostal Zapata, avid for the latest news, John asked, “Where is Sánchez-Cerro? Is this guy, Dr Elias, the new President? But who is Lieutenant Colonel Jiménez? What’s he doing at the presidential palace? Have they said what Mr Samanez is doing?”
“Yeah, Jiménez is a friend of Sánchez-Cerro. So, Sánchez-Cerro is president again,” said Zapata, smiling.
“No, he’s not. They’ve just said Jiménez is now president,” replied Pedro.
“Not Sánchez-Cerro, nor Dr Elias? Jiménez? Can I be president next?” said Tony Guzmán laughing.
“Shut up Guzmán, and go and wash those damn dishes,” said Zapata.
The radio kept them abreast. Next, they heard Samanez was met at Lima’s aerodrome by Jiménez and immediately taken to the presidential palace. What was going on? The public must learn their plans, quickly.
Jiménez, as de facto president after evicting Dr Elias, swore in David Samanez as president of a new and provisional government junta.
Samanez appointed Jiménez as a government minister, with other cabinet posts distributed to ensure broad support, both within the armed forces and civil society. The junta would rule until elections were held, after approval of a new electoral law. All ministers pledged not to present themselves as presidential candidates. The spectre of civil war receded, for the time being.
Lieutenant Colonel Jiménez had done it. He’d avoided a bloodbath and exited the main stage. Others would have been tempted to hold on to the presidential seat, but not him. He’d done his duty. The social and political time bomb had been defused. Now, it was time for other actors to leave the stage to avoid the play becoming a tragedy.
Before leaving for Europe, Sánchez-Cerro stayed at Hotel Bolívar, the best in Lima, not far from the presidential palace. Crowds gathered to chant his name and he waved to them from his hotel balcony. Yes, they still loved him. His destiny was to be reunited with these loving masses, who’d chant his name and plead he become their president again.
And whilst he was away, Sánchez-Cerro had a trusted lieutenant to take care of things in his absence: Luis-Alberto Flores.
John had heard from Carlos Medelius that Flores, a little known but aspiring lawyer in his early thir
ties, was from a small town in the northern Andes mountains, close to the border with Ecuador. They say folk from the Andes are not as sophisticated as those on the coast. Not this man. Flores soon left for Lima, studying law at old San Marcos University. Like many students, he got implicated in politics, but was released from prison when Sánchez-Cerro ended the Leguía regime.
Sánchez-Cerro wanted to return soon and be elected president of Peru. But, Peruvians needed to know his plans and what he stood for. It was Flores’ job to put ideas on paper and create the infrastructure of a political party – Sánchez-Cerro’s vehicle to carry him back to the presidential palace. Thus, Sánchez-Cerro and Flores developed an unhealthy dependence on each other.
One day, John actually met Flores, at Carlos’ office at La Nación, and heard about when Flores had visited Europe and, like many, fell under the spell of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini: an inspiring, strong leader for a nation that had suffered centuries of decline since the end of the Roman Empire. Of course, everyone delighted in Italian art and culture, but what was that worth if Italy was occupied and humiliated by foreigners? Now, their humiliation was over, with El Duce, Mussolini, leading them back to greatness.
Flores had admired the marches: those magnificent young men impeccably dressed in black, parading with un-Latin-like order before El Duce, right-arm stretched out, like ancient Roman conquerors. And, when not parading, they were on the streets mopping up any opposition to their leader – fists, clubs, knives or guns; anything that would intimidate antagonists into submission to the leader. John was horrified.
And so, when Flores returned to Peru and cast his lot in with Sánchez-Cerro, he set eyes on Oscar Medelius and his young thugs, flaunting around Lima, shouting slogans in support of Sánchez-Cerro and beating up anyone who crossed them. Yes, with training and discipline they too could parade like Mussolini’s black-shirts, in front of Sánchez-Cerro or, why not, Flores himself, and crush that communist scum and keep the unruly Indians subjected. Sánchez-Cerro was the strong man, but Flores was convinced he was the visionary his country needed.
In Peru, Samanez’s provisional junta was committed to electoral reform, so future governments were elected more democratically and better represented Peruvians.
When the reforms were presented, John appreciated their limitations, but at least they meant progress. Voting would now be in secret, avoiding the omnipotent local bosses or landowners forcing people to vote for them. The Electoral Commission would be independent from the government, to avoid an incumbent president ensuring his re-election.
For the first time, all adult men could vote, but excluding the majority of Peruvians who were illiterate. John was disconcerted to hear that women wouldn’t be allowed to vote because, of course, you had to understand women would surely vote as their fathers or husbands told them. Most native Andean Indians were illiterate, so they would scarcely be represented. Everyone knew that, if they weren’t educated, they’d be cheated, wouldn’t they? No, of course they couldn’t participate in important decisions like electing the nation’s government.
Although the new law expanded the franchise, John estimated only 10% of the population would be allowed to vote. He scowled: this wasn’t the universal suffrage in which he believed – even if Juanito and Fortunato grew up illiterate, shouldn’t they have a right to decide their country’s future? And what about highly educated ladies like Yolanda or Carolina?
Meanwhile, Sánchez-Cerro was exiled in Europe, but only thinking of his mission. The Peruvian presidential elections were only a few months away. He needed to return to Peru to launch his election campaign, leading the political party Luis Flores had developed for him: the Unión Revolucionaria. Revolutionary? Did Sánchez-Cerro plan a revolution in Peru? No, not much would change, really.
Sánchez-Cerro only spent four months in Europe but was very busy, visiting France, Italy, England and Spain. He’d already been to France on a study mission in 1927, but the Europe he saw in 1931 had changed. The world economic crisis had taken its toll and pessimism prevailed.
Still, like his underling Flores, Sánchez-Cerro was impressed by the order and discipline Mussolini’s fascist government had imposed on Italy. In contrast, the American, British and French democracies were weak and without solutions to the economic crisis. As for that new democratic republic in Spain, Sánchez-Cerro only saw feuding and chaos. Yes, Peru needed to control its unruly people with a strong hand, like he’d seen in Italy.
Samanez was only a transitory president, committed to delivering democratic elections. Afterwards, he’d retire to his hacienda high up in the southern Andes.
Samanez would be a man of his word. But to deliver his promise, he needed peace between the belligerent opposing factions. If Sánchez-Cerro was allowed to return to Peru before the elections, he might destroy the fragile peace Samanez was nurturing.
John kept abreast listening to gossip within the Kemmerer mission. Sánchez-Cerro was offered the post of ambassador in Italy. He rejected it. Jiménez sent him letters and telegrams to convince him to delay his return to Peru. No response. The Peruvian embassy in Paris was instructed to be unhelpful with Sánchez-Cerro’s travel documents. It was useless. Sánchez-Cerro wouldn’t allow Samanez to stand in his way.
As John translated a minister’s response to Walter’s proposals for supervising banks, a clerk delivered a telegram. What now? It was from Randall – he wanted a confidential telephone conversation with John in two days’ time. Randall instructed John to be in Peter Bush’s office at the American embassy to receive the call.
Whenever he saw Peter, John pictured Randall some twenty-five years younger. His expression was usually dismissive and calculating – any smiles were reserved for big fish like Randall. Shorter and less athletic than John, his fair hair was starting to recede, but was oiled, combed backwards, failing to conceal thin patches. And yes, Peter’s suits were as expensive as Randall’s.
Peter was older than John and was recruited into the diplomatic service after graduating in law from Harvard University – John imagined Peter leading those arrogant preppies Lisa so disliked. But, due to the Great Depression, there were few opportunities for new lawyers except handling bankruptcies. Peter hadn’t been in Lima very long and wanted to learn about the main players in the Peruvian political, military and business scene. Due to his family connections, he was believed to have a promising political future.
And, so, John exchanged pleasantries with Peter as they waited for Randall’s call. The telephone rang, Peter picked it up:
“Good morning… Yes, he’s right here,” said Peter, nodding to John.
John took the receiver and waited for a moment, looking at Peter. But Peter just sat there, evidently intending to stay during the conversation – so much for confidentiality, thought John.
“Err… Mr Randall, good morning…” said John, with Peter staring at him, listening to his every word, observing any gesture.
“Listen, the latest political upheaval means changes in the Peruvian government. We don’t even know who’ll be the next damn president… and how long he’ll last. But foreign investors must know who they’re dealing with – will their projects be approved or will a new peripatetic minister change things?” said Randall.
“Yes, sir, I realise that,” said John, as Randall continued:
“Now, all these politicians are the same: greedy and corrupt – just out to make a quick buck… huh… before they lose their job. For years, we knew the right people in President Leguía’s government. They all had a price… everyone has a price,” said Randall.
“But… Mr Randall… do you mean bribery?” said John, as Peter smirked in front of him.
“Listen, boy, I know you want to be an academic, like your father, but now you’re in the real world. You can find out from your Kemmerer mission colleagues who are the new government’s decision makers and… err… what their price is… Are you l
istening to me?” said Randall, annoyed by John’s silence.
“Yes, sir, I understand. But I don’t think…” said John as Randall interrupted him,
“Talking about your father, he introduced me to a lawyer named Barrett – the man would love to do business with our Foundation. And, I was surprised to hear you know Barrett’s daughter… Lisa?”
“Yes, sir, what a coincidence,” said John, gasping.
“Yes, and I heard, through the grapevine, Lisa is your girlfriend. And Barrett introduced me to someone else you may know: a Jack Saunders – a real wimp. But Barrett said he wants to marry Lisa. Now, I could have Barrett get rid of Saunders… but you must get that information about the new Peruvian government. Are you following me, boy?”
“Yes, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can do it,” said John, aghast at the proposal.
“As I said, everyone has a price… I’m relying on you – don’t fail me,” said Randall.
“No, sir, of course not,” said John with a shaky voice, disgusted with himself.
“Good. Now, put me back to Peter,” said Randall.
Peter took the receiver, listened to Randall, said “Very well,” put it down and smiled at John.
John felt as if his telephone conversation had been three-sided. Peter was fully aware of all that had been said and of Randall’s despicable proposal.
As he left, John was surprised he wasn’t surprised by Randall – convinced that, indeed, everything and everyone had a price.
Part 2
Storm on the horizon
Chapter 9
Tempestuous times arrived when Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro toppled the Leguía regime. And in February 1931, whilst Carolina de Piérola was spending another holiday down on the coast with her friends at Forga castle, a new army rebellion shook the country – this time against Sánchez-Cerro.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 12
