When the army garrison in Arequipa spearheaded the revolt, it imposed a curfew – anyone on the streets could be shot.
Mr Piérola, anxious about Carolina’s safety, telephoned Forga castle, to warn her not to travel back to Arequipa.
“What? My daughter isn’t at Forga castle? Where is she?… You think she’s in Lima?” bellowed Piérola and slammed the telephone down after terrorising the maid who’d answered his call.
Mr Piérola then turned on his wife, “Do you know if Carolina is in Lima?” She shook her head vigorously, but wasn’t surprised – she’d have done the same in her daughter’s place.
Piérola fumed, “She’ll be with that Pedro. She’s broken her promise. And Pedro has broken our agreement – he’ll pay for this.”
The family honour had been soiled. He’d resolve the matter once and for all. His next telephone call was to the army headquarters in Arequipa.
When he finally got through, Piérola said, “I must speak to Major Gonzalo Vargas… Why can’t I speak to him?… He’s detained? For security reasons? Yes, yes, I know there’s a revolution going on.”
Piérola couldn’t insist and, above all, not give his name – they could presume he was associated politically with Major Vargas. Clearly, Vargas was supporting Sánchez-Cerro and against the army rebels in Arequipa. No time for politics right now. It was his daughter he was concerned about.
After her maid told her about the telephone call from Carolina’s father, Carmen telephoned her in Lima, “Carolina, your father telephoned Forga castle. He knows you’re in Lima.”
“Okay Carmen, don’t worry, I’ll think of something,” said Carolina. As she put the receiver down, her gasp melted into tears as she broke the news to Pedro.
Carolina and Pedro shuddered: all hell would break loose when her father arrived from Arequipa.
Carolina was his dream come true, and Pedro was determined to hold on to his dream. He didn’t care about the threats against him and his father. Nothing was more important than being with Carolina, but he knew Mr Piérola would do anything to keep them apart.
But, how could they live apart? Pedro and Carolina had been consoled by their friends before: time and distance cures everything. Lies, damn lies – no way could you believe it if you were caught up in the tragedy of forbidden love. It was only what people said to help you face the inevitable. It was impossible such a pain could ever shift from your chest; that it would ever cease and let you get on with your life. What life? Pedro could see no life without Carolina. So, he must fight – yes, that’s what he’d do.
“Carolina, I’ll not leave you. I’ll speak to your father. I’ll tell him we love each other and want to get married,” said Pedro, as tears rolled down Carolina’s pink cheeks, from those beautiful green eyes, now turning red.
“What? Are you crazy? How can you even think of speaking to my father? He loves me, but if he sees you he’s capable of anything. He’ll come with armed men. Don’t you understand?” Carolina said, sobbing.
Pedro knew Carolina was right. He was nobody. How had it even crossed his mind to defy the Piérola?
And so, they spent the day together, at times talking, sometimes silent, dreading the inevitable to come, and then crying bitterly. They desperately wanted to enjoy those moments, because they could be their last together. But, how stupid, you couldn’t enjoy being together if all you were doing was suffering at the thought of them being your last moments. Drained, bewildered and exhausted, somehow they got some sleep.
The following day, Pedro arrived early at her hotel but she was gone. His heart sunk. No note, no message – nothing. The receptionist said a very smart gentleman had come, with two tough-looking men. They’d checked Miss Piérola out of the hotel, paid her bills and left. The doorman had heard them order the taxi driver to take them to the aerodrome. It had been sad to see Miss Piérola go – she had been very dignified, but on the verge of crying. Pedro thanked the hotel receptionist and left. He too was on the verge of crying and struggling to remain dignified.
When Pedro got back to Hostal Zapata, he was followed in by two men – just one look at them and Pedro knew they were up to no good. The shorter goon, the less dishevelled of the two, had a lighter complexion and a hideous look. The other was a tall goofy, dark skinned, with a large scar on his right cheek and a moronic expression.
It all happened in seconds. Tony Guzmán shouted. Pedro cringed and shot towards the back exit. It was too late – the short man tripped him and he fell. The taller man pulled out a club from who-knows-where.
Pedro felt a crashing thud as he was wacked on the head, and his body caved in under him, collapsing on the floor. His brain exploded with pain. He wasn’t breathing; his heart wasn’t beating; he only felt pain, carving its way through his head. Was he dead? No, he heard himself groan, only half conscious.
As Pedro drifted in and out of consciousness, helplessly sliding towards mortality, he dreamed his eyelids had frozen shut. He struggled to open them, but his will to fight vanished and he just lay there, praying the pain in his head would go away.
He held his breath, as if he had severe toothache. But, suddenly, his body convulsed and the pain shifted from his head to his ribs when the two bastards kicked him in the stomach. Now, everything hurt, as if he’d been savaged by a wild animal.
“Stop. You’re killing him, birdbrain,” said the shorter man, restraining the big goofy.
Tony grimaced, unable to take any more, and pounced on them. The thugs wrestled him against the wall and the tall one floored him with a stinging punch.
Next, Pedro felt a sensation of movement, of his body rising – he hoped he was dying, that his soul was floating to heaven and the pain would, mercifully, go away. No, he was unable to sense it was the goons lifting him.
But before they picked Pedro up, the shorter man drew a gun and aimed at a cringing Tony as he cowered against the wall:
“Hey, sambo, if you say anything to the police, we’ll be back and you’ll get a bullet right here,” said the short man, pressing the gun against Tony’s forehead. Tony trembled and felt moisture in his underwear.
Then, they dragged an unconscious Pedro out of Hostal Zapata. They stopped briefly at the door, checking nobody was walking past on the street – but everyone was home as the curfew was about to begin. Tony heard a car engine start and they were gone, Pedro and all.
Earlier that day, Mr Piérola had given strict instructions, “Now, listen carefully you two. Just give him a good fright. I don’t want him killed. That’s not what I’m like. Do you understand?”
The tall man smiled, disconcerted that Mr Piérola didn’t want anyone killed. It was more fun killing someone than just beating them up. So, he insisted, “Umm… sir, if you pay us a bit more, we can get rid of your problem… forever.”
“I said, no killing.” Mr Piérola wondered where on earth his lawyer had found scum like these two. They’d be former policemen or soldiers, kicked out of the forces for indiscipline, brutality or something worse. For God’s sake, they mustn’t kill Pedro. Carolina would never forgive him.
Later, when Zapata got back, a terrified Tony told him what had happened. They rushed to the main police station and explained. The policeman looked down a long list.
“Many people have been shot today. Manuel Vargas? No? Let’s see… Pedro Vargas? Here he is – he was taken to the Hospital Italiano.”
“Thank God,” said Tony, “but… is he alive?”
“If he’s reported on the hospital’s list he’ll have gone in alive. Of course, many die in hospital. But if he were dead he’d be on the list of bodies sent to the mortuary. Now, let me see… I don’t have the mortuary list here. My colleague must be updating it. Go to the Hospital Italiano and they’ll give you the latest information.”
The Hospital Italiano? Was that the one in Callao? No, of course not – it was the one near the
university. Not too far – only a few minutes’ walk. They headed straight there.
At the hospital, nurses rushed around. Mothers cried. Fathers demanded news about their boys. Zapata and Tony joined the crowd assailing a large, sweaty nurse at the reception desk.
“Pedro Vargas? Let’s see… ladies and gentlemen, please be quiet… What was his name again… Pedro Vargas? Yes, here he is… room 205… but you can’t see him.”
“Why not?” said Zapata.
“He’s just come out of surgery. Only a doctor can let you see him.”
They rushed up to the second floor. 201… 202… over here: 205. The door was locked.
“Nurse, where’s the doctor?” asked Zapata.
“He’s operating.”
“Can we see Pedro Vargas in 205?”
“No – he’s sleeping. He’s just come out of the operating theatre – he’s still under anaesthetics.”
“What happened to him?”
“He suffered terrible injuries – we don’t know if he’ll survive.”
“At least he’s alive, thank God,” said Tony.
John shuddered when they told him, “I’ve got to go and see him. Where is he?”
“He’s at the Hospital Italiano – but you can’t go; he’s got to rest until tomorrow,” said Tony.
“Okay, okay, nothing we can do until tomorrow – I get it,” said John, quivering and tugging his hair.
Tony got John to sit down and poured him a glass of whiskey. John’s hand trembled as he swallowed it. How could Carolina’s father have done this? What a bastard. And Carolina, where would the poor girl be now? As soon as he saw Pedro he’d get in touch with her – her father would have dragged her back to Arequipa.
The following day, John and Tony arrived at Hospital Italiano early. In front of them at the reception desk was a middle-aged uniformed army officer.
The officer said to the receptionist, “I’m Major Vargas; I’ve come to see Pedro Vargas.”
“Yes, sir, please come with me,” said a nurse, leading Major Vargas upstairs.
Having overheard, John nudged Tony; they nodded to each other and followed Major Vargas.
When the nurse and Major Vargas arrived outside room 205, John and Tony caught up with them.
“Hi, we’re Pedro’s friends. We overheard you’re Major Vargas. Pedro’s father, I presume,” said John.
“Yes… and you must be the American, working with Professor Kemmerer’s mission? Pedro told me about you,” replied Major Vargas – he couldn’t imagine Pedro knew any other Americans.
When they went in, Pedro was unconscious or asleep.
“Is he… dead?” asked Tony.
“No, but someone gave him a brutal beating. They nearly killed him,” said the nurse. Then, she read aloud the report hanging at the end of the bed, listing Pedro’s gruesome injuries.
“It’ll be a couple of weeks before he can leave hospital and a couple of months before he can walk,” concluded the nurse.
Pedro wasn’t alone. Occupying half a dozen beds in the room were other men, at various stages between life and death. One had his face covered with a sheet. Another looked as grey as his bed sheet.
Major Vargas bent over his son and kissed him on the forehead. Then, he turned to John and Tony.
“What do you know about this?” asked Major Vargas.
John looked at Tony. Tony looked at the floor.
“Well?” said Vargas.
“Yes, sir, I saw two men taking Pedro away,” said Tony, explaining how Pedro had been brutally attacked.
“Did you go to the police and describe these men?” said Vargas.
“Yeah, we went to the police… me and Mr Zapata, my boss… and they told us Pedro was here at the hospital,” said Tony.
“I asked you: did you describe those men to the police and report the attack?” said Major Vargas, with a thunderous look.
“Sir, I… I didn’t know what to do… they put a gun to my head… they said if I spoke to the police they’d come back and kill me… sorry sir, I was scared,” said Tony as his voice cracked.
“Okay, I understand,” said Major Vargas, patting Tony on the shoulder, “we’ll find them and they’ll pay for this. The important thing is that Pedro’s alive and, hopefully, will mend in the next few weeks,” said Vargas.
As predicted by the nurse, Pedro was able to leave the hospital a couple of weeks later. The taxi delivered them to the door of Hostal Zapata and John and Tony carried him upstairs to his bed. They allowed him to get some sleep. With his jaw broken, they couldn’t understand what he’d been trying to say with his feeble voice.
When Pedro woke up he saw John sitting by his bed. “Carolina… where’s Carolina?” were Pedro’s first murmurings. John shook his head.
At that moment, Major Vargas came in through the door, “Yes, it’s that Piérola girl isn’t? You couldn’t leave her alone. You were warned. This…” Major Vargas pointed with his hand at Pedro’s body, “this is also a warning – a final warning. Why would two guys you didn’t know, just walk in, and do this to you? You haven’t been mixed up in any other problems have you, only the Piérola girl?”
Pedro shook his head and mustered the strength his broken jaw allowed, “Carolina isn’t a problem, Papa… I love her.”
Major Vargas bent over Pedro and embraced him, “We’ll talk about that when you get better.”
Chapter 10
“Has Carolina come to see me?” asked Pedro. John and Tony shook their heads. “Has she telephoned… written a letter… does she know what happened to me?” They shrugged.
Nothing; they’d heard nothing from Carolina. John had written her a couple of letters but, still, no news.
Pedro got better and better, day by day, week by week. The doctor instructed exercises to start walking again. Pedro was a good patient – he wanted to get better, quickly.
One day, he told John, “Look, I can walk. I’m going to Arequipa.”
“You’re crazy, didn’t you hear what your father said? The Piérola won’t allow you anywhere near Carolina. They’ll kill you,” said John.
Pedro nodded sadly and got back into bed. John sighed – Pedro seemed to have understood.
The following evening, when he came back to Hostal Zapata, John went up to see Pedro. He was gone.
As soon as his ship arrived at the port of Mollendo, three days after leaving Lima, Pedro caught the first train up to Arequipa, and went to see Carmen Forga: the best person to help him see Carolina. He knocked on the front door of the impressive Forga family residence.
A maid opened – she looked up and down at Pedro, refusing to let him in:
“Hi, I need to see Carmen.”
“Miss Carmen isn’t in, but should be back in about an hour. Would you like to leave a message for her?”
“No, it’s alright – I’ll come back later,” said Pedro as he left.
Pedro hobbled to a cafeteria in the main square. An incognito trip: jacket collar raised around the neck and hat lowered to cover his face as much as possible. He walked slowly, so his stumbling around wouldn’t attract attention. Good, the waiter didn’t know him. Christ, he’d been away so long that everyone was new. He ordered hot coffee, to keep him warm. He’d forgotten how Arequipa could be so much colder than Lima. Gazing out of the window, nobody familiar walked past outside in the square.
But, suddenly, he saw Carolina’s father walking down the street. Heading right past the bar; talking to another man – the bank manager. Mr Piérola looked angry. Would he ever have that sour old bastard for a father-in-law, thought Pedro, turning away from the window. They walked past without looking inside.
What time was it? More than an hour since leaving Carmen’s house; she’d be back by now. He finished his coffee and paid. Checking again there wasn’t anyone outside who might recog
nise him, he headed back to Carmen’s house.
He knocked on the door of the Forga family home. The maid opened.
“Miss Carmen is back. Please wait in the hallway.”
Carmen came in and froze when she saw Pedro.
“Pedro… is that you? Pedro, you’re not dead. Pedro…” said Carmen as she rushed to give him a big hug. “We were told you were dead. That you’d been shot in the disturbances in Lima… Carolina…”
“Where’s Carolina? I must see her,” said Pedro.
“Pedro, Carolina is…” said Carmen but, seeing his distraught face, she took him by the hand and led him into the living room.
They sat down – she had a lot to tell him.
“We thought you were dead. You can’t imagine. It was horrible…” said Carmen, eyes watering.
“I know, I know…” said Pedro, as Carmen continued:
“I took the newspaper to her. She’d not seen it. There was a list of people killed in Lima. Your name was on the list… it must have been a mistake, but we didn’t know,” Carmen said as her voice dried up and she started crying. Pedro gave her a hug and encouraged her to continue.
“She’d heard nothing from you…”
“But I wrote to her…” said Pedro, immediately realising Carolina wouldn’t have received his letters. Her father would have torn them up.
“Then, she changed, she stopped crying… we didn’t understand…” Carmen’s voice cracked again but she summoned strength to continue, “I went to her house one day but the maid told me she was gone. Where? The maid asked me to wait and Carolina’s mother came down. They’d woken up one morning and Carolina was gone. There was only a note. It said she’d gone to Convent of Santa Catalina.”
Pedro’s face lit up, “Convent of Santa Catalina? I’ll go to see her…”
“No, you can’t go to see her,” said Carmen.
“Why not?” said Pedro.
“Pedro, you know, for centuries the nuns have lived isolated from the rest of the world.”
The Titans of the Pacific Page 13
