The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  The following day, John and Pedro went to the American embassy. Pedro was to receive his monthly payment and John had one of his regular meetings with Peter Bush – keen to hear about John’s trip to Trujillo.

  Pedro left them and went to look for Sandra, the exuberant, blonde embassy secretary, who paid him his monthly allowance.

  Sandra was forty something years old and single. Nobody knew how and why she’d arrived in Lima but she brought a bit of, let’s say, fun to the otherwise sombre and serious embassy. Bad mouths said she’d escaped from the USA after having her unfaithful lover murdered – nothing exceptional in her home city of Chicago. It was rumoured her uncle was in the mafia and bribed the police to let her out of the country and got her work at the embassy in Lima.

  Whenever she bumped into Pedro, Sandra cornered him with lively conversation. In reality, it was Sandra talking and Pedro listening. On hearing this, Carlos Medelius suggested maliciously that, if Pedro liked blondes, Sandra would be a more appropriate girlfriend than Carolina de Piérola.

  Nobody knew Peter’s precise function at the embassy but, for sure, he was close to the ambassador. John was discreet and never discussed his embassy meetings. People assumed Peter helped John with his Kemmerer mission work. Before he left, John got important news from Peter.

  “Next week our ambassador is offering a reception, with President Samanez as guest of honour. Another guest of honour will be Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro – as you know, he’s just back from Europe and may be the next president. You’ll receive a formal invitation tomorrow, and Pedro Vargas can come with you.”

  “And what about Haya? Isn’t it more diplomatic to invite all presidential candidates? If not, it smacks of favouritism,” said John.

  “Haya? I know what you mean, but he’s not in Lima so he couldn’t come anyway.”

  “Couldn’t the reception be delayed for a week until Haya arrives in Lima?”

  “Certainly not – our ambassador has other engagements,” said Peter, before adding, “Of course the American government doesn’t have a preference for any of the presidential candidates – people shouldn’t imagine things.”

  It’s better not to insist, thought John, after Peter frowned and started turning red.

  As they left the embassy, Pedro said, “I guess Bush asked you about Trujillo.” John nodded.

  “He went pale when I told him I thought Haya might win the presidential elections. What would Peter say if he knew I’d interviewed Haya?” said John, as Pedro laughed.

  Everyone in Lima’s high society was talking about the American ambassador’s reception. You’ve received an invitation? How lucky you are – I’ve not got one yet. Do you know any gringo who can get me an invite? Come on, please, do me a favour. How can my cousin be going and not me? Are they inviting the usual boring old men? I want to go anyway.

  John was assailed with requests for an invitation. Even people he hardly knew pretended to be his best friends and implored an invitation. Carlos Medelius failed to understand why a nobody like Pedro Vargas was going but not him. Well, Pedro was a close associate of John’s in his work for the Kemmerer mission but, still, Carlos was offended he hadn’t been invited.

  Carlos Medelius had met Peter at another reception at the embassy, which he attended after begging John for an invitation. It had been sad, and funny to some, to see Carlos acting like a waiter to Peter, ensuring his glass was never empty.

  “John, who’ll be going?” asked Pedro.

  “You mean, apart from Samanez and Sánchez-Cerro? Err… government ministers, army officers, top civil servants, businessmen, diplomats… people like that.”

  “Aha… and do you know if anyone’s coming from Arequipa?”

  “No idea. Peter hasn’t given me a list. He just mentioned government people who’ve been working with us on Professor Kemmerer’s proposal: the usual people for these gatherings. Hey, Pedro, maybe your friend Sandra can tell you if you invite her out.”

  “Very funny, very funny,” said Pedro, only half angry at John.

  The evening of the reception, John and Pedro came down to Zapata’s bar stunningly smart in their black dinner jackets, immaculate white shirts and bow ties. Mr Zapata had borrowed clothes from a good client – a tailor who supplied clothes for high society events. Zapata beamed with satisfaction – his modest establishment had clients who mixed with Lima’s high society.

  “Bless the Lord. I’ve never seen anyone smarter. Pedro, you remind me of Cinderella: during the day you help clean the toilets and at night you turn into a prince” said Tony Guzmán with a loud laugh. “But if a princess turns up tomorrow looking for you… I’ll keep her for myself. John, do you think an ugly sambo like me can one day become a prince?”

  “Now, until the day you become a prince, you’ll have to keep these toilets nice and clean. Come on, Guzmán, less dreaming and more work,” said Mr Zapata, frowning. Tony sighed and picked up his mop.

  Guests arrived at the American embassy in splendid cars driven by chauffeurs. At the entrance, two US marines in elegant white uniforms were on hand to welcome guests. One of them was John’s drinking pal Joe – an amiable, towering Texan, who’s only known hobbies were drinking and womanising, wherever in the world he was posted. In the shadows, more marines, in battle gear, ready to deal with any unwelcome visitors. John and Pedro were the only guests to arrive on foot.

  “Good evening gentlemen, your invitations please… hey, John: it’s you, I almost didn’t recognise you,” said Joe.

  John and Pedro were early and, as they swilled their first drinks, contemplated the procession of dignitaries. Politicians and civil servants whom John had met working with Kemmerer’s mission, executives of major American corporations, foreign ambassadors and major Peruvian businessmen, bankers and landowners – the best of local society.

  They wandered around. Pedro felt lost in such a high level gathering, but John hunted down a waiter to grab more cocktails. Apart from alcoholic drinks, the waiters offered fruit juice and that bubbly American drink called Coca Cola, mostly for the young ladies – quite impolite to be seen drinking liquor, you know.

  As he was savouring another cocktail, John froze – Randall. That’s Randall, with Peter Bush. What’s he doing in Lima? John nudged Pedro, pointing out Randall and explaining he had to go to say hello; better without Pedro.

  John finished his cocktail and walked over. Randall was in lively conversation with Peter Bush and didn’t notice him approaching. John managed to overhear Randall in full flight:

  “Those communists, they’re poisoning people all over Latin America with their wicked ideas. Haya is the most dangerous one. Everywhere he goes he stirs up hatred against us. Leguía kicked him out of Peru, but now he’s back. We must eliminate him.”

  “Oh… Mr Randall, you’re not suggesting we eliminate the presidential candidate of a friendly nation, are you?” said Peter, shocked.

  Randall didn’t bother to reply. The eagle eyes just looked down on Peter with contempt.

  “Hello, Mr Randall, what a surprise… Hi Peter, good evening.” said John.

  “Hi, John, didn’t you know I was in Lima?” said Randall, dismissively puffing on his big cigar.

  “No, Mr Randall.”

  “My secretary must have forgotten to send you a telegram. You know Peter, of course. He’s helping us with the Foundation’s work. The FFA has got a lot going on in Peru. Listen, we’ll talk tomorrow morning at the embassy at, say, 9:00am. Now, be a good boy and let me talk to Peter. We have important business to discuss,” said Randall, waving John away.

  Yes, there certainly was important business going on, thought John. All the top guys in Lima from American corporations were greeting Randall. Let’s see, there was Robertson from International Petroleum, Hunter from Cerro de Pasco Copper, Calvin from National City Bank, Locke from American Smelting, and Moser from US Steel.
Also, that man from the Pan American airline, what was his name? They were all buzzing around Randall. Even smaller fry like Cannock from Singer sewing machines and Spalding from Fred Ley, the company that built Lima’s grand Hotel Bolivar. Just about the whole damn American business community in Lima. And they were all interested in a man like Randall, from a food company? No, they were after Randall because of the Foundation, the FFA.

  Walking back to where he’d left Pedro, John bumped into his Kemmerer mission colleague Walter Van Heusen, who’d evidently had even more to drink than John.

  “Hi John, I saw you greeting Randall… Of course, you know him from Boston, don’t you?” said Walter, before he continued, “I hear he’s offering the Peruvian government loans at extremely favourable conditions – they’re desperate for cash.”

  “But what does Randall expect in return?” said John, pulling the tongue of a usually discreet Walter.

  Walter wobbled, stifled a hiccup and looked around before continuing in a hushed voice, “Randall’s not here only to feed all those vultures,” Walter pointed at the American businessmen circling Randall, “he’s also looking after his own: his International Food Company.”

  Come on Walter, spill the beans, thought John, as he put on a surprised face and twisted his head, inviting Walter to continue, “Old Randall is after one of those large sugar plantations up north; but, do you know how they ship out their sugar?”

  John shook his head, but knew very well there was only one railway line from the Chicama valley, through Trujillo and to the port of Salaverry. Walter enjoyed illuminating John and continued, “You know the British control the railways. But Randall wants a concession from the Peruvian government for his own railway to a new port up north – Puerto Chicama, or some such name – he doesn’t want to pay the Brits’ extortionate rates. And you can’t blame him.”

  Walter took a last swig and stared at his glass, angry at it being empty, “Waiter, waiter, give me another one of those… those…” he shouted and John helped him complete his request, “… Pisco Sours.”

  “Whatever they’re called, they’re damn good,” said Walter before he concluded, “anyway, those brash Brits can’t do anything about it. We all know they’re on the way out in Latin America and American corporations are taking over,” as he waved again towards Randall and company.

  Walter lowered his voice to share an anecdote with John, “You’ll remember a few months ago, Edward, the Prince of Wales, visited Peru. The guy who acted as interpreter told me they took Prince Edward to visit the oilfields up north… but you should have seen his face when he was told all the machinery was American.”

  Walter laughed loudly before sharing another story of the prince’s visit, “At the official banquet, Prince Edward pointed at an empty chair beside President Sánchez-Cerro. So Sánchez-Cerro explained it was the Vice President’s chair, but he wasn’t coming. Why not? asked the Prince. And he answered that the Vice President wanted to assassinate Sánchez-Cerro… but, with a big smile, he told the Prince he’d dealt with that Vice President. And the prince’s only reaction was: ‘Oh, I say’.” Walter wobbled with laughter and John held his arm to keep him steady as he added, “That was just days before that rebellion forced Sánchez-Cerro to resign the presidency and leave for Europe.”

  As he left Walter, John recalled the doctrine of President Monroe, over a hundred years earlier: keep the European colonialists out of the American continent, which should be the USA’s hunting ground.

  By now, most of the guests had arrived. Such a male dominated society also required the usual flock of ladies – wives, daughters and other female appendages of the male guests. Frivolous chatter, comparing dresses, some flirting, completely oblivious to the political and business talk of the male guests.

  John recognised Mr Shultz, the owner of Hacienda Chicama, whose photograph he’d seen in their offices during his visit to Trujillo.

  “I wonder if…” said John and, with no time to mention her name, Yolanda appeared, accompanying Mr Schultz.

  John smiled admiringly: nobody that evening came from a humbler background than Yolanda, but she held her ground in the midst of those haughty, high-society ladies, in a tastefully chosen cream dress.

  Yolanda was anything but a female appendage. Mr Schultz spoke little English and depended on Yolanda to communicate with foreign businessmen who didn’t speak Spanish well enough. As a lawyer, she was more than an interpreter and was totally unaware of the social chat of other women – for her it was a day at work with her boss.

  After a moment, Yolanda spotted John and Pedro, and her face lit up. Mr Schultz was talking to some Peruvian officials and didn’t need her as interpreter so, with a light tug of his arm, requested leave to see her friends.

  Yolanda greeted both John and Pedro with warm kisses on the cheek, disguising any greater affection for one of them. John had already told her about Pedro’s adventures with Carolina in Arequipa but Yolanda couldn’t, of course, make any reference to that in public. Almost immediately she positioned herself beside John and whispered who-knows-what in his ear. John smiled and, as nobody seemed to be looking, put his arm around her waist. With a look that said that, of course, she liked his arm around her waist, but it wasn’t appropriate then, she gently but firmly withdrew it.

  Then, Kurt Schultz, son of Hacienda Chicama’s owner, came looking for Yolanda. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded and then introduced John and Pedro.

  “I’ve just come back from Germany,” said Kurt, grinning.

  “How are things there? I’ve heard their economy is really bad,” said John.

  “Yeah, things are bad, but the people’s mood is the best I’ve seen since the war,” said Kurt. John preferred avoiding talk of the war – everyone knew that his own country, the USA, had played an important role in Germany’s defeat in the Great War.

  “Why?” asked Pedro.

  “Well, because of Hitler. Germany has had a string of weak governments and squabbling parties but, at last, they’ll have a strong leader,” said Kurt.

  “Do you think he’ll become president?” asked John.

  “Of course. Hitler is the only one who can squash those damn communists. He’ll also give those Jewish traitors what they deserve and give back their pride to the German people” said Kurt. They all listened in silence as Kurt continued, “Hitler won’t have much patience with democracy but, for sure, he’ll turn Germany into a strong country again. A bit like Sánchez-Cerro here,” he added, smiling.

  John battled to control his tongue: this Kurt was a Nazi, that’s what he was; a goddam Nazi. Heaven help poor Peru if Sánchez-Cerro won the elections and behaved like Hitler. Pray there weren’t too many folk who thought like Kurt.

  Once Kurt had left, John, Pedro and Yolanda engaged in lively chat until loud applause came from the embassy entrance.

  “The president is here,” said Yolanda.

  “I wonder who’s come with him,” said John.

  “No need to wonder anymore,” said Yolanda as she pointed at a pretty young brunette in Samanez’s entourage.

  Although she’d never met her before, just one look at Pedro’s face, mouth wide open, and Yolanda knew the young lady was Carolina de Piérola.

  Carolina attracted the attention of both men and women at the reception. What has old Samanez done to deserve such exquisite company, chuckled the older men. Let’s see if I can get introduced, thought the younger men as they came forward. Women raised their eyebrows, some admiringly, others jealous: I’ve never seen her before, but she’s so elegant she can’t be from the provinces, said one lady. Perhaps she’s the daughter of an ambassador, said another. No, I’ve heard President Samanez is her godfather, said a third. Her godfather? You don’t mean… No, to their surprise, news circulated she was the great niece of legendary former president, Don Nicolás de Piérola.

  Pedro gulped, and then s
ighed with relief – Carolina’s father wasn’t in sight. The old bastard probably hadn’t been invited.

  Then, Carolina saw Pedro. They hadn’t expected each other at the reception. She looked around, saw Mr Samanez was busy with a throng wanting to greet him, and then discreetly walked towards Pedro, John and Yolanda.

  “Hi Carolina, I didn’t know you were coming… you look beautiful,” were the first words Pedro could manage.

  “I didn’t expect you either. What are you doing here? We mustn’t be seen together… it’s dangerous,” said Carolina, looking over her shoulder.

  Carolina reassured Pedro – Samanez knew everything. The old man wasn’t amused when she entered the convent and then escaped, but he kept his god-daughter in a little corner of his heart. He’d asked her to join his office and attend all his public functions: give her prominence, so the Piérola would leave her alone and not risk more public scandal.

  Blushing, Carolina turned to John and gave him a big kiss on the cheek.

  “John, how can I thank you for helping Pedro in Arequipa?” said Carolina.

  “I must say you look prettier in this dress than in a nun’s robes,” said John. Carolina giggled and pretended to slap him.

  Yolanda was introduced to Carolina and John reassured her, “It’s alright, Yolanda knows about the convent in Arequipa.”

  “Oh, my God, everyone probably knows by now – how embarrassing,” said Carolina, raising her eyes, with a sigh.

  “How is my sweetheart tonight… well, you look so elegant… hi folks, I’m Sandra, pleased to see you all,” said the blonde bombshell, barging in on the foursome and accosting Pedro. Sandra was exuberant as ever, but tonight topped up with a good dosage of champagne and whiskey. Pedro looked at Carolina as if to say: Don’t worry, I can explain. Carolina’s look in response was: It’s alright, I understand.

  The embassy was Sandra’s home territory, or hunting ground. Tonight, she was determined to enjoy herself, bump into some eligible young man and catch him unawares. Pedro was one possible victim. Sandra grabbed him affectionately by the arm, but Pedro managed to release himself and deflect her attention from him by introducing Carolina and Yolanda. Sandra took one look at them and muttered unintelligibly that Pedro was popular with the ladies tonight.