The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  After the rally, back at Hostal Zapata, they met Pedro, busily serving customers behind the bar.

  “Man, you should’ve come with us. It was fantastic. Everything is going to be better with Sánchez-Cerro. He’s not as bad as APRA say,” said Tony to Pedro, with Zapata beaming with satisfaction.

  The following morning, Carlos Medelius’ La Nación filled its front page with reports and photographs of the apotheosis of Sánchez-Cerro’s rally the night before.

  Still, as if the city of Lima hadn’t had enough excitement with Sánchez-Cerro in the Plaza San Martín, the following day there was another pilgrimage.

  This time the pilgrimage would be to Plaza de Acho – the oldest bullring in the world. The enormous edifice rose above its surroundings like a Roman coliseum, on the opposite bank of river Rímac from the presidential palace. During the colonial period it had been the favourite meeting place for Spanish nobles and the best of Lima society. Since independence it had endured as a bastion of well-to-do creoles.

  “Come on, Pedro, John… let’s go guys, we’re gonna be late,” shouted Tony Guzmán, determined to drag his friends out with him.

  “Where are you going so early, man?” said Pedro, as he turned over in bed and covered his ears with his pillow. It was Sunday morning – why didn’t Tony just lie in bed for a while, on the only day he didn’t have to be up before dawn.

  Today, Tony, a nobody from the provinces, was going to get into the majestic bullring. Was he crazy? Who did he think he was?

  On that unforgettable Sunday in August 1931, the Plaza de Acho would again be full, but with a very different crowd from what it was used to. Victor-Raúl Haya was returning to Lima after seven long years in exile.

  “Tony, what’s up, man? Yesterday you went to see Sánchez-Cerro… and today you’re going to see Haya. Which team do you play for?” asked Pedro smiling, as he and John tried to keep up with an excited Tony, strutting across the old stone bridge.

  “Which team? No soccer today, guys – we’re going to Plaza de Acho. If my mama could see me, she’d be so proud,” said Tony with a sigh and a sheepish smile.

  What a multitude they joined. They came from the working-class districts, from the barren hills surrounding the city – crowded with frail shacks – labourers from new industries, building sites and nearby farms, and dockers from the port of Callao; also students, teachers, clerks, servants and soldiers, strictly in civilian clothes. The better off stayed indoors, to avoid mingling with this populace.

  Lima didn’t belong only to the creoles anymore – it was being invaded by needy folk from the provinces. Even Indian miners had come down from the Andes to see Haya. What did city people have in common with this rabble? They all felt something new, maybe revolutionary, was arriving with Haya.

  Revolutionary? Many recalled the Russian revolution, where property had been taken over by the state, the imperial family and the ruling class had been slaughtered or fled in terror, with the new communist government preaching hatred and revenge. Would Haya bring this to Peru?

  Never – that will never happen in Peru vowed Sánchez-Cerro: our people must be handled with the carrot in one hand and the stick in the other.

  Talk of revolution scared not only the well-off but also middle-class people whose lives had improved during the economic bonanza of the 1920s under now-forgotten President Leguía – an improvement now ruined by the economic crisis – and even humble people like Zapata.

  Even Mr Zapata? Yes, sir. He’d worked hard to build up his business and all this talk of change, revolution or communist governments taking over property, horrified him. Only Sánchez-Cerro appeared to guarantee he’d not lose his livelihood.

  What about government employees, bank staff, army officers and the like? Talk of revolution also made them shudder: in Russia, communist purges had swept away anyone connected with the old regime. At best, they’d escaped abroad and at worst they’d disappeared into state slave labour camps – the gulags.

  An hour before Haya’s expected arrival, Plaza de Acho was packed. People squeezed into the access halls and stairways, jostling to catch a glimpse of their leader. More adherents outside in the street vainly pushed to get in. Nobody wanted to miss Víctor-Raúl Haya’s return to Lima.

  Today you couldn’t smell imported perfume or expensive cigars, pervasive on bullfighting days. You were huddled against someone with a whiff of sweat or common scent. The bar in the square below, usually serving selected wines and cocktails, was closed today, to John’s disappointment.

  Outside, the street was full of trolleys cooking popular snacks like fried dough with honey, spicy ox heart on skewers or corn on the cob. The smoke of fried food impregnated the air.

  Within the bullring, a deafening murmur, as people discussed their country’s problems, their hopes, and changes to come. There were no red flags flying or revolutionary songs to be heard – no communists had come. It wasn’t their day.

  Murmuring gave way to excitement: rumour swept around that Víctor-Raúl Haya had arrived. Suddenly, chatting gave way to cheering when a tall man appeared, impeccably dressed in black, as if bound for a funeral. That’s him; he’s here… it’s brother Víctor-Raúl, someone shouted. Rapturous applause broke out.

  The pushing outside the bullring and within hallways became frantic and Tony, John and Pedro struggled to get in. In each of the entrances to the bullring, APRA had placed guards or buffalos, as they were now called – after Buffalo Barreto – imposing order and demanding quiet. Gradually, the bullring fell silent.

  Once nestled on the speaker’s platform, Haya looked around, smiled and said, “Party brothers, fellow citizens, welcome to this magnificent meeting. I’m sorry so many of you are uncomfortable, listening standing up. My only satisfaction is that I’m standing with you,” as the crowd cheered.

  “Brothers, at long last, democracy is arriving in Peru. True democracy, renewed under the banner of APRA…” and Haya continued after being interrupted by applause, “It isn’t the old, so-called democracy, abused by tyranny. It is real democracy, built by the people, and we’ll make every sacrifice to defend it. Politicians have lacked responsibility. Politics based on bribery, threats, and cheating, are not responsible politics,” he said, followed by more applause.

  “Pedro, what does ‘bribery’ mean?” said Tony.

  “Umm… for example, if Mr Zapata pays a health inspector to stop his restaurant being closed because you can’t keep it clean,” said Pedro, with a friendly nudge at a frowning Tony.

  “Shut up, damn you, we want to hear Víctor-Raúl,” someone shouted behind them.

  The expectant crowd was ready to absorb their leader’s every word. Haya was about to explain how APRA would change Peru, forever.

  Haya’s eloquent, long-winded speech kept his audience spellbound. Many listened open mouthed. They heard that, since independence from Spain, the state had been controlled by an oligarchy that colluded with foreign interests to hand over the country’s wealth in exchange for expensive loans – yes, John remembered this from Haya’s speech in Trujillo.

  Haya continued, “Foreign investors are welcome if they bring progress and superior technology…The economy and the interests of ordinary Peruvians are not protected by the state.” Again, John recognised themes he’d heard in Trujillo.

  “Our agriculture is dominated by latifundia and the state is controlled by a small number of landlords who own enormous haciendas.”

  Tony tugged at Pedro’s sleeve and whispered, “Umm… what is leti… lati… latifomia? It sounds like a disease.”

  “Latifundia… yeah, some people would say it’s a disease… it’s a large agricultural estate owned by one family, with many peasants working for them, sometimes not even bothering if it produces much,” said Pedro, happy to enhance Tony’s meagre education.

  “Our indigenous Andean Indian brothers don’t have basic civil
rights. Most are excluded from the mainstream economy and society. There isn’t a peasant class that can rightfully influence the state. Three million indigenous Peruvians are illiterate and the state has done nothing to educate them and help them participate in a democratic process.”

  A group of Indians clapped loudly and shouted in Kechua, the main language of the old Incan empire, and still the language of a large majority of Peruvians in the Andes. As John looked at them, he couldn’t help remembering Juanito: what a brighter future he could expect enjoying an education and civil rights, instead of being kicked about wherever he went.

  “There is solidarity between APRA and our brothers in the armed forces – there are no differences between us. But the armed forces must not meddle in politics… A compulsory military service must be exercised democratically… Promotion in the armed forces must be on merit, not as a way of buying loyalty… The armed forces must help integrate our Indian brothers into modern society…”

  After winding down, Haya waved farewell, wiped his brow, finished his glass of water, and slowly descended his platform’s stairs as the crowd cheered.

  The atmosphere was electric. The old Plaza de Acho bullring had never seen anything like it in its two hundred years. For a couple of hours, the masses had taken over a bastion of the better-off and now made their way home, invigorated by Haya’s words.

  As soon as they arrived at Hostal Zapata, laughing and chatting, John, Pedro and Tony bumped into Mr Zapata.

  “Huh… you look happy after listening to those stupid APRA… communists or whatever they are,” said Zapata scowling.

  “No, Mr Zapata. You should have come with us. It was fantastic. Haya is really the people’s man and everything is going to be better from now onwards. No need to be scared of APRA, Mr Zapata,” said Tony.

  “But how can you believe that Haya is a man of the people, if some relatives were rich landlords and even government ministers in Leguía’s regime? Sánchez-Cerro really is a man of the people and understands us well. He’ll make sure we have work and will lock up those damn communists,” said Zapata.

  Confused? Yes, poor Tony could well feel confused. One day after the other, he’d gone to the rallies of two political leaders bitterly opposed to each other, yet both claiming to represent him and offering him a better future.

  No, Tony didn’t really understand what has happening. But he felt something was changing in Peru. Tony and many other poor people thought that, for once, the next president would listen to them.

  The following morning, La Nación, after having covered Sánchez-Cerro’s rally the day before on its front page with such detail and enthusiasm, completely ignored Haya’s rally at Plaza de Acho. Not a single word. As if it had never happened.

  Absolutely amazing, thought John but, knowing Carlos Medelius and his fellow journalists, he wasn’t surprised. But the world needed to know what was really going on in Peru.

  He corresponded by telegram with The Washington Post’s man for South America in Buenos Aires. Many thanks, John; we wouldn’t have known about Haya’s historical rally without someone like you on the spot. Washington will like this – I’ll recommend we continue taking your reports. Keep up the good work.

  Only three months left to go and John knew he’d witness the most dramatic presidential elections in Peruvian history. For sure, he’d have some juicy reports for The Washington Post.

  Chapter 17

  John had expected it, but when his father’s letter arrived and he read it in the quiet of his bedroom, he couldn’t help it: he screamed, cursed and kicked the damn wall. That bastard Randall had had John’s father sacked from Harvard University. Yes, Randall would’ve enjoyed that: bullying an old man to punish John.

  John imagined the scene: Randall puffing on his big cigar and smiling as he told Dr Fitzgerald. But John did muster a smile, picturing Randall’s frown when he failed to humiliate the old professor. No, Dr Fitzgerald wouldn’t have caved in and pleaded to Randall. John knew his father was a frail man, but with a stronger will than even that tyrant Randall.

  What now? There was no point. Nothing would change. If you defied the mighty, like Mr James Randall III, you always lost.

  But, wait a moment, what about David and Goliath? Father Joseph had taught John all those biblical stories at school. Yet, this was real life in the 20th century: the weak and the good weren’t defeating the mighty and evil. In Russia, the democrats had been crushed by Stalin. The boots of Mussolini’s troops walked all over poor North African Bedouin and Ethiopian peasants. That little man in India, Mahatma Ghandi, would never get his way peacefully against the mighty British Empire. And, as for smaller European countries, heaven help them if Hitler came to power in Germany. Maybe the priests were wrong, and the devil was winning the battle.

  John read his father’s letter again. The old man made no complaint – life had been tough for him but he’d always pulled through. John shouldn’t worry: God would provide.

  So, John wrote to his new mentor, recently departed from Peru. Professor Kemmerer liked John – he’d always been an asset to the mission. He was sorry to hear about John’s father – times were hard for everyone. Kemmerer was back at Princeton University and, yes, he’d see what he could do; but no promises.

  John crossed his fingers and, a couple of weeks later, when he came back from Mass at San Francisco church, it had arrived. Kemmerer’s letter said Princeton University’s Faculty of Arts had invited Dr Desmond Fitzgerald to join them. Wiping a tear, John went down on his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Father Joseph, during sermon at school Mass in Boston, used to say that when God closes a door, he opens a window. Bless you, Professor Kemmerer. Maybe the devil wasn’t always going to win.

  What a relief. Now, next problem: Randall had left John without a regular income when he’d instructed he be dropped from Kemmerer’s mission. But, unknown to Randall, Kemmerer had a small, discretionary budget for mission general expenses. Nobody questioned how the mission spent that amount, so Kemmerer continued payments to John. But these payments had now ended once the Kemmerer mission left Peru and closed its budget. John cursed: how to continue paying his way in Peru?

  John knew The Washington Post had liked his interview with Haya. It had been published under the name of the South American correspondent based in Buenos Aires, but everyone at The Post knew it was John’s merit. And, since then, John had been providing interesting stories to the man in Buenos Aires to concoct more reports in his name. Could there be a future for him in journalism?

  The South American correspondent would travel to Peru to cover the impending presidential elections. John boldly offered Washington head office to report on the elections and avoid the correspondent travelling to Lima. It sounded good to the man in Buenos Aires, reluctant to take a long and hazardous flight over the Andes, leaving his comfortable lifestyle – Argentinian mistress included – down south. The editor in Washington wasn’t convinced. John had done a good job so far, but covering a major event like the presidential elections was very different.

  Finally, the editor reluctantly agreed, on condition the man in Buenos Aires put his name to the articles and vetted John’s reports before they were sent to Washington. No problem, thought the man in Buenos Aires, as he opened another bottle of wine and stroked his lady’s thigh under the table, enjoying another succulent Argentinian steak dinner at his favourite restaurant. No way was he going to give this up for a rough flight to Lima. Yes, John could be trusted with the job.

  John raised clenched fists for joy, but what now? No formal appointment as The Post’s correspondent meant he couldn’t use the prestigious newspaper’s name to schedule interviews with key participants in the elections. But what about the local press? Carlos Medelius, at La Nación, had begged John for news about the Kemmerer mission in the recent past. Perhaps Carlos could reciprocate with information, or at least gossip, to transform into some sort of r
eport. Wasn’t that what some journalists did, anyway?

  One night, John fell asleep after reading all those horrendous stories from around the world. The devil was very busy indeed. John’s mind dragged him back into Boston’s Charles Street jail – the closest place to hell he’d known. All the devil’s men caroused dressed as jailors: let’s see, there was Mussolini, Hitler, Stalin, even Randall, and then, wait a moment: Carlos Medelius. What was Carlos doing with that infernal bunch?

  After the devil’s men left the scene and John tired of interpreting what was going on, his father and Professor Kemmerer came in, with a smiling old man, introduced as The Washington Post’s editor. Had he learned nothing from Father Joseph? Was he going to accept the devil’s work without even a whimper? God had given him a mission: an investigative journalist at The Washington Post must denounce the devil’s deeds. The three men turned around as Father Joseph walked in and wagged his finger at John.

  When he awoke, John smiled: what a nightmare. What had that been about some mission? Better just dismiss it as a childhood exhortation from old Father Joseph. Then, a knock on the door and Pedro came in: Let’s go down to breakfast – I’m starving.

  Later, John’s thoughts returned to Carlos. He could be an enrapturing socialite, and had often invited John to social occasions. But John wasn’t entirely at ease with this snake charmer.

  One day, after a few drinks in Zapata’s bar, as Carlos pontificated about the world, John decided to challenge him, to see his reaction.

  Carlos was his usual self: surrounded by society girls and smartly dressed in his latest fashion suit, concealing that his grandfather had been a poor immigrant.

  “Listen, Carlos, stop complaining about these poor people coming from the provinces. They’ve got as much right to a better life as you,” said John.

  Carlos wasn’t taken aback and, in fact, it got him going on his pet subject as he replied:

  “You don’t understand, John. All these people from the provinces – the miners, the peasants… who’ve lost their jobs, are coming to the capital expecting to find jobs. But there’s a worldwide economic crisis, for God’s sake. They’ve believed the communists’ poisonous ideas.”