The Titans of the Pacific Page 10

  Now, here it is, moaned John: what Randall wanted to know – Banco del Perú y Londres’ debtors’ list. All the major landowners are there. ‘Delay’ – ‘Unpaid’ – ‘Next month’ – these loans are all classified as ‘Non-performing’. That means they can’t repay. That’s why the bank is going under. Depositors want their money back, but the bank can’t because these landowners, haciendas and manufacturers are up the creek. And look who’s on the list: Hacienda Chicama – old Schultz. And that’s a large amount of money he owes. Randall will love this. But can it be disclosed to him? Damn it, he’ll go crazy if he’s not told.

  Another letter from Lisa landed on John’s desk: her father had invited preppy Jack home to dinner; Barrett had too much to drink; he’d intimated Jack could become a partner in his law firm one day. Lisa didn’t say anything about her studies, her paintings, nothing; and this was the first letter where she didn’t ask when John was coming home.

  Yolanda telephoned Hostal Zapata and left a message saying she’d arrived in Lima. John called back:

  “Let’s meet at Cordano’s restaurant, across the street from the presidential palace and in front of the railway station.”

  “But it’ll be full of politicians, government officials, journalists and guys like that,” said Yolanda.

  “Yeah, but not bankers and it’s far from Hotel Bolivar – I prefer not to bump into Kemmerer mission colleagues,” said John. Yolanda agreed.

  After leaving the office, as he walked past the presidential palace, John wondered what would be going on inside. President Sánchez-Cerro could be screaming at a minister, kicking some clerk or swearing revenge on a journalist who’d written something against him. He was like that. He’d deposed Leguía, calling him a tyrant, but Sánchez-Cerro wasn’t the image of tolerance.

  John recalled Pedro’s account of a university professor visiting President Sánchez-Cerro, who greeted him with the broadest of smiles and embarrassed the astonished professor with exaggerated flattery. Then, Sánchez-Cerro continued:

  “My dear professor, I’m not like Leguía, you’re most welcome to think and say whatever you like.”

  “Thank you, Comandante. I always do,” replied the professor, as Sánchez-Cerro’s smile began to shrink.

  “Professor, I would like to know what your friends think of me, as your president, and why you criticise me in your meetings.”

  “Well, people wonder why you don’t call elections as you promised when you deposed President Leguía.”

  “And why do they think I haven’t called elections?”

  “They say you’re scared that elections—” but the professor was abruptly interrupted by Sánchez-Cerro:

  “Did you say ‘scared’?” demanded the little president, surging to his feet and glaring down on the professor. “Me, scared? Let me tell you professor, if there were a rebellion against me, I’d have a good night’s sleep and, in the morning, if the rebels persisted, I’d smash them to bits,” said Sánchez-Cerro, voice now at deepest pitch, neck muscles trembling, and shattering his coffee cup on the floor.

  Of course, the meeting was over. As the door closed behind him, the professor heard Sánchez-Cerro ranting and kicking his chair around his presidential office. The professor breathed deeply: what would become of his beloved Peru?

  Juanito spotted John and followed him into Cordano’s. John had barely sat down, with Juanito cleaning his shoes, when she walked in. A warm smile lit up her face when she saw him.

  “Hi Yolanda. Great to see you. How’s your family, after your year away?” said John.

  “Yes, everyone is okay… nothing has changed… as if I’d never been away,” said Yolanda, before changing subject abruptly:

  “Listen, John, I was thinking about our conversation on the ship… you know, when we had that argument…”

  “Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten about that…”

  “Good – how about us both forgetting about it… you’ve got your views on international politics and I’ve got mine… so, let’s live with that, shall we?” said Yolanda.

  “Lady, you’ve got a deal,” said John, offering his hand to shake, enacting a peace treaty. They both laughed. For an instant, John felt he didn’t want to let go of her hand – it was warm and soft, but also strong yet welcoming, like Yolanda herself.

  Yes, John was glad Yolanda wanted to clear the air as it felt as if they were resuming a conversation they’d started on the deck of the Santa Clara ship – politics excluded.

  John ruffled Juanito’s hair:

  “Yolanda, meet my little friend, Juanito: nobody in Lima makes shoes shinier.”

  “Nice to meet you, Juanito. I don’t need my shoes cleaned but take this,” she said, giving him a coin and stroking his cheek.

  Juanito grinned from ear to ear and Yolanda sighed at the sight of his gappy teeth – the poor kid was in desperate need of a dentist.

  As they chatted, John remembered the impression Yolanda had made on him during their sea voyage. Even intelligent young ladies weren’t expected to be more than secretaries to powerful men and, of course, should be on the hunt for a husband to take care of them and be thinking how many children they wanted. Not Yolanda. This lady was no decorative figure in Mr Schultz’s entourage. Hacienda Chicama was Yolanda’s life, but John could picture her running her own law firm or, why not, a politician in Peru’s national Congress. She wouldn’t be a push over even for the likes of Sánchez-Cerro; that was for sure.

  “So, how are things up north, on the sugar cane plantation?” asked John. Yolanda’s smile vanished. She looked around and lowered her voice,

  “You’ve probably not heard of the workers killed last week,” she said. John frowned and shook his head. She moaned.

  “Do you know how the plantations recruit sugar cane croppers?” John’s blank expression invited Yolanda to continue, “Landowners’ agents go up into the Andes to entice peasants when their potato harvest is over. The peasants can’t read or write and sign contracts they don’t understand.”

  “But can’t they leave if they don’t like the working conditions?” said John. Yolanda shook her head.

  “The agents advance money to the peasants’ families, with the guarantee of relatives, and the peasants come to the coast to work until they’ve repaid the advance. But the agents cheat them: they deduct commissions from landowners’ payments, they force peasants to pay to live in hovels and then pay peasants with vouchers they can only redeem shopping at the agents’ expensive stores,” said Yolanda.

  “Those agents sound like a bunch of crooks. Can’t the peasants find a way out?” said John.

  “No chance. The agents always entangle peasants in never-ending debt, so they can’t go back home. I’ve gone to court helping peasants, but the judges do nothing. Slavery – that’s what it is” said Yolanda, clenching her fists and about to cry. “But Hacienda Chicama is better than other places, where croppers work from 4:00am to 6:00pm and, if they complain, they’re whipped, chained to stocks or imprisoned.”

  Then, she pulled herself together, “The workers have had enough. Last week, some had too much to drink and rampaged through the stores of the worst agents. They demanded changes in their contracts. The agents refused. They set fire to some agents’ stores.”

  “Yikes,” said John, as Yolanda continued:

  “These stores are on the haciendas, so the landowners called the police. There was no warning. They just arrived and opened fire… Fifteen peasants were shot dead… like dogs,” said Yolanda as she pulled out her handkerchief, blew her nose and looked around, struggling to hold back her tears from the customers surrounding them in the busy Cordano. John took her hand and patted it.

  Juanito had finished cleaning John’s shoes and cursed under his breath – he hadn’t missed a word of their conversation. But Juanito had no tears – he was not treated any better in Lima.

 
“We’re trying to collect money to pay for their bodies to be sent back to their villages for burial,” said Yolanda, once she was able to speak again.

  “But I haven’t read about this in the newspapers,” said John, open mouthed. Yolanda twisted her lips and smirked.

  “John, this will never get into the newspapers. The authorities bully the press into filling their pages with more pleasant news, like a minister inaugurating a new building, the wedding of a landowner’s daughter or the latest football match.”

  Yolanda hadn’t finished and, with contained fury, added, “And that’s not all. These peasants… when they come down from the Andes, they often get malaria. They can’t pay for a doctor. And if they survive malaria, they’re too weak to work. But those horrible agents force them to work to repay their debt.”

  John was speechless as Yolanda continued, “And now, the landowners want to send the peasants back up to the Andes and replace them with Chinese and Japanese labourers.”

  John looked at Yolanda dumbfounded. Slavery had been abolished in Peru eighty years earlier, hadn’t it? But what Yolanda explained was almost worse. He thought of the Afro-Americans back home in the USA. Slavery had been formally abolished there too, but many white Americans still treated Africans as if they owned them.

  Yolanda looked at her watch and gasped, “I’ve got to go. I have a meeting at a bank – more problems with Hacienda Chicama’s borrowing.” John nodded, remembering the papers handled by the Kemmerer mission. That must be it.

  So, ask her about her meeting and get some information for Randall, he thought. No, he couldn’t extract information from Yolanda and betray her to Randall. But if he didn’t ask her and pass the revelations to Randall, wasn’t he betraying Randall? Just leave it – better don’t ask. Try to finish the rendezvous with Yolanda on a more pleasant topic. No, it would be stupid to embark on pleasantries after she’d been on the verge of tears, explaining the horrendous ordeal of the sugar cane croppers.

  “I’ll write to you,” she said as they got up and she kissed him on the cheek. Once she’d left, John sat down again and touched his cheek. He looked around. Nobody was staring at him. In the USA, if a lady kissed you in public she could only be your wife. But he wasn’t in the USA. Was Yolanda’s kiss customary in Peru between friends?

  After a round, plying his trade in the Cordano, Juanito was back, grinning, “That señorita is very nice. I think you should marry her.”

  “What do you know about marriage? Go away, you little devil,” said John, laughing as Juanito left to look for more customers – Cordano was a good hunting ground. With luck, he’d be able to afford a meal today and take some money home to his mama.

  Alone at his table, John felt the urge for his favourite giggle juice, “Waiter… a Pisco Sour please… umm… make it a double.” He was shocked and sad – he’d been looking forward to seeing Yolanda again. For sure their reunion should have been pleasant. But no, of course Yolanda couldn’t be anything but bitter after what she’d lived through in the past days, or during her life for that matter.

  Instead of savouring his Pisco Sour, he gulped it down – he needed it. That was better.

  Back at the office, another telegram from Randall landed on his desk, demanding more information about Schultz’s bank loans, copy documents, and opinions about Schultz’s capacity to repay his loans. John looked around: would anyone have read Randall’s telegram? It had been delivered to him sealed, but it wasn’t at all discreet of Randall putting such inappropriate requests in a telegram. Walter van Heusen was busy with his papers as usual. John sucked his teeth; Randall was too impatient to write letters. Would Randall be sending more telegrams like this one? Anyone could read and leak them in the delivery chain from arrival at the Post Office to final receipt by John. If Kemmerer found out, John would surely face legal action for breach of confidentiality.

  John did his best, to no avail. Kemmerer regretted he couldn’t spare him. John cursed as he faced a blank air mail letter. How could he explain to Lisa? His last letter had promised he’d do his best to trek to New York for her birthday party and celebration of her graduation from Harvard. The most important day of her life – he just couldn’t miss it. He imagined Lisa in tears reading his letter. Damn it.

  And a few days later, a letter from Yolanda. She’d arrived back in Chicama and was happy to have seen John again. She regretted their lunch at the Cordano hadn’t been pleasant, talking about the massacre of the sugar cane croppers. Things had calmed down, but no sign of any enquiry into police behaviour. Nobody cared about the lives of fifteen poor Andean Indian natives. However, the letter ended with an invitation to visit Trujillo and Chicama…whenever John could break away from his busy social life and the girls in Lima. And she’s cheeky too, thought John.

  Then, Lisa’s next letter arrived. It was the longest lapse she’d gone without writing. John sighed. The news couldn’t be good. He’d pictured Lisa crying with anger when she’d heard Kemmerer hadn’t granted John leave to travel to the USA for her celebration. A little voice inside his head said: Buddy, be brave, open the damn envelope and get it over with. Let’s see what she says.

  Old Barrett had spared no expense: his daughter’s graduation was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. All the family had been there, the law firm’s staff, some Harvard academics and preppies, and her father’s closest business acquaintances – everyone, except John.

  The letter was long and winding – unusual for Lisa – rambling on endlessly about her graduation party. Why was she spinning this yarn? Where was Lisa leading?

  She’d felt overwhelmed. She hadn’t expected such a fuss about her graduation. Her father had even bought new living room furniture – yeah, to impress his guests, thought John, squirming. The beautiful flowers, the marvellous catering, the best champagne… John glowered as he noticed how often Lisa described everything as ‘marvellous’.

  Mr Barrett had introduced Jack Saunders to all his business contacts present. The Harvard lecturers had all spent time with Jack, patting him on the shoulder. And amongst the guests were Jack’s parents – she’d met Mr and Mrs Saunders before but, on this occasion, they were especially warm and friendly. Mr Barrett had treated investment banker Mr Saunders like a long-lost friend. And Jack had even given Lisa a lovely necklace as a special graduation present.

  Mr Barrett had given a long speech, extolling Lisa’s academic and personal achievements, and her strength of character – would those present infer she’d inherited her virtues from her father? So, it wasn’t really a tender and fatherly speech, but as moving as could be expected from him. And even – wait for it – her father had kissed her on the cheek. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Her mother had nearly fainted at the sight. Could the cold lawyer be mellowing with age?

  Anyway, Lisa had felt as if she was floating in a cloud – it had been the happiest day of her life. But not a word about John having been missed.

  Then, the bombshell: Jack had asked Lisa to marry him. He’d spoken to Lisa’s father, and her parents had congratulated her. What the hell…? Congratulated her for what? She hadn’t even had a chance to give it a thought, had she?

  Jack’s parents would buy them an elegant apartment in Manhattan, with an elevator, and that exclusive new shop, Webb’s, would furnish it. Jack’s parents had given him one of those new Ford cars as a birthday present and he promised to drive her down to their seaside retreat at weekends.

  She was confused. She wondered if John didn’t really want to return to the USA. Maybe he’d never go back. She was under pressure. She had to think – what was she going to do with her life?

  Alone in his bedroom at Hostal Zapata, John screwed up the letter and threw the crumpled piece of paper against the wall. Think – what the hell did she mean; or had she already decided? Just tell me, straight – don’t tell me you’re thinking.

  But he knew the truth: he was too
far away; he could do nothing; he was losing the only girl he’d ever loved. Everything they’d dreamed about their perfect life together was just that: a dream. Perhaps Lisa was right: he hadn’t wanted to return home. Could he blame her?

  He sat down, trembling, and buried his face in his hands, as if to hide his tears from no one there. He fumbled to light a cigarette but dropped it. He lay on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, as if it could give him an answer. But the ceiling just looked down at him, blankly – nobody could give him an answer. He just had to work it out for himself. A headache surged until he became numb. He turned his red eyes away from the unhelpful ceiling and sobbed himself to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  John awoke to a new life, without Lisa. He’d started a new life when he’d left Boston and come to Peru. This had been his dream, hadn’t it? Yet he’d also wanted to be with Lisa. Him in Peru, Lisa in the USA – no, of course that couldn’t work. And Lisa wanted to get married. Yes, he wanted to marry her too; she was the girl of his dreams; but not get married until he’d lived his adventure in Peru. That didn’t work either. Not for Lisa. He wanted Peru and he wanted Lisa. But he couldn’t have both. Was there anything he could do to win her back? Damn it – he hammered on the wall.

  Shit, late for work. Yes, better get back into Kemmerer’s world so there’s no time to think about Lisa. Okay, finish that long and boring draft legal document about the supervision of banks by the new Peruvian central bank, the summit of Walter’s contribution to the mission; enough to keep anyone’s mind busy.

  “Good morning,” said Walter, looking at his watch and glancing over his shoulder – had Kemmerer noticed John coming in late?

  “I know I’m late, Walter… I’m sorry,” said John.

  “John, err… the minister wants the draft this morning.”