The Titans of the Pacific Page 3

  “We want to see John Fitzgerald immediately,” said Lomasney.

  “Uh… not possible,” said the jail officer.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not ready.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Amm… we have procedures to follow… okay, I’ll be back in a moment…” said the officer before he disappeared.

  Lomasney smiled at Dr Fitzgerald, “Don’t worry, Des, this is normal: they just need time to get John looking like nothing happened to him since he arrived. You know: clean any cuts, freshen him up, un-ruffle his clothes – that sort of thing.” Dr Fitzgerald shuddered.

  John woke up and gulped as the key turned in his cell’s lock. They were coming for him. What would they do to him now? Jesus picked himself up, with that enormous wooden cross astride his shoulder and struggled up Calvary, stumbling towards his fate.

  The door sighed open and a painful ray of light rushed in, piercing John’s eyes, used to darkness. They tipped over his bench and he rolled on to the filthy floor. His empty stomach stung with pain when the guard’s boot ordered him to get up. Spluttering, he struggled to his feet and his arms were pulled behind his back; click, click, he was in shackles again.

  “Come on, get up, they’ve come to collect you,” John heard the disappointed voice and sullen face of the guard confronting him. “You’re a lucky boy, this time.”

  When John was ready, the guard confronted him, “Now, listen: even outside jail you won’t get away from us. If you say anything that happened inside, you’ll live to regret it. Do you understand you little worm? Yes? And, one final thing: smile when you see your father. Good boy.” The guard patted John’s cheek.

  Chapter 2

  John gulped – besides his father and Martin Lomasney, there was scowling Father Joseph, his old school master. Without a word spoken, Father Joseph marched up to John and smacked him, once and then twice. After muttering something John was too feeble to understand, the priest stormed out. John was left with his cheek burning and his soul frozen.

  On their way home from Charles Street jail, satisfied that John hadn’t suffered any serious injury, Dr Fitzgerald started:

  “I can’t believe it, Johnny. All those poor kids in the neighbourhood, pickpocketing… stealing in shops… I can understand them ending up at Charles Street jail. But my own son? For sweet Jesus, you’ve made it through Harvard, everyone’s proud of you in West End; our friends won’t believe it. And I don’t want to imagine what Lisa’s father will say when he hears.”

  John could only nod, as his head drooped lower and lower. He wanted to get away, to disappear, but he couldn’t, “You’re right, dad, you’re absolutely right, but please stop.”

  Back home, after a thorough scrub, a desperately needed change of clothes and a warm meal, John sought refuge in his bedroom. Lying on his bed, nursing his bruises, gaping up at the ceiling, with its paint peeling like watery eyes, tears arrived. What the hell was he doing with his life? He was a Harvard University graduate, he had a loving girlfriend, a marvellous father and all his life ahead of him. But something was missing.

  His father had specialised in Hispanic literature at Harvard University and, for as long as he could remember, John had listened to marvellous stories told by an exotic array of visitors from Latin America. Let’s see, there were university lecturers, journalists, lawyers and politicians – yes, many exiled politicians. Some of their accents were difficult to understand, but John doggedly improved his Spanish. The Peruvians were his favourites. Could it be the books he’d read, the country’s history, amazing geography – long desert coast, snow-capped Andes mountains and tropical jungle – or its tasty, spicy food… his mouth watered. Lying on his bed, he smiled. Magical, he sighed.

  One day, John accompanied his father to a special dinner in Boston with Peruvian acquaintances. There must have been at least twenty people at the table and the honourable host was Juan Leguía, son of mighty President Leguía and visiting the USA. Only in his thirties, fair-skinned, dark eyes and clean shaven, his black hair was fashionably combed backwards and plastered down with hair gel, showing the lines of the comb running through. Juan was impeccably dressed, of course, in an expensive suit – looking like any successful Wall Street financier. Still, his real passion was flying aeroplanes: it was said he’d flown with the British in the Great War and his papa’s regime made him Air Force Colonel.

  Juan Leguía treated his guests to a glorious parade of lavish dishes and continuous flow of champagne.

  Despite the magnificent cuisine, John’s stomach turned as pandering guests clapped when Juan Leguía extolled the virtues of his father’s regime, ‘Patria Nueva’ – the New Fatherland – they called it. John squirmed when Juan smiled as one of his guests called his father ‘The Titan of the Pacific’, echoing an American diplomat, and another toasted to the Leguía regime’s next ten, no, twenty years.

  President Leguía resolved entrenched border disputes with neighbouring countries. Foreigners were enticed to invest in Peru. New roads linking remote corners of Peru to the capital, railways to export minerals and agricultural produce, irrigation projects magically turning desert into arable land, new housing estates for the growing middle-class – marvellous, absolutely marvellous, agreed the enthusiastic guests.

  Marvellous? John had heard otherwise. His friend Gerry worked on Wall Street and had told him Juan Leguía demanded so-called ‘arrangement fees’ for himself from bankers for increasing Peruvian government borrowing to finance his father’s spending spree. Government ministers showed off their new houses and latest cars. But, funnily enough, the Peruvian government was unable to pay teachers’ salaries. Well, they did pay them, eventually – this was how it worked: teachers were given IOUs promising payment at a later date, but provincial politicians offered to cash them for the poor teachers, with the regime thieves – yes, that’s what they were – keeping up to 25% for themselves.

  John had also heard stories of Peruvian Indians coughing out their contaminated lungs in American-owned mines high up in the Andes for miserable salaries and living in freezing tin shacks. Sugar cane croppers toiling from dawn to dusk, far from their families and indebted to agents who brought them from the Andes as cheap labour for the coastal haciendas. Anyone disagreeing with the regime was locked up or sent into exile, like some of Dr Fitzgerald’s friends.

  No, John couldn’t find it in him to clap at the marvellous achievements rolled-out by Juan Leguía about his father. Meanwhile, the champagne flowed and the parade of dishes continued. But all parties do end.

  John had grown up in a USA that enjoyed ever growing prosperity. And the New York Stock Exchange? It was the latest wonder of the world, with share prices rising towards heaven. Until, one day, Black Tuesday arrived. It was 29th October 1929. That day, hardly anyone went to class at Harvard. Everyone had their ears glued to the radio.

  Even Charlie, the Arts faculty building janitor, spent all day in his cubby hole, with his head in his hands, sulking he’d lost everything. How could a poor janitor have lost everything on the stock exchange, for Christ’s sake?

  With share values rocketing, Charlie wasn’t going to miss out. Instead of borrowing to buy a house he’d borrowed to buy shares, of course, like everyone else.

  When share prices plummeted on Black Tuesday, nobody understood why. Investors bleated and, like a flock of sheep, rushed to sell. Poor Charlie’s shares became worthless, but his bank demanded repayment of the loan he’d taken out to buy the shares in the first place. How on earth was he going to repay the damn bank?

  The week after Black Tuesday, Charlie didn’t turn up to work. He just sat on his bed, in his dingy little apartment, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. He was nearly sixty years old. He’d been working since he was a kid, twelve hours a day, often seven days a week. He’d never got married, his alcoholic brother had died years ago and he hadn’t heard
from his sister for thirty years. He was alone, barely able to pay his rent, his life savings gone and, now, hopelessly in debt. He looked up at the window as dirty dark clouds gathered. Trembling, he picked up the weapon and felt the cold metal on his forehead.

  For days, the neighbours complained of a terrible smell. They found Charlie lying on his bed, with the right side of his head blown out, his brains scattered all over the pillow and a rusty gun on the floor. Only John attended the funeral. Nobody else cared about poor old Charlie.

  John noticed those proud leaders of industry, who’d boasted about delivering prosperity throughout America and the world, stopped featuring on the front pages of newspapers or on radio interviews. They simply disappeared.

  President Hoover begged for calm; things would return to normal. Nobody believed him. Who could American citizens look to for leadership? Who could they trust? Americans felt as if they were aboard the Titanic, sinking fast.

  Banks didn’t have enough cash to pay depositors rushing to withdraw their savings. Many banks simply ran out of cash and went bankrupt. Following an insider tip from his patron, Mr Randall, Dr Fitzgerald withdrew his savings the day before his bank closed, never to reopen.

  Everyone became engulfed in the downward spiral towards ruin. The Great Depression had only just begun.

  And John Fitzgerald longed to travel and see the world. But, which world? The one he’d dreamed about or that almighty mess the world was becoming, very, very fast.

  Chapter 3

  In his Boston boxing club, Mick Faughnan punched the bag harder and harder. That bastard, Mr Kelly, owner of the grocery store where Mick had worked since he’d left school, hadn’t even bothered to listen to him – he’d just sacked him. What would his customers think of his establishment employing a drunken brawler suspected of manslaughter? No, Mick had to go – his apron was snatched from his waist and he found himself on the street, like a stray dog.

  But Mick was the only breadwinner at home. He didn’t want his little brother to drop out of school to work and his father, well, better forget about him – he was rarely sober enough to get out of bed, let alone work.

  As the hideous face of Mr Kelly fused into the punch bag in front of him, Mick kicked it with all his might – take that, you son-of-a-bitch. Then, two big arms appeared behind the punch bag, grabbed it and a towel landed on Mick’s head.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing, boy? I don’t want anyone in my gym who ain’t serious about training. You’d better come back another day. Besides, that guy over there wants to speak to you,” said his boxing trainer pointing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mick saw a balding man in a smart suit and silver tie smiling at him. Not again – that damn vulture, he thought. They always scented when someone was available to do their dirty work: collect money, deliver an unpleasant message or even rough someone up. It was easy money to be made – a lot if you took a contract to stick a knife into some poor guy.

  “Hi Mick, I heard you’ve had some trouble with that swine Kelly. What are you going to do now? How’s your dad going to pay the rent?”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Mick, wiping his sweaty face. But they both knew that ‘something’ wouldn’t come around; not for all the pleading to sweet Jesus. No, when you most needed him, it seemed Jesus didn’t listen. Perhaps it was Mick’s fault. Father Joseph had told the boys it was no good turning to God only when they were in trouble – they couldn’t expect anything if they didn’t follow the teachings of Christ every day.

  “Well, you know where to find me,” said the smiling vulture, as he walked out. Then, he stopped, “Hey, Mick, want to come outside to see my new car?” Mick just looked down and shook his head.

  Father Joseph had warned the boys to have nothing to do with the Irish mob. Once you were in their clutches, there was no escape – you were enslaved to them or ended up in prison, or even dead.

  Mick cursed at the thought of his family being evicted for not paying the rent. Damn it, he’d have to borrow money from his friend Gerry.

  After leaving school, Gerry had joined an investment bank in New York – Seligman, or some such name – as a runner on the Wall Street Stock Exchange floor. Somehow, he’d become well-off making complicated financial deals with borrowed money. Now, he’d even bought his own apartment and moved out of West End, into the centre of Boston. He’d got married and now had two kids. Mick couldn’t even dream of affording to get married. Gerry also had an apartment in New York, where he stayed on work days, coming back to Boston in his brand new car to spend the weekend with his family.

  Not again – Gerry shook his head as he fumbled for his wallet in his fashionable suit. He couldn’t let his friend down, but they both knew that Mick would never be able to repay him. They sat, sipped Gerry’s champagne and enquired about each other’s families. An awkward silence followed. They’d shared a classroom bench at school and mischief in the run-down building where they’d been brought up but, now, Gerry lived on another planet.

  When the money borrowed from Gerry ran out, Mick only had one way out. As he walked down the street, he looked up at the top floor of the newest building in the neighbourhood. When he arrived at the door, he raised his clenched fist to knock, then froze, cursed and, finally, knocked.

  The smiling vulture opened and, engulfed in a cloud of aromatic cigar smoke, and a pat on the shoulder, Mick was invited in. Mick saw a shadowy figure, with a gun protruding from his waistcoat, locking the door behind him. Yes, today he would like to see the friendly vulture’s new car.

  Meanwhile, Lisa hugged John when she heard the news – he’d just been offered a job in Harvard University’s library. He’d start putting books on shelves, helping old Jonesy – that glum, expressionless being labouring in the library reception.

  “Isn’t it great? In a few years you’ll get through your doctorate and I’m sure your dad will find you a teaching position at the university, somehow,” said Lisa, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Yeah, somehow,” said John, groaning.

  “Isn’t it marvellous?” said Lisa; but her smile melted when John sighed – what was wrong with him?

  Anyway, Lisa pondered how best to explain to her parents that John had a job – their condition to agreeing to her marrying him. It wouldn’t exactly be the job Mr Barrett considered appropriate for a young man to sustain his beloved daughter to the standard of living she was used to, and… yes, papa would find another objection, another line of defence against giving his consent… but she was determined. She fell asleep, dreaming about how she’d decorate their apartment. It would be small, of course, as they couldn’t afford more than a one-bedroom apartment, but it didn’t matter – she’d turn it into a happy home, welcoming their offspring’s pattering little feet. She smiled at the thought of a little grandchild thawing her father’s resistance. Could her dreams come true?

  The following evening, John joined his father and an excited group of Peruvian exiles for a drink.

  “Dr Fitzgerald, my friend, have you heard the news?” said an ecstatic deported journalist.

  “No. What’s happened?” asked Dr Fitzgerald.

  Smiles all around: after eleven long years, President Leguía’s authoritarian regime was over.

  News was sketchy – a coup d’etat had been staged, by an army officer called Sánchez-Cerro.

  “Who?”

  “Has anyone heard of him?”

  “Yeah, he’s not a senior officer but he’s been a troublemaker for years, hasn’t he… but toppling President Leguía… who could have imagined him doing that?”

  “So, what will happen now?”

  “Now is the chance,” said an exiled politician, “it’s time for Víctor-Raúl Haya and his APRA party.” Heads nodded.

  When the almighty storm unleashed by the Great Crash of the New York Stock Exchange developed into the global cyclone that was the
Great Depression, many governments, like that of Leguía in Peru, collapsed. One day panderers and idolaters bowed to mighty President Leguía, the next he was imprisoned, his house ransacked by an angry mob, and his supporters nowhere to be seen – the proverbial rats escaping the sinking ship. Peru was plunged into uncertainty.

  As days went by, John listened avidly to the Peruvian exiles in Boston and, as news trickled through about Leguía’s last moments in power, a picture emerged of how events must have unfolded.

  Surely, Leguía must have known he couldn’t hold on eternally. Yet in 1929, he had himself re-elected president once again. Still, he couldn’t have known the worst global economic crisis was just around the corner. And that was too much even for mighty, perennial old Leguía.

  Another plot – who was it this time, Leguía would have thought: Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro – hadn’t he promoted him just a few months earlier? Leguía had survived plots before, but this time he didn’t smile. He knew Sánchez-Cerro, his dogged ambition and his appeal to the plebeians.

  Leguía telephoned Sánchez-Cerro: time to negotiate. Negotiate? With a junior officer whom, not many years ago, he’d quite rightly dismissed from the army for plotting against him? Later, Leguía allowed him back into the army, assuming a grateful Sánchez-Cerro would owe him loyalty. He twisted his elegant moustache – how wrong he’d been.

  Sánchez-Cerro smiled when he was told President Leguía was on the telephone. Yesterday he’d have rushed to pick up the receiver and, with military discipline, carried out his president’s orders. But now, things were different. He was now in charge in Peru – or soon hoped to be – and he now had Leguía under his thumb. He clenched his right fist: the old man would now have to pay for past humiliations.