The Titans of the Pacific Page 4

  Sánchez-Cerro’s smile turned sardonic remembering how Leguía had been called ‘The Titan of the Pacific’ by some flattering foreign diplomat – how stupid. He swore that Peru would soon learn what a real titan looked like.

  Leguía put the telephone down, after suffering the little soldier’s arrogance with as much dignity as he could muster. He stroked his shapely white moustache, considering his options. Not civil war – he couldn’t trust enough army officers to support him. There was no point in a futile massacre. And his family wouldn’t have enough time to escape. Who could he call? He bit his lip – none of his close aides or friends, who for years had lined their pockets with his patronage, would come to his side in time of need. He shook his head. He looked up from his desk and sighed – he was alone in his magnificent presidential office.

  Leguía called a meeting of his cabinet ministers. They listened aghast as Leguía announced his intention not to resist Sánchez-Cerro’s rebellion, avoid a bloodbath and resign the presidency before Congress. The ministers stared at each other and then, one by one, left silently. Leguía was again alone with his thoughts.

  All was lost but Leguía kept a stiff upper lip and, that same afternoon, donned his smartest attire and followed his scheduled visit to his beloved Santa Beatriz racecourse. Two of his own horses won their races – he smiled and gracefully waved his top hat to lukewarm applause. On his way back to the presidential palace, he heard shouting and even shots in the distance.

  In the early hours of the following morning, Leguía was woken up by a large group of soldiers, assembled outside the palace, demanding his resignation.

  Leguía got dressed, surveyed his regal surroundings for the last time and left the presidential palace unseen, through a back door, heading for the port of Callao. Yesterday, he’d been lord and master of Peru – The Titan of the Pacific. Today, he was creeping away before the crack of dawn, like a burglar after breaking into a bank overnight. Day and night. Power and impotence. Heights and depths of a distinguished life in a matter of hours.

  Hastily, he embarked on a battle cruiser – destination: Panama. He smiled sadly: none of his ministers, collaborators or so-called friends came to bid farewell as he went into exile.

  Sánchez-Cerro hadn’t arrived in Lima yet but ordered Leguía’s ship be prevented from leaving port. Old Leguía’s health started deteriorating but, still, he was confined in a navy jail on the island of San Lorenzo. Sánchez-Cerro showed no mercy and vowed that Leguia would remain in prison for the rest of his days.

  Two weeks later, Leguía was transferred from his island prison to Lima’s Central Penitentiary, together with his son Juan – his days of champagne-drenched banquets in New York now long forgotten.

  John had no sympathy for autocrats like Leguía, but couldn’t help reflecting on the fate of fallen titans, as he imagined what must have been going through the old man’s head.

  Alone in his dungeon, as he slowly lost consciousness, Leguía sighed, wondering why they hated him so much. He’d done everything he could to transform Peru from a backward to a modern country. He loved his country but despaired of his compatriots – they never deserved him. They bowed to the mighty but trampled on them when they fell. Now they called him a tyrant – only because he’d imposed order for so long. And there was no news from his foreign friends. Not a word from the USA embassy – after everything he’d done for those demanding diplomats and greedy American businessmen and bankers.

  Sensing the twilight of his life, the great little man recalled a remarkable career, for someone who was not born into the Peruvian ruling class.

  A child ran along a sunny beach in a town in northern Peru and stumbled, gasping with bronchitis. He grew up and worked as an accountant and in insurance, but entered a dark tunnel when he volunteered to fight in the futile defence of Lima during the disastrous war with Chile.

  He basked in bright sunlight again when he married the daughter of Henry Swayne, wealthy British immigrant owner of some of Peru’s best sugar plantations. His marriage unlocked the doors to the Peruvian ruling class and to their Civilista party, which had wrested political power from the army. The Civilista president made him Minister of Finance and, later, became the party’s successful candidate to president of Peru.

  When his first term as president ended after four years, he was deported by his political enemies. But when he returned to Peru and became president again in 1919, he was determined not to give up power. That is, until Lieutenant Colonel Sánchez-Cerro rebelled against him in 1930.

  As darkness closed in, Leguía smiled as he looked back. Peru had never had a president like him, ruling for as long as fifteen years. Throughout the country, statues of him had been erected and avenues named after him. Yesterday, everyone had feted him. Now, looking forward into obscurity, he was alone.

  In Boston, John’s father told him to be at his Harvard office at 3pm, sharp. He wanted to introduce him to none other than his patron, Mr James W. Randall III.

  Randall’s father had made a fortune importing bananas with his International Food Company, or IFC. Childhood had been comfortable, but his father soon drew him into his business. The boy wouldn’t be softened by home comforts. He soon learned that nothing in life was free, that although bananas grew on trees, money didn’t.

  Randall was a big man in his fifties, with a shiny bald head, and impeccably dressed – his suit would cost Dr Fitzgerald a year’s salary. He sported the prosperous belly of a sedentary businessman, whose only physical exertion was strolling around exclusive golf courses, closing deals. You couldn’t help noticing those keen eyes scrutinising you, but with an expression of stifled disinterest. Whenever he made the effort he could be a charming conversationalist, but with a short temper.

  After barging into Dr Fitzgerald’s university office, puffing an enormous cigar and showering him with ash, Randall bellowed about his pet topic:

  “For 400 years those damn European colonialists plundered Latin America and took their wealth back to Europe. That’s over. Now American companies will invest in Latin America to create wealth, jobs, and—”

  “… create a neo-colonial dependence where the new plunderer is the United States?” Dr Fitzgerald was an aging academic, with untidy white hair and thick rimmed glasses, and physically shrivelled by decades of poverty, but intellectually superior to Mr Randall and enjoyed challenging him.

  “Huh… Fitzgerald, if I didn’t know you I’d think you were one of those damn communists.”

  “But it’s not me saying it, Mr Randall, it was former United States president, Bill Taft, who said: The whole American hemisphere will be ours due to the superiority of our race.”

  “Listen, hard work, free enterprise, and the pursuit of profit – that’s what’s made our nation great. But now those communists.… they’re contaminating stupid little presidents all over Latin America with their evil ideas,” said Randall.

  “But—” said Dr Fitzgerald, as Randall ignored him and continued,

  “That man in Peru, Haya, is the greatest menace to business and prosperity in our continent. They kicked him out of Peru and he ended up in Moscow, listening to those damn communists. Now he’s travelling around Latin America preaching subversion against us. The name of his sect says it all: APRA – Alliance for a Popular Revolution in the Americas.”

  “Mr Randall, I know Víctor-Raúl Haya. I assure you he’s intelligent, devoted to his country and certainly not a communist. APRA is no sect. It’s a political movement with clear ideas about how to develop Latin America, distribute wealth more fairly and—”

  “Look, Fitzgerald, I admire you as an academic, you know a lot about literature, but you are… floating in the clouds at this university, far from reality. First it’s necessary to create wealth before it can be distributed. Those miserable countries only have poverty to distribute. Our foundation will help American businesses invest in Latin America and—�
��

  John marched into his father’s office, trying to look smart in his worn-out suit, and managed to catch the end of their conversation.

  “Is this your boy, Fitzgerald?” said Randall, puffing his cigar, as he turned to meet John’s smiling face.

  “So, young man, I hear you want to be a university lecturer like your father.” John nodded. “But first you need a doctorate, which you can’t afford.” John gulped in agreement. “And you have a pretty girl you want to marry, but first you need a job.” Randall seemed to know everything. “I might be able to help you” said Randall, as he engulfed John in a cloud of cigar smoke.

  “Here’s the deal: we want to invest in Peru, but we need to know if we can trust their new government. Will they stand firm against those socialists and communists? For years we had a man we could trust, a businessman: that President Leguía. But the idiot has thrown it all away and been kicked out by that soldier, Sánchez-Cerro. He’s not even a general for God’s sake, only a lieutenant colonel. How long will he last? And to make matters worse, people are going crazy about that man Haya. He’s a damn communist, in my opinion, although your father doesn’t agree.”

  John briefly switched eye contact to his father, who could only shrug, as Randall continued:

  “Our foundation is sending a mission of university professors and financiers to Peru to advise the government. Kemmerer’s an eminent man but can do with a Spanish-speaking assistant like you. He could help you get your doctorate,” said Randall, pausing to allow the proposal to sink into John and before launching into what most interested him:

  “What I will need from you is information about the decision makers in the new government and what is needed to get, how can I put it, favourable treatment for our investments. You’ll have help from our contact at our embassy in Peru: Peter Bush.”

  John’s chest was bursting with excitement at the opportunity to work with none other than Professor Edwin Kemmerer – the world-renowned ‘money doctor’ – economic advisor to governments. But, why choose him?

  “Young man, your father will explain the details. But, Fitzgerald, don’t fill the boy’s head with your fantasies. It’s business we’re after, not dreams.”

  John turned to his father once Randall had left, “Dad, sounds fantastic, but what’s really the deal?”

  “Come on son, let’s go for a drink. There’s a lot you need to know.”

  It was 1930 and ‘Prohibition’ ruled – the production and consumption of alcoholic drinks was illegal in the USA. However, Dr Fitzgerald had his favourite speakeasy bar where he could get a drink without much risk of a police raid.

  They looked around – no police in sight. A smart Italian-American opened the door, smiled at Dr Fitzgerald, and hurriedly locked the door behind them. They walked into a large hall and sat down at a quiet table. A waiter opened the first bottle and filled their glasses.

  “So, Dad, you were going to tell me what this Foundation is all about.”

  Dr Fitzgerald took a long drink, smiled and looked around, “This place – this speakeasy: it’s illegal sale of liquor. It’s run by the mob. Everyone knows it. The president of the United States knows it. He probably buys liquor himself, for Christ’s sake. But why does he allow his own laws to be broken?” John shrugged. “Business, John – its business. We live in the land of freedom and opportunity, but nothing will get in the way of business.”

  “Okay, but what’s it got to do with Mr Randall’s foundation?”

  “If big business does what it likes under our noses, what do you think they do abroad, in desperately poor countries where they can buy a whole government to, let’s say, cooperate with their business interests?”

  Dr Fitzgerald took another long drink, whilst John just stared at him, and then continued, “John, we love Latin America, its culture, its people, but for these businessmen it’s only money. They think it’s like our old Wild West was: steal land and cattle, kill Indians with impunity, sheriffs that turn a blind eye, laws that aren’t enforced.”

  Dr Fitzgerald looked around again and lowered his voice:

  “You know, John, Randall’s family have been in business for many years. His father first shipped bananas from Central America. Then bought bananas himself, to squeeze prices and cut out competing shippers. After that he bought banana plantations. And so, once Randall became a monopolist, he could coerce those banana republic governments to do what he wanted.”

  John learned that Randall’s businesses helped fund USA presidential campaigns – all for the benefit of ordinary folk eating good, cheap bananas. Randall wanted to be more successful than his father. Politicians owed him support and partners served his interests.

  “Randall demands his friends in Congress get the president to send in American marines to protect his business in Central America. He says Washington politicians plead for his money to help them win elections, and he expects a return on his investment in Capitol Hill.”

  “Umm… but what’s he got going in Peru?” said John.

  “Now he’s not only interested in bananas but also sugar – he’s talking of sending ships to Peru,” said Dr Fitzgerald.

  Once in Peru and in control of sugar, why not also control supplies of oil and minerals? During the prosperous 1920s, the USA had guzzled more and more oil for its growing number of factories and cars, and more copper for its increasing demand for electric cabling.

  “But the Foundation for the Freedom of the Americas is much more than Randall – oil, mining, banking, shipping… they’re the real backbone of the FFA. The big boys are happy for Randall to enjoy the limelight,” said Dr Fitzgerald.

  “So, is this foundation only about business?” said John.

  “No. For sure, the Foundation does much good philanthropic work but, clearly, its members are corporations driven by profit,” said Dr Fitzgerald.

  High on enthusiasm following Randall’s offer, John nodded, “Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”

  After another long drink, it was time for Dr Fitzgerald’s final advice:

  “John, I can’t deny Randall’s been good to me: I’d never have got where I am without his help. But with him it’s black or white: you’re either with him, all the way, or against him.”

  “Okay Dad, I’ve got it. Wow, work with Professor Kemmerer in Peru. Get my doctorate. Become a university lecturer, like you. This is the train I’ve been waiting for and I’m going to get on it.”

  Dr Fitzgerald hadn’t seen John so happy for a long time. He sipped his beer and changed the subject.

  The following day, John broke the news to Lisa:

  “Honey, isn’t it great? I couldn’t have dreamed of a better opportunity. I can start researching for my doctorate immediately and won’t need to take that boring library job. I’ll only be away for a year or so.”

  But instead of the warm smile and congratulatory kiss he expected, she stared at him and tears started rolling down her cheeks. What was wrong with her?

  “A year or so…? But we’re supposed to get married. We’ve been looking for a nice apartment we can afford… I’ve got my mother on our side and I’m going to work on my father as soon as we have a place of our own,” she said, and turned away, bursting into tears.

  As John struggled to think what to say, her tears dried up and she confronted him,

  “I should have known better: you never wanted that job at the library. It wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You always wanted to go off travelling around Latin America,” she said, whilst John could only shake his head, open-mouthed and gulped. Then, she pushed him away.

  “John, I can see it clearly now: you didn’t want to marry me… at least not now. And what do you expect me to do? Just wait until you decide to come back? And, if you don’t come back?”

  As she turned to walk away he grabbed her arm, with every conceivable thought going through his mind – he
couldn’t bare losing Lisa. He agonised to find the words that would make her stay. He pulled her towards him, embraced her and stroked her hair.

  “Okay, okay… it’s not like that. I love you and I do want to marry you… I’ll tell Mr Randall I can’t go to Peru. Perhaps I can help him from Boston or something.” Lisa stopped struggling to get away from him but continued sniffling and said nothing.

  He held her at arms’ length from her shoulders and looked into her eyes, but she looked down. Christ, she doesn’t believe me, he thought, so he tried again:

  “Lisa, look at me. I’ll go to the library on Monday and take the job. And this weekend we’ll go back to see that apartment you liked. The one on the top floor – although you said it would be a struggle carrying a baby all the way up those stairs. It won’t be a problem. I’ll take care of it…” he bleated.

  Now, she looked up at him. “John Fitzgerald, are you sure? You’re not kidding me, are you?”

  John looked at her, shook his head and she managed a smile. He kissed her and then kept her in a strong embrace, swinging her gently, for what seemed like an eternity.

  He sighed with relief – he’d done it. What the heck – he’d never meet another girl like Lisa. Only a fool would let her go. Yes, of course he wanted to marry her. As for the job in the library, well, it probably wouldn’t be that bad.

  Chapter 4

  In the days following Black Tuesday, when the New York Stock Exchange crashed, the radio told stories of investors who, having lost everything and suddenly finding themselves bankrupt, now faced disgrace, destitution and even prison.

  In the offices of investment bank J.W. Seligman & Company, in one of New York’s tallest skyscrapers, a cleaner mopped the floor and scowled, sensing doomsday.

  He looked up and saw a young executive – maybe Gene or Gerry – staring at a report on his desk, holding his head in his hands and groaning something like, “Christ, how could this have ever happened? What on earth can I do?”