The Titans of the Pacific Page 9

  On John’s first day, the Plaza de Armas was quiet and deserted. As Buffalo’s truck rumbled through the streets, residents peeped out from their balconies, anxious for latest news of confrontation between strikers and soldiers. They had to be extremely careful. The day before, a girl who’d ventured out on to her balcony was injured by a stray bullet bouncing off the stone pavement and up through the balcony woodwork.

  Finally, they arrived at Hostal Zapata. Pedro had explained to John the lodgings had a bar and restaurant on the ground floor and rooms in the floors above: affordable accommodation for university students from outside Lima. Like many other modest buildings in the city, with their plain walls and simple moldings, Hostal Zapata still possessed that distinct vivacious Peruvian character with its bright coloured paint and detailed colonial touches on the protruding balconies.

  John and Pedro got out of the truck and bid a hasty farewell to Buffalo and Yolanda, as the night curfew was about to begin and they had to continue on their long trip north to Trujillo.

  John was sorry to see Yolanda go. She’d been a great travel companion on the long sea voyage. They agreed to write and meet again. As she got back into the truck, smiled and waved goodbye, John thought he saw a sparkle in her eyes.

  Anyway, as they walked into the hostal, they bumped into a smiling, lanky, dark figure.

  “Hello, Mr Yon… it’s a pleasure to make your equation. My name is Tony.” Tony Guzmán put his hand on Pedro’s shoulder and whispered, “Pedro, was that okay? Is that the polite way to greet Americans?”

  “Yes, yes, Tony. But you mean to say ‘acquaintance’ not ‘equation’. An equation is the maths you’re learning at night school, remember?” said Pedro giving Tony a friendly punch in the stomach.

  Tony Guzmán, of mixed African and native Andean Indian heritage, short hair and budding beard, was the waiter at Hostal Zapata. Well, waiter, bell boy, kitchen help – and cook, to anyone stomaching his concoctions – cleaner and whatever other jobs Mr Zapata could find for him.

  Tony had arrived on a truck from the south and a relative introduced him to Mr Zapata. He didn’t earn much but was allowed to sleep in the restaurant store room and not pay rent.

  “I have good news for you, Pedro. The president has just suspended the eviction laws for the unemployed and for students. So, if you’re behind with your rent, Mr Zapata can’t kick you out of your room and make you sleep in the store room with me,” said Tony, laughing loudly.

  “As usual, a lot of laughter but not much work – Guzmán, what do I pay you for? Go and clean that filthy kitchen… Ah, our new American guest?” Nicolás Zapata changed his tone on seeing a foreigner. Zapata imagined this must be John. Good, he could do with tenants who could actually pay rent, unlike poor students like Pedro, always paying late. If Pedro was going to work with this foreigner, as he said, maybe John could pay Pedro’s arrears.

  Zapata was a short, stern-looking man in his fifties. Clean shaven, with thinning grey hair brushed across his head to conceal looming baldness. John thought he looked as exotic as Tony. Later, curiosity got the better of John and he whispered in Pedro’s ear.

  Pedro scratched his head and replied, “When he can’t hear us we call him ‘El Chino Zapata’. You see, he’s part Chinese. We’re quite mixed here in Peru. I guess Zapata is mixed native Andean Indian and Chinese.”

  John nodded. He knew it was common to give people a nickname in Peru, often related to racial or physical traits. Yolanda had warned him to get used to being called ‘El Gringo’, referring to North Americans or fair haired people.

  Zapata had come to Lima from a village in the south and was soon introduced to the local Chinese community, always willing to help each other. Zapata had started out as a street vendor and then had run a roadside eatery, before opening the restaurant in Hostal Zapata with two partners he later bought out. Zapata hadn’t stopped there and eventually took over the whole building.

  As Tony prepared the tables for dinner, a man with a conceited smile came in, dressed in a fashionable cream coloured suit, matching tie and elegant straw hat with a ribbon. He was in his late twenties, fair-skinned, dark eyes and clean shaven. As fashion dictated, his dense brown hair was combed backwards and gelled down. By God, thought John, he looks just like Juan Leguía. Clinging to each of his arms were two giggly young ladies, draped in vogue.

  Zapata rushed to greet him, with an oriental bow, whilst pushing Tony towards the bar, “Quick, bring him his usual drink”.

  “Here’s that idiot Carlos Medelius again,” said Pedro, grimacing, “just because his family hit it rich importing domestic electric appliances, he thinks we should all bow to him.” They’d studied law together at university, but Carlos had finished before Pedro – the creep had probably bribed his way to his degree.

  Carlos soon spotted the newcomer and asked Tony to invite John over to his table – Pedro clearly excluded. John looked at Pedro: it was okay, he had to go and telephone his girlfriend, Carolina.

  After shaking John’s hand and introducing his female companions, Susy and Rosy, prying Carlos shook his head and gave Pedro a dirty look whilst he was on the telephone, “I’ll never understand why such a well-bred and attractive girl as Carolina de Piérola fell for a nobody like Pedro, the son of a poor, provincial army officer.” Susy and Rosy sniggered.

  “My grandfather arrived from Europe last century and my family have been successful businessmen ever since. I also devote time to La Nación, our most important newspaper,” said Carlos, informing John of his social status.

  John surmised the Medelius had benefited from the economic bonanza during Leguía’s presidency, but the international economic crisis had brought harder times. Carlos probably loved being seen in more exclusive establishments, but economic reality condemned him to frequenting modest Hostal Zapata instead.

  Carlos wanted to update John about current life in Lima, “You know, John, Lima is growing fast. It used to be neater, but we’re being invaded by waves of native Indians, arriving from the Andes looking for work. You can hardly set foot outside your doorstep without treading on potatoes or fruit that some damn Indian woman has laid on the sidewalk to sell. It’s intolerable.” The girls nodded.

  Carlos raised his eyebrows admiringly on hearing John would work with Professor Kemmerer’s mission, “Thank God the Americans help bring modern civilisation to Peru. If only there were more North Americans and Europeans in Peru, the country would really develop. The Africans and the Chinese work hard and are cheap to employ, but those Indians from the Andes…” he said, shaking his head, failing to find a suitably derogatory adjective.

  John felt a little hand tugging at his jacket. Turning around he faced a scruffy urchin, black hair and brown skin, with a dirty face and tattered clothes, struggling with a large wooden box – a shoeshine boy. He was probably eight years old, but his body wasn’t more developed than, say, a five-year-old in the USA. He was barefoot and limped.

  “Sir, I’ll clean your shoes. I swear they’ll look like a mirror when I’ve finished,” said the kid smiling. John sighed and shook his head – he’d already cleaned his shoes today. But the boy wouldn’t give up, “Please, sir, I haven’t eaten since yesterday…”

  “Go away kid, don’t bother us, we’ve got nothing for you,” said Carlos.

  Tony rushed to withdraw the boy’s hand from John’s jacket, “Come on, Juanito, don’t bother our customers – if you come back in the morning I’ll have a plate of something for you.”

  “You see, John,” said Carlos, pointing as Juanito left, “there are hundreds of kids like him, stealing and scavenging around Lima. You can see them tipping over restaurants’ rubbish bins, hunting for food. I feel sorry for them.”

  John was dumfounded as Carlos continued, “Did you see him limping? He’ll have polio. These Indian mothers have too many kids – if they can’t even feed them, no way can they keep them healt
hy. His father probably left his mother after he was born. They treat their kids like animals.”

  “Anyway, John, I’m available to help you. I’m well connected: I know important businessmen and government officials. These are the people you should meet – not this riff-raff,” said Carlos, giving dismissive stares at the likes of Tony Guzmán, Mr Zapata and, of course, Pedro-the-loser, still on the telephone with a blissful expression on his face.

  John had had enough of Carlos’ soliloquy and felt sorry for his two girlfriends, sitting there in silence. Susy and Rosy – daughters of a banker and a landowner respectively – looked very young, but trying to appear grown up.

  “Is one of them your fiancé, Carlos?” whispered John.

  “No,” said Carlos into John’s ear, “in fact, I’m more interested in their fathers – they’re the sort of people who can help you get on in life,” he added smiling.

  John had just arrived in Peru but everyone he’d met was pulling in a different direction. Yolanda wanted a better life for her family and fellow sugar cane workers on the hacienda way up north. Yet, what did she want for herself? Carlos and his family had done well but, with the crisis, wanted to secure their privileged existence, and to hell with fellow Peruvians. Buffalo wanted to sweep away the old world and build something new – but did he know what? Pedro wanted to be with Carolina, but struggled against old fashioned social barriers. And poor Juanito just wanted a daily plate of food.

  But, what about him? Like Pedro, John also wanted to marry his girl, Lisa; although not until he’d found what he wanted in this new world. But, hell, what did he want? He’d accepted Mr Randall’s offer to come and report to him on risks and opportunities of investing in Peru. He’d be working with Professor Kemmerer, advising the Peruvian government. Yet, John was not here for any of that. In his mind, and his heart, he too was being pulled in different directions. Where would he end up?

  Chapter 7

  As soon as it arrived, John tore the envelope open: Lisa’s reply to his first letter, posted from Panama.

  She did remember Yolanda from Harvard – always in the library, behind a pile of books; international law, maybe? She recalled a heated discussion between Yolanda and a professor about foreign companies not respecting local legislation, or something like that. John smiled: yes, sounds like Yolanda. Lisa found her charming and, from the tone of his letter, it seemed John did too.

  John’s smile turned to frown: No, she hadn’t passed Commercial Law – she hated it. She wanted to practise family law but pleaded he stop chastising her about needing to pass Commercial Law – she knew. Anyway, did John remember Jack Saunders from Harvard? That quiet little preppy – son of a Wall Street banker. Well, her father, of all people, had offered him a job in his law firm. No prizes for guessing her father valued Jack’s contacts more than his brains. Anyway, did John know when he was coming home? John sighed as he folded the letter.

  He looked at his watch – he was late. Professor Kemmerer was waiting for him: their first meeting. The Kemmerer Mission had set up headquarters in the Banco de Reserva del Perú, not far from the presidential palace. Kemmerer had advised many governments in Latin America and worldwide. He was treated like a Greek God descending from Olympus to admonish the mortals.

  John waited whilst smartly dressed bankers and government officials came and went from the professor’s office. Finally, he was ushered in. His economic eminence was a short man in his fifties, balding but with untidy white hair and thick, round-rimmed glasses – the typical image of an academic, like John’s own father. However, his light-grey suit was closer in value to Mr Randall’s than Dr Fitzgerald’s, and John surmised he spent more time in plush bank offices than university classrooms.

  Indeed, this academic had come down from his ivory tower to save Peruvian banks from crashing – like many in the USA and recently Peru’s leading bank: Banco del Perú y Londres – sorting out the government budget and, above all, give the Peruvian government his seal of approval to the lifeline of continued borrowing from international banks.

  After explaining the mission’s work, the professor paused and smiled when John gasped – he was beginning to feel like a fish out of the water.

  “Don’t worry, John, nobody expects you to become an economics expert. But you do have a key role to play: many mission members don’t speak Spanish. You’ll attend mission meetings with local bankers and officials as an interpreter, and help our people prepare and understand Spanish documents,” said Kemmerer, before ending, finger raised to emphasise the point, “You will not discuss with anyone outside this office, any mission documents or meetings.” John assented.

  The professor’s smile was warm and his demeanour approachable, but time was money. Short and to the point, the meeting ended when Kemmerer introduced Walter Van Heusen, who led John away, leaving the professor to deal with another batch of visitors.

  “Welcome aboard, John. I’m going to need your help: my Spanish is less than non-existent. Now, I’m the banking superintendent. Do you know what that is?” said Walter. John shook his head.

  “In plain speak, I’m the guy who inspects banks to check if they’re about to go bankrupt and confirms depositors’ money is safe. We don’t want any more messes like Banco del Perú y Londres, do we?” said Walter. John nodded – these guys were: yes or no, black or white; no room for academic debate.

  Kemmerer was a tough taskmaster. Mission members were at work by 8:00am and nobody left before 8:00pm. Often without a lunch break – dry sandwiches and strong, black coffee were delivered to their desks.

  Kemmerer had wagged his finger at his colleagues during a meeting: austerity, discretion and no press interviews. Carlos pleaded for news from John about the mission’s work: you know, something to publish in La Nación. No way, man – Kemmerer will kill me, replied John.

  Discretion? But gossip was rife amongst mission members, “Did you know the Peruvian government will pay the mission a hundred grand?… Yes, a flat fee of US$ 100,000.…That’s why the old man works everyone to death – the sooner we finish the job, the more money saved… If he gets paid that much by the Peruvian government, there’s no way he’s going to advise international banks not to lend to Peru… And everyone knows Dillon Read – the Wall Street investment bank – pay Kemmerer an annual retainer of US$ 3,000. You can bet he spills the beans to them… but listen, the professor will nail you if any of this gets out”. So much for discretion and independent advice, thought John.

  With all that tattle, John wondered what he could really believe. So, the eminent professor was no saint. Of course not – saints belonged in heaven, not on earth. In the end, it was only money that counted. Probity, reputation, image – reality and appearance blurred. And those Wall Street bankers – glorified buccaneers; just out to make a quick profit, like everyone else. And to think Gerry Murray had died for that.

  For sure Randall knew the score with the banks. He’d have used them to his benefit often. And now, his telegrams demanded news from John. In his daily work with Walter, John must have seen information concerning bank loans to companies, like Hacienda Chicama, and its owners, the Schultz family. No sir, nothing. You’re not looking hard enough, boy – you’ve got access to documents about that Banco del Perú y Londres fiasco. Okay, sir, I’ll see what I can find. Good boy, I’m waiting for your information.

  His head about to explode, with legal documents and banking correspondence coming out of his ears, John received Lisa’s next letter. Good – a moment of peace; a break from the harsh Kemmerer regime.

  Didn’t John have anything to write about except Kemmerer, Walter van Heusen, Banco del Perú y Londres, Wall Street bankers – how boring. What about life in Lima? Well, Lisa, I don’t really have much of a life: from Hostal Zapata to the bank and back to the hostal; dinner and a chat with Pedro, Tony and the other guys. No, honey, I’ve not seen Yolanda again. Why do you ask? I have exchanged letters with
Yolanda – but better not tell Lisa, she might get jealous. And, hell, you don’t stop writing about work too. I thought you’d sworn never to work with your father – but, okay, I understand they’re no other jobs around. Not only that, but he’s got you working with Jack Saunders on commercial law cases – not what you wanted. But good to know Jack isn’t the boring creep you made him out to be. Walter’s calling me over to help him with some documents – back to work.

  Good, thought John, Walter’s happy with that translation. Now, let’s see, Randall’s request. Yes, everyone in the team is wading through those damn documents about the bankruptcy of Banco del Perú y Londres. Let’s see: Chicama… Schultz… nothing. Shit; Randall won’t take ‘No’ for an answer. And, if any useful information is found, what can be disclosed to Randall? Who’s the boss, anyway: Kemmerer or Randall?

  An envelope landed on John’s desk – a letter from Yolanda: coming to Lima next week on Schultz business. She wants to meet up. Great – it will be good to see her again.

  No, nothing else to write about to Lisa but work, but at least there is some prattle that can be shared. Two guys from the mission didn’t turn up to work yesterday. Old Kemmerer went bananas. They said they were taking a day off to play golf as Kemmerer had made everyone work on Sunday. Can you believe it? And, what’s more, the prof gave in: no more working on Sundays and an hour for lunch break. Now, better not tell Lisa that Yolanda’s coming to Lima – she might take it funny.

  Forgot to say they’ve got this great cocktail in Lima – it’s called Pisco Sour. Really, it’s not sour at all. Can’t stop drinking it – great aperitif, or after a meal, well, great at any time. Its Pedro’s fault: he gets Tony to prepare them for us at the hostal.