Word: peruvian
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Javier Heraud Perez was a Peruvian of real promise. His father was a respected Lima lawyer, his older brother a brilliant electronics engineer doing postgraduate study in England, his family one of distinguished lineage. Two years ago, as a 19-year-old student of literature at Lima's Catholic University, Javier won acclaim as one of Peru's best young poets when he published his first volume, El Viaje (The Journey). In the world of the arts, he had many friends of the far left, but he seemed enough his own master to separate friendship from politics...
...Javier went journeying. His leftist friends offered him a free trip to Russia, and Javier accepted. When he returned, he fell in with a group of young Communist intellectuals who met regularly at the home of Poetess Matilde Marmol, cultural attache in the Venezuelan embassy-until last year, when Peruvian police discovered that Matilde, unknown to her government, was smuggling Communist propaganda into Peru. Matilde hurried off to Havana. A few months later Javier went too, as one of 90 Peruvian students offered scholarships in Cuba...
...scholarship covered courses at the Institute de Cine Popular, run by a Cuban professor named Alfredo Guevara (no kin to Che), who gave Fidel Castro some of his first lessons in Marxism. Javier lived at "Peru House," where the house mother is Che Guevara's exwife, Peruvian-born Marxist Hilda Gadea. For five months he wrote home faithfully, then the letters stopped...
...benches, or rather shelves against the wall, with his knees drawn up against his chin, and the coarse gray undershirt, which was his only garment, drawn over them inclosing his entire figure. He sat there like a sort of sculptured Egyptian cat or Peruvian mummy, moving nothing but his black eyes and looking absolutely non-human. This image and my fear entered into a species of combination with each other. That shape am I, I felt, potentially, Nothing that I possess can defend me against that fate, if the hour for it should strike for me as it struck...
...dream with my head at the point of my Peruvian knife...