The Scent of a Bullet

By Guzman Montero

The historical novel 'The Scent of a Bullet' is set in the 1940s, amidst a turbulent political climate in Costa Rica. The story chronicles the life of Don Pepe, who rises from his roots in a family of European immigrants to become a prominent entrepreneur and coffee grower. His foray into politics leads him through a series of misfortunes to exi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Percy Guzman Montero
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218413750

Book preview

The Scent of a Bullet

The History of Don Pepe

Percy Guzman Montero

Copyright © 2024 Percy Guzman Montero

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9798218413798

Cover design by: Art Painter

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication.

To an angel who never let me meet him. To my angels, who are not only angels but the beacons of my heart.

Preface

Don Pepe was born in the heart of a small rural town in Costa Rica, a descendant of European migrants. Intertwined with the turbulent events of the 20th century, his life weaves a fascinating narrative of ambition, struggle, and resistance.

This gripping tale takes us through time and space to delve into the life of Don Pepe, a man whose destiny intersects with the ups and downs of a Costa Rica in constant transformation. His story begins in the 1930s, an era marked by injustice and political chaos. With dreams of becoming an entrepreneur, Don Pepe is caught in the winds of change sweeping his country. His efforts to establish his business are hampered by Republican administrations, plunging the country into disorder and uncertainty.

Between 1944 and 1948, events unfolded that deeply impacted the nation. Although President Picado tried to prevent his name from being tarnished, Calderón, his mentor, became associated with the tumultuous events following the elections. The 1940s brought new challenges under the tenure of Dr. Calderón, whose government, although ending in 1944, left an indelible mark on Costa Rica. During this time, Don Pepe faced exile after courageously criticizing the government on the radio. This exile not only forged his character but also drove him to start a successful export-import business from his La Lucha farm, distancing himself from politics as the country plunged into turmoil. In 1942, the exile of Figueres set an important precedent in Costa Rican politics and in Don Pepe's life.

A critical turning point occurred with Don Pepe's prediction that Calderón would seek to cling to power in the 1948 elections. Calderón's greed and lust for power plunged Costa Rica into deep chaos, mirroring the global turmoil of the time and shaking the nation's foundations.

Don Pepe's story uniquely focuses on how an individual can be shaped by and simultaneously shape history. Through the lens of his life, we see a Costa Rica at a crossroads, struggling between past and future, tradition, and modernization. It's a tale of personal resistance against the backdrop of political turmoil, an exploration of how politics and personal history are inextricably linked.

Join us on this journey through Don Pepe's life and discover how his struggle symbolizes an entire country's quest to find its identity amidst historical turmoil.

Chapter 1: On the Threshold of Struggle

The journey from Cartago to La Lucha was long and exhausting, yet it proved worthwhile. We followed the route of the Inter-American Highway, a pivotal thoroughfare that carves its way through the imposing Talamanca mountain range, linking Cartago with Panama. After a three-hour drive, we reached La Lucha, a small town situated merely 12 kilometers from our ultimate destination, San Cristóbal Sur.

The road had seen considerable evolution over time. Initially, it was but a simple gravel and mud path, which later became a vital communication artery for the country's south. Its transformation into an international highway came after the war, under the leadership of Don Pepe, who, upon election for his second constitutional term in 1970, recognized the importance of connecting the two nations.

Navigating the Cerro de la Muerte, part of our route, was notoriously challenging. This dense, foggy, and rainy stretch of tropical rainforest has, over the years, claimed numerous lives, giving the area its ominous name. A lane of asphalt, marked by a double yellow line to prohibit overtaking, traverses this area. Despite regular maintenance to remedy landslides, some sections of the yellow lines are faded or entirely erased.

During foggy evenings, only lightning jacks serve as a guide for drivers due to the absence of street lighting. The journey begins in the plains of Cartago, ascending through the mountain range. It meanders through captivating stretches of cloud forest, offering panoramic views of the mountains bathed in deep blues. On one side, deep precipices plunge to 500 meters, while on the other, grandiose natural walls adorned with cypress, cedar, and oak, embellished with ancient moss and epiphytes like orchids and bromeliads, rise majestically.

Despite the route's inherent challenges, traveling this picturesque and demanding road is a singular experience. Each curve and stretch immerse us in the beauty and biodiversity of the region, underscoring the importance of valuing and preserving these natural landscapes.

Walking through the ethereal white clouds that emerge from the mountain sides is mesmerizing, akin to floating on a sea of cotton suspended in mid-air. In certain areas, the raw beauty of the rock walls and waterfalls, bearing testimony to the mountain range's geological history, captivates us.

As we proceed, we encounter small communities and farms dedicated to cattle raising, seamlessly integrated into the mountainous landscape. The air, permeated with the aroma of freshly harvested coffee, serves as a constant reminder of the region's significance in producing one of Costa Rica's most esteemed exports.

The road narrows, winding its way between valleys and mountains. The natural symphony of birds chirping and insects buzzing becomes our soundtrack. In the distance, mountain peaks loom, shrouded in mystery and clothed in dense greenery.

Advancing further, the landscape transitions into a lush rainforest. Giant trees reach skyward, while lianas and vines interlace with the lower branches, creating a breathtaking spectacle. In sections, the vegetation encroaches, forming a verdant tunnel that enchants us as we progress.

Despite the road's challenges and obstacles, our journey through the Talamanca mountain range immerses us in the stunning beauty and rich biodiversity of the region.

After two hours of navigating the main road, we spotted the entrance to the farm on our left, marked by a rustic sign for La Lucha National Park. As we approached, the security huts recently constructed yet traditional design, with varnished wood and a small, curiously reflecting mirror, caught our eye. Do you think we're being watched? Andrea asked, gesturing toward the mirrored window. Probably, I responded, eyeing the nearby sink, a reminder of the recent pandemic. Better wash our hands, just to be safe. The sound of running water momentarily broke the silence, blending with the whispers of the wind through the trees.

Waiting in front of the security post, we could hear the rustling of leaves crushed under the car's tires and felt the cold mountain air brush our cheeks. Surveying the surroundings, I noticed, approximately 50 meters from the entrance, the tranquil and serene cemetery of San Cristóbal, surrounded by tall, leafy trees. In its midst stood a singularly prominent tree, likely a fig, lending the scene an imposing and majestic air compared to its younger counterparts.

A security officer emerged from the booth, clad in a moss-green uniform with long sleeves and pants. His badge, displayed on his left sleeve, and his name, Officer Mora, embroidered on his chest, greeted us warmly, confirming that the estate was under ranger protection. Despite his uniform's wear from time, washes, and countless ironings, Officer Mora carried himself with a peculiar pride, perhaps rooted in his role as guardian of the residence of the country's last warlord.

As we approached, Officer Mora inquired about the purpose of our visit. Since this isn't a visit to the national park, I must request permission for you to access the house. Please, give me a moment, he said before retreating to the booth. Inside, he appeared to make a call while we absorbed the tranquility emanating from the fresh scents and sounds of nature.

Soon after, Officer Mora returned, informing us, You must pay an admission fee of 1,500 colones and wash your hands. The water's chill took us by surprise, eliciting a chuckle from Officer Mora, accustomed to visitors' reactions. He then shared a few insights, seemingly preparing us for our impending experience: In time, you'll understand why this area is so renowned. First, for the winding road that led you here, and second, for the bone-chilling cold, even freezing the water. But the real challenge is the rain: brief, intense, and unpredictable, like yesterday's downpour, he explained, pointing toward the farm's entrance. Be cautious on your return to Cartago; fog and darkness can render the road perilous. Many have fallen asleep at the wheel and ended up over a cliff, he concluded as he stepped aside to raise the access barrier, allowing us passage with our vehicle.

We soon began our descent towards the farm when Officer Mora, with a sense of urgency, called out to us, hurrying over. I neglected to mention something important, he said. The road you'll take is quite narrow and filled with sharp turns. The journey to the factory spans almost 3 kilometers. You'll pass two small entrances on the left. The first is about 600 meters from here, and the next, around 500 meters beyond that. Personally, I recommend you proceed to the second entrance. The first could prove tricky, especially after yesterday's heavy rain which we've yet to assess for terrain impact. The second entrance is not to be missed; it's right next to the Monument to the Fallen. From there, take the small street to the left, and within a few meters, you'll arrive at Don Pepe's.

The road descended steeply and vanished from sight about two hundred meters ahead. Although asphalted, it bore signs of wear, including multiple potholes. Its narrow layout, barely accommodating one vehicle in each direction, suggested that passing another vehicle without one veering dangerously close to the accompanying ditch would be impossible. The aftermath of the previous day's downpour was evident; leaves, mud, and debris littered the road. Locals reported that the rain was the heaviest in the last 25 years, always cautioning that, rain or shine, the threat of landslides loomed, potentially disrupting passage between Cartago and the southern zone. Miraculously, this time, there were no closures or collapses.

Passable, but bearing the scars of the downpour, particularly in the ditch designed for drainage and in spots where the water had seemingly overflowed, flooding parts of the road. These sections were now covered in dense, light brown mud, characteristic of the area.

Following the road as advised by the officer, we reached the second entrance, where we expected to find an imposing monument. Instead, we were greeted by the remnants of inclement weather. The concrete base, roughly two meters in diameter and enveloped in moss and weeds, suggested it once supported a larger structure, now reduced to mere fragments protruding above. The monument, situated beside the steep road, allowed us a closer look at its top, where an unidentified object lay in adornment.

We parked at the second exit to explore the monument more intimately and capture some photos of this enchanting spot. With caution, ensuring no vehicles were approaching, we leaped over the wall encircling the monument's base. Remarkably, the only area cleared of moss was a copper plaque, reading: Monument to the heroes who perished in these lands to uphold democracy. Slightly adjusting to the grass concealing an object atop the base, we uncovered what seemed to be remnants of a large firearm, likely a machine gun. Its size suggested it had been mounted on a vehicle, yet the surviving pieces were engulfed in rust and in deplorable condition, implying that the monument served more as a landmark for locating Don Pepe's residence than as a tribute itself.

The cold wind induced shivers, and the white puffs emanating from the car's exhaust highlighted the frigid temperatures. Opting for warmth, we returned to our car and proceeded to Don Pepe's house. The unpaved road, covered with ballast, appeared largely unaffected by the previous day's rainfall. Towering, majestic pine trees lined the route, creating an imposing tunnel effect. Intermittently, vibrant clusters of Chinese flowers in hues of pink, white, and red stood out against the backdrop of dry and fresh needles carpeting the ground. Though not arborists, we concluded these pines weren't native to the area. Later, a Google search confirmed they were strobus pines or Canadian pines, likely introduced in a reforestation project years ago.

A short distance ahead, a small hill emerged, blanketed in mud, and bearing tire marks from vehicles that struggled to ascend. We tackled the hill with minimal momentum, and roughly 25 meters to the right, atop another hill, a modest hut appeared, seemingly more inviting than the one at the main entrance, with three spacious, clear windows. An officer emerged, directing us to a parking space just behind the hut. Upon arrival, several four-wheel-drive vehicles sat parked on a stone slab. We aligned our car as instructed, only for the officer to shout, Not like that, park your rear end first!

Under the midday sun, we found ourselves amidst a scene seemingly plucked from another era. With the engine's hum still echoing, Andrea and I exchanged glances, a mix of excitement and curiosity in our eyes. This place promised untold adventures and profound immersion in nature.

With camping backpacks slung over our shoulders and thermoses in hand, we exited the vehicle. Our sneakers sharply contrasted with the official boots of the officer who awaited us. Dressed in a worn navy-blue uniform and tall leather boots marred by dried mud, his presence was commanding. The long sleeves and pants tucked into his boots, signaled his readiness for any jungle challenge.

Positioned at the threshold of the wooden hut, the officer hesitated before retrieving a worn-out logbook. Are you Andrea and Juan Pablo? he inquired in a deep voice. We nodded and approached.

Closer inspection of his uniform revealed a regulation revolver and a badge on his right waist, the Costa Rican flag proudly displayed on his right sleeve, and a blue cap adorned with gold embroidery reading Fuerza Pública. A patch on the left side of his chest bore the name Mora, reminiscent of the earlier officer we'd met.

Curious about the shared surname, I asked, Are you related? His reply was brief and cryptic: No, around here, we're all either Morita or Quirós. Without probing further, he gestured towards a nearby gate, Head that way, to the end of the road. Don Pepe is expecting you.

The sun's radiance began warming the air, though the brisk wind of San Cristóbal preserved a refreshing chill. We advanced towards the gate, eager to delve into the adventure that awaited us in this remote locale, where names like Morita or Quirós were common, and where Don Pepe awaited us, shrouded in mystery.

Expressing our gratitude to Officer Mora, we embarked down the narrow, steeply descending road. This path was markedly different from our initial route – more precipitous, narrower, and showing signs of damage from the recent rainfall. Large rocks obstructed our path, a stark reminder of nature's dominion here, confirming Officer Mora's caution about the first entrance.

We had barely covered 25 meters when we encountered two rust-coated, moss-green gates, aged and weathered by time. Along with the earlier monument, these gates seemed woven into the fabric of this place, serving a purpose beyond mere security measures. Welded letters midway up the gates drew our attention: The Eternal Struggle. While the left gate appeared fixed and shaky, the right stood ajar, likely positioned to deter direct vehicular access to the house.

Beyond the gates stretched an expansive plain, meticulously maintained and spanning roughly five thousand square meters. The carefully trimmed lawn beckoned us forward, its lush greenery offering a stark contrast to the uneven terrain we had navigated. Scattered Chinese flowers injected vibrant splashes of color into the landscape, and to our right, a fifteen-meter-tall wall dazzled with bright purple veraneras adorning its base, adding an explosion of color to the scene.

As we proceeded, the path transitioned into a more natural trail, seemingly well-trodden by someone familiar with every inch of the estate. Less than a hundred yards from the gates stood Don Pepe's main house, an impressive edifice that married modern sophistication with traditional charm, occupying the space where three or four more modest residences once stood – former homes of Don Pepe dating back to the 1930s, now erased from existence.

Constructed predominantly of wood, the rustic-style house sprawled across a single floor beneath a hipped roof clad in recently painted matte green zinc sheets. A river stone wall, rising to half height, encircled the property, complementing the pine or cedar woodwork that had been meticulously varnished and finished. To the left, an elongated, built-in garage stretched from the front to the back, sheltering a light blue Cadillac, a relic from a bygone era.

The house's front and right flank were adorned with a wooden corridor, seamlessly integrating with the overall architectural style. This corridor was beautified with hanging ferns, lending a touch of natural elegance. Two rustic windows, flanking the large front door and fitted with smoked glass, and handcrafted rocking chairs positioned in front of the right window beside a small table, seemingly awaited our arrival.

Doña Karen, her face alight with a warm and inviting smile, embraced us with an effusive hug and a cheek kiss. Juan Pablo, it's wonderful to see you and that you've come to lend us a hand! she exclaimed, her enthusiasm palpable. Her embrace conveyed genuine hospitality and heartfelt warmth. Upon noticing Andrea, her interest piqued: And who might your lovely companion be? Andrea, returning the smile, introduced herself: Pleased to meet you, I'm Andrea Calderón. The mention of the Calderón surname momentarily shifted Doña Karen's expression, who cast a probing glance at Juan Pablo, accompanied by a veiled jest about the surname: I hope you're not one of those Calderóns. Swiftly dismissing her own remark as a mere family jest, she extended a warm welcome to 'The Eternal Struggle.'

Doña Karen ushered us into the house, leading us through a spacious room and into a kitchen dominated by an antique wood-burning stove, its slender chimney piercing the ceiling. An electric stove provided a modern counterpoint. The traditional dishes are prepared on wood fire, the rest with electricity, explained Doña Karen. A woman with dark hair, streaked with gray and styled in a short crop, acknowledged us briefly before resuming her kitchen duties.

Exiting the kitchen, we entered an expansive living room bathed in natural light from large windows that framed spectacular views of the Talamanca mountain range. The room, large enough to accommodate several seating arrangements, was furnished with armchairs and chairs from various periods and styles, each narrating its own history. Accent tables, adorned with lamps of diverse designs, enhanced the cozy ambiance. Doña Karen invited us to make ourselves comfortable, explaining that Don Pepe was presently enjoying his customary siesta after an early lunch, much like a true peasant.

As we settled in, a bashful young man collected our backpacks, and Doña Karen requested Marielos, the lady in the kitchen, to prepare coffee and reheat some cheese tortillas. Feel at home, Doña Karen reassured us before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen. Seizing a moment of privacy, I inquired about Doña Karen to Juan Pablo. With evident affection, he disclosed that she was Don Pepe's wife, renowned for her humility and discretion, despite having served as the first lady on two occasions. She divided her time between the farm and their residence in San José.

Doña Karen, a woman of medium stature and somewhat younger than Don Pepe, possessed light blue eyes and skin that, while cared for, bore the delicate imprints of smile-induced wrinkles. Her elegant attire was complemented by a pearl necklace that matched her round earrings. The room's silence was punctuated only by the gentle whistle of the wind sneaking through a crevice. The cheese tortillas and coffee served by Marielos, coupled with the atmosphere of the place, reminded us that we were in a realm where time and history were intricately intertwined.

Chapter 2. Tracing the Steps of Don Pepe.

An hour slipped by silently since our arrival at La Lucha Sin Fin (The Endless Struggle). While savoring the coffee, specially brought for Don Pepe from some remote corner of La Lucha, our voices gradually faded, and the conversation turned into whispers amidst the majestic salon. We plunged into deep silence, letting the atmosphere envelop us, wondering if each piece of furniture and object decorating the room carried its own special story worth cherishing in this place full of mystery and significance.

What caught my attention the most, amidst this atmosphere of contemplation and reflection, were the countless books scattered throughout the salon, a living expression of Don Pepe's passion for reading. The books, in various languages and genres, were stacked four or five high in some places; others lay open, face down, suggesting recent readings. Next to some armchairs, piles of books reached notable heights, accumulating fifteen or more volumes. The titles ranged from novels to political treatises and works of philosophy, showcasing Don Pepe's diverse interests.

But it wasn't just the books that captured our wonder. The chairs, rockers, couches, small tables, and lamps that decorated the salon seemed to be silent witnesses of a story awaiting revelation. The rocking chairs, in particular, drew our attention. They were rustic and natural-looking, worn by time and use, yet still offered a certain comfort. Andrea added, with a touch of humor, I don't believe any of those rocking chairs are very comfortable. The wood it was made from seemed to have been directly harvested from the estate, adding a handcrafted, natural touch. Each rocking chair was rustic and simple, consisting of two sides joined by a backrest, with a leather seat at each end. The leather on the backrests and seats had softened with years of use, making these chairs more inviting. They possessed a classic style, without excessive adornments or elaborate details, reflecting the simplicity and functionality that characterized all the furniture in the house.

Each of these elements seemed to tell its own story in this corner full of mystery, and it was evident that Don Pepe held a deep appreciation for the tradition and history manifested in every corner of his home. The silence in the salon seemed to revere the wealth of history and culture treasured in every book and object, creating an atmosphere full of meaning and mystery.

The door to our right creaked softly open; we both looked almost simultaneously following the sound. Don Pepe, aged, appeared from the doorway, stooped, slowed by the years, each step calculated to prevent a fall, appearing vulnerable yet still unbeatable. His prominently receding hairline, aided by the uneven loss of hair and his characteristic slicked-back hairstyle with gel, his aquiline nose - a common trait among the Figueres - made their appearance. He descended the three steps slowly and sideways, ensuring his foot was completely on each step while leaning on a finely carved and varnished cane, similar to most of the wooden structures on the estate.

The three steps were accompanied by a small railing, which Don Pepe also used to prevent falling; this was his main fear, and he always said: If I fall and break something, for sure I'll end up in a hole, at least I already have a place to be buried. Right behind Don Pepe was a person in a striking knee-length white dress, ensuring Don Pepe descended the steps safely. By gently taking his right arm, they ensured he reached the last step without trouble. Upon reaching the last step, his companion, who seemed to be a nurse or someone who accompanied him daily, disappeared without a word, closing the door.

Don Pepe walked slowly but surely along the path he almost knew by heart, probably treaded after each of his inevitable siestas. From the last step to the central window of the salon, in just fifteen or twenty determined and short steps, he stopped in front of the window, his back to us. Placing both arms behind him, leaning on the cane, he sighed deeply as if inhaling the essence of the house. He seemed unaware of our presence.

Don Pepe was dressed in rustic elegance. His dark grey corduroy pants, with two front pleats, were impeccably ironed and fell gracefully to the hem, just above his black leather sandals, fastened with a strap that hugged his heel, ensuring they wouldn't slip. Thick grey wool socks protected his legs from the estate's cold, contrasting with the pants. Over his beige shirt, he wore a hand-knitted dark brown wool sweater, with three unbuttoned buttons, revealing a glimpse of the shirt beneath. The pants, fastened at waist level, were kept in place thanks to a black belt, apparently made of the same leather as the sandals, which encircled his waist, passing through the belt loops. A last hand-made hole in the belt's buckle suggested Don Pepe had lost weight recently, a detail not unnoticed.

Don Pepe, albeit his age, still exuded the same energy and submission of his younger years, although he no longer left the house, and appeared dressed for a special occasion. Later, through one of the house employees, we would learn that Don Pepe loved to bathe early, wake up bright and early, as he used to say. He drank a strong, hot black coffee, without sugar or milk; he used to say: coffee isn't coffee if you add sugar or milk, coffee is more for smelling than tasting. He drank his coffee from a brass mug he used solely for this purpose and didn't like it to be washed frequently to preserve the coffee's pure essence. This mug had accompanied him for several years, ever since on a visit to Doña Fogita's house, he managed to sneak it away without anyone noticing and brought it back with him to La Lucha.

After his coffee, he showered with cold water to wake up the body and dressed as if he still had the countless commitments that had accompanied him for most of his public life, which had now vanished. He always said that he killed two birds with one stone by showering and brushing his teeth at the same time, hence he loved to bathe after breakfast. The little coffee was always accompanied by a couple of hand-patted tortillas and scrambled eggs with onion and a little salt. He really liked the onion finely chopped and sautéed with the eggs. He did not usually eat bread regularly because he said it inflated his belly, only on rare occasions did he request a sweet bread bun or some cookies to enjoy with an afternoon coffee.

Don Pepe used to wake up just before the sun rose, around five in the morning or even earlier. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds to fully wake up because he said that if he stayed in bed, he would fall asleep again. Although Doña Karen always claimed she had never seen him wake up after five in her life. By the time the sun was fully up, he already had his boots on, ready to go out and work on the estate.

A few seconds later, the silence of the salon was broken. As he lifted his cane and pointed downward, he seemed to be pointing to something to his right, beyond the enormous pines. He asked us, The factory and the plant are down there, have you been? Without letting us answer, he turned around and approached us. I wondered if we were sitting in his usual place, so I simply asked, Do you want to sit here, Don Pepe? He shook his head, moving only his face and lips. Then he approached one of the