Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  Footsteps tapped on the marble floor of the palace, up to half a million people in two days, the news estimated. Jaime went to the palace to see Franco on the makeshift altar, just to make sure the old man was dead, and Jaime suspected he was not the only one. He stood with his bandaged hands inside his heavy black jacket; the collar pulled up around his chin over his bruised throat. His brothers stood in front of him in the queue, dressed much the same. Paco and Inés were there, without the children. Paco wouldn’t let his son or baby daughter see Franco’s body. Inés wore a black fur coat, much like her mother’s chocolate brown one, the same Consuela had worn to meet Franco almost twenty years ago. José once again wore his full Brigada Especial uniform, dark green, sharp cut, laced with accolades, medals on his chest. He held his dark green hat under one arm, a handkerchief in the other. Jaime had never seen his father so despondent, so broken.

  The moment they stopped before the coffin, José dropped to his knees, his arms outstretched. Consuela stood behind her husband and made the sign of the cross, tears on her cheeks. Jaime threw a glance to Pedro, who frowned. Could José get up again? He wept openly and muttered a verse from the Bible, maybe for Franco, perhaps for himself. While several guards stood nearby, they didn’t usher José away, as they had for several women who earlier collapsed. It must have been the uniform that kept the eager guards at bay. Jaime noticed the flash of cameras and assumed it was because Paco Beltrán was at the coffin. He knew Paco wouldn’t like it; the torero was hiding in a right-wing family, but it was obvious he didn’t agree with anything José did. Pedro stepped forward and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder.

  “Come, Padre, it is time to move.”

  José didn’t budge, and Luis grabbed his father’s other arm, and the pair pulled José to his feet. Both he and Consuela were in tears, but José wept like a lost child. He needed to be almost shoved away from the coffin so others could weep for the monster of a man. Jaime stole one last glance as they inched away; Franco was a tiny man, bald, his skin grey, his once-thin moustache long gone, his hands contorted like a spider’s legs. Francisco Franco was finally dead.

  Standing on the street as the coffin passed by froze Jaime’s tears. His tears were for Alazne; she was gone. She packed her things and fled Rebelión as soon as Jaime requested it. Jaime didn’t want her to go; in a short time he felt, not love, but something for her. Something that wanted to keep her close. She ran from Rebelión while José wept for Franco, distracted from his anger and desire to kill her. José’s grief had also stopped him from wanting to inflict more pain on his son. Now Alazne had gone and would get that abortion. But where had she gone? Jaime feared he would never know.

  It wasn’t much warmer at Paco and Inés’ new house in La Moraleja. Fortunately, the new suburb felt a million miles away from Madrid and all its pageantry. José didn’t wish to stand out on the street and watch the new King and Queen parade through the icy streets. Instead, they crowded around Paco’s fancy new television, on the bare floor with just a few seats that belonged to the builders of the house. José had insisted they watch of the coronation the King there; a new era to celebrate in the new house. Paco and Inés would drive back to the city and see the procession from the Cortes to the palace, but Jaime couldn’t care less either way. Everyone asked where Alazne had gone, and Jaime just shrugged. While the rest of Spain had felt one way or another about the death of Franco and the new King Juan Carlos, Jaime felt despondent about one person, and everyone knew it. José hadn’t looked at his son, but Jaime knew, under José’s irrational grief, he was still fuming at him. They would have to talk about the pregnancy bombshell at some point.

  “Are you okay, Jaime?”

  The sound of his sister’s gentle voice broke Jaime from his spell. Inés stood there with baby Sofía on her hip, the child dressed in black. Inés had her golden brown hair swept back, her makeup neat, but she looked tired.

  “I’m okay,” Jaime mumbled from his spot on a cheap couch placed near the television. The house was in a state of suspension; they had finished the painting and floors, but with no kitchen or furniture, Paco and Inés couldn’t move their family into their home. But Paco had insisted on an expensive TV, the flashy bullfighter he was. The entranceway already had a bull’s head mounted on the wall.

  “Did Alazne say when she will be back?”

  Jaime shook his head and considered a cigarette. “Never, would be my guess.”

  “You like her.”

  A sheepish smile graced Jaime’s dark face. “Yeah, I do.”

  “It’s been a crazy few days.”

  “It’s been a crazy few months. There will be more, too, no doubt.”

  “Always is. What do you think of the new King?” Inés asked.

  “If he is dedicated to Francoism, the way the Movimiento, the government, want him to be, then we’re all fucked.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  “It’s too early to speculate on the future, Inés.”

  “Since Franco’s first heart attack on October 22, the stock markets have been thriving.”

  “You are an interesting woman, big sis.”

  “Can’t I be interested in the world and be a mother? Just because I married a bullfighter doesn’t mean I just stay home and sit in front of the mirror, or care for the children. I have a brain.”

  “Then what do you think of the new King?”

  “Juan Carlos seems nice enough, I suppose. I like that he didn’t give a fascist salute at Franco’s speech you and Papá went to see. His wife Sofía didn’t either. Their children are sweet.”

  “You sound like a wife and mother again.”

  “Shut up! I’m reserving my political decisions for now.”

  “Quiet, the pair of you,” José boomed from across the room, where he stood in the doorway, his stature stiff like a soldier. “The King is about to be sworn in and you gossip like old women.”

  Cayetano walked over to his grandfather and took his hand. “What’s wrong, Papí?” his little voice asked up to the towering man.

  “Nothing, mi pequeño,” he said and scooped the boy into his arms, already a different man. “You will be King, yourself, one day,” José said to the boy, dressed in a suit so starched the boy of six could barely move. “You will be King of the Beltrán Morales empire.”

  “I will be a bullfighter,” Cayetano replied.

  “Yes you will. It’s your destiny.”

  The room hushed as the screen showed the fuzzy image of Juan Carlos, and his wife Sofía, on the circular stage on the Cortes; the parliament all stood in respect. At the front, over the large red and gold tapestries paraded on the floor, sat the royal crown and sceptre, made with gold, too heavy to be even worn or carried. No one had used the crown in almost 300 years. A man dressed in a morning suit announced Juan Carlos Bourbon y Bourbon onto the stage. The man who would be King wore his military uniform of green, with a blue sash across his chest. A bright red sash around his waist signified his control over the army. Juan Carlos’ expression spoke of little, a sombre face on a serious day. His wife, Princess Sofía of Greece, wore a magnificent gown of bright pink, and their children, two daughters and a son, sat behind their mother. The stage filled with members of the government and military.

  The room sat quietly as Juan Carlos swore the oath of fidelity to Spain’s laws and the principles of the Movimiento, the controlling powers of Spain. The whole process took less than a minute.

  “… from the emotion of the memory of Franco, Viva el Rey, Viva España!”

  The Cortes erupted into clapping and shouts of ‘Viva!’ though the new King looked very reserved as the national anthem played. Jaime wondered if those were tears in the young man’s eyes.

  “From the emotion of the memory of Franco,” José repeated, as if the country was saved through the new King.

  Juan Carlos made his speech. To Jaime, it seemed stiff, as if the King seemed too eager to appease so many people. Also, as if he restrained his ideas f
or all those surrounding him. But what he said seemed positively daring!

  “This moment of dynamism and change demands a creative capacity to pull different and desirable opinions into a common goal.”

  As the King spoke, Consuela’s face turned to a dark frown. “He means to change our country,” she mumbled.

  José pointed at the screen as the new King spoke of his father, who hadn’t yet endorsed his son’s position on the throne, and spoke of learning the concept of duty from his father and family. “See? The concept of duty came from his father. You should have listened to what I told you, Jaime. You could be a good son like Pedro or Luis if you listened to me.”

  Jaime didn’t say a word, and neither did anyone else. King Juan Carlos carefully, gently, quietly promised to make changes. The applause to his words seemed more reserved than expected. A few minutes in, and the man to rule the nation had already shaken the evil foundation the government was founded upon. “Spain could be a democracy,” Paco said.

  “We could vote like other countries do,” Luis added.

  “That would be something,” mumbled Jovana, a quiet woman who barely said a word in José’s presence. She had stayed behind to care for Cayetano and Sofía during the coffin viewing. “Imagine the transition Spain could go through now.”

  “No talking of such nonsense,” José snapped.

  “Maybe we will be a democracy,” Pedro stood up for his young wife. “Heads of State are attending Juan Carlos’ coronation today, but not Franco’s funeral tomorrow at Valle de los Caídos.”

  The words made José go red in the face, but he said nothing.

  “King Juan Carlos doesn’t have absolute rule,” Paco added. “He wants justice and less corruption.”

  “That will be a cold day in hell,” Jaime muttered.

  “You better leave now if you want to see the procession of the new King and Queen,” Luis reminded Paco. “It’s a twenty-minute drive back to the city. Even all the pageantry won’t wait for a bullfighter.”

  Inés stood up to join her husband when a loud bang pounded on the front door. “The gate is locked,” Paco frowned.

  “No, I left it unlocked,” José said, and went to answer the door.

  “It’s strange for someone to come here,” Inés said. “We haven’t even moved in yet.”

  José returned with two men, both tall and in dark uniforms. They didn’t bother to remove their stiff caps and stood with clasped fists at their sides, intimidating and aggressive.

  “Jaime Morales Pena,” one of the men barked through a rough voice with no soul.

  Jaime sat up straight in his seat and looked around the room. “Me?”

  “Jaime Morales Pena, you are under arrest.” Without another word, the men stepped forward and grabbed Jaime under the arms as he tried to stand.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Paco cried.

  “Paco!” José bellowed. “Stay out of this! Jaime has to pay for what he has done!”

  “What have I done?” Jaime squeaked, sweat dropping from him in an instant, the hands around his arms tight and menacing. His hands, cut by José’s shovel, burned with pain.

  “A suitcase belonging to you was found at the scene of a murder in Valencia on Sunday 29 October,” the second man, slightly shorter and less bullish than his partner, stated. His thin black moustache wiggled when he spoke. “You are wanted in Valencia on the death of this man.”

  “I didn’t kill Apolinar!” Jaime cried as he watched his sister’s face wrinkle with horror.

  “So you know this dead terrorist?” José accused his son.

  “Did you turn the police onto me, Padre?” Jaime asked. His throat had gone dry, and every word shook as it expressed his panic. “I have done nothing wrong. I went to Valencia to help a friend.”

  “Alazne Mariñelarena is a terrorist with GRAPO,” the larger officer responded. The wrinkles around his eyes showed a hint of a tan line, which meant he was from out of town. It was too cold around Madrid to gain any sun.

  “I can explain myself,” Jaime said and tried to move his arms from the officers’ clutches, but all they did was squeeze his limbs tighter.

  “You must do that in Valencia, Señor,” the older officer said and pulled Jaime to the door.

  “José, please do something,” Consuela cried to her husband. She had pulled herself from her seat, but she looked weak with panic, and Jaime couldn’t do anything for her. “They can’t take our son. We are good people. What’s the point of having connections if you can’t protect our son?”

  “Jaime is about to get what he deserves in Valencia,” José replied, and grabbed his wife. Consuela cried against her husband as the two men pulled Jaime from the manor door. A car waited on the gravel driveway, the gates to the property open in the distance. “Enjoy the coronation, did you, boy?” the moustached officer asked Jaime as he got handcuffed and shoved the back of the vehicle. The seat looked covered with what Jaime suspected to be dried blood. “There won’t be any fancy colour televisions where you’re going.”

  Jaime glanced out the window, and saw his family on the dusty doorstep of the new house, tears on Consuela and Inés’ faces. Paco ran to the car window, open just a fraction. “I’ll help you, Jaime; anything you need, you can count on me.”

  Jaime began to cry as the car pulled away. A real father, a good father, wouldn’t do this to his son, or so Jaime had thought.

  36

  Madrid, España ~ Junio de 2014

  “You see? This boy is only a year older than you, Caya, and now he will run a whole nation!” Paco sat in his armchair in front of the television at La Moraleja, his feet up on a white leather ottoman. Paco waved his hand about, as if wanting a cigar between his fingers, something Luna wouldn’t allow, indoors or out.

  “Well, in that case, it’s your fault I’m such loser. Papá, you haven’t even given me a country to rule,” Cayetano shot back at his father, his voice laced with humour.

  “You just look after your wife,” Paco gestured to Luna, seated next to Cayetano, on the couch. “Luna is still disappointed you haven’t taken her to Madrid today to see the new King and Queen.”

  “Preciosa, you’re not upset, are you?” Cayetano asked his wife and took her hand from her lap. “We would stand there in the crowds for hours and then see them drive past, a split second opportunity to take a photo and wave the flag. Anyway, you see more on television. Besides, this royal couple is more visible than ever; they will be other opportunities, and you met King Juan Carlos in Mallorca just weeks ago.”

  “I’m not annoyed,” Luna smiled. Giacomo and Enzo sat on the grey rug, throwing bits of popcorn in each other’s mouths while waiting for the coronation ceremony to begin. “Any day when Paquito and Scarlett take a nap at the same time is a great day to stay home. Brave parents take their kids out when they’re tired, smart parents stay home.”

  “Anyway, you’ve been at all these rallies with Sofía, calling for reform,” Paco added.

  “All the protesting and flag-waving in the world wouldn’t stop this succession from taking place,” Luna sighed. “Besides, I like Felipe, he’ll be a good King, and his father was a great man and gave Spain democracy. No, the monarchy hasn’t been perfect, but Juan Carlos’ son will have the same role, the same power, and hopefully healthy attitudes for the future. All we can do is hope the future will be brighter, but no matter who the King is, Spain is still Spain. Troubles don’t just melt away. Spain needs to ditch the government first.”

  “So your plans aren’t that ambitious,” Cayetano joked.

  “I’ll leave changing the government to Sofía in Valencia. I will concentrate on the historical memory association, myself.”

  “Good idea,” Paco said, and sat back in his armchair, his arms folded over his starched navy shirt. Paco looked tired, far more so than usual, but they had just returned from southern Spain the previous night. “Don’t let my son, or anyone else, tell you it’s not a worthy cause. Luna, you have helped familie
s, ours and others, and now you can help even more.”

  “Except for the tiny fact Jaime isn’t speaking to us now,” Cayetano retorted.

  “Jaime needs time, as will Pedro and Luis,” Paco said, his voice dry and resigned.

  “But we did nothing wrong,” Cayetano argued.

  “Jaime has discovered they’re adopted. Even under proper circumstances, it’s hard to take. I took a while to understand my adoption, and I had best-case scenario regarding mine. Jaime and the others come from a murky background, the adoption darker still, and now the truth is out, and it’s ugly. Thanks, Luna, for letting me stay here while Jaime gets used to the idea. The mood is ice-cold at Rebelión,” Paco said.

  “Of course; if you need time away from the Morales’, you can stay here as long as you want. You bought La Moraleja, built it to what it is today. It’s your home, Paco.”

  “Nonsense, I gave it to my boy; that was always the plan,” Paco told her. “Inés and I bought this as a folly; I was young, rich and wanted a luxurious home near the city. We could raise the children here, and they could go to a fancy private school and learn English. But Caya still could become a torero, training at Rebelión just an hour away. Yes, this home is enormous and dramatic but it was always to be given to Caya so he could do the same for his family. But if you don’t want to live in Madrid, and I realise you don’t, Luna, please sell this place. Rebelión is the family home; it’s where the soul of the Beltráns and Morales’ live. La Moraleja is just a house.”

  “The house I grew up in,” Cayetano added.

  “Yes, but Rebelión is what’s important. Right now, Jaime is hurting, and soon so will Luis and Pedro. José bought Rebelión as nothing and made it the ganadería it is today, with an excellent reputation. José always intended to let Inés and I inherit everything, which always hurt the brothers. Now, they are adopted, and it must make sense since Inés was the only natural-born Morales child. Please, when I’m gone, make sure the Morales brothers remember they have a home at Rebelión, a life there.”