Iberia

by James A. Michener

  To the outsider it is perplexing that so many elements in Spain should remain so loyal to an institution that has served her so poorly. For a monarchy to produce a superior form of government, it must discharge certain technical functions, and the British and Danish monarchies, which Spaniards so often cite in defense of the system, have done so, but not the Spanish. Monarchy should provide an unbroken sequence of leadership; but twice in Spain the royal family died out, subjecting the country to the perils of a contested inheritance in which foreign powers become involved. It should provide for an orderly transfer of power at the death of a ruler; but in Spain numerous wars of succession have resulted when the inheritance was questionable, as in 1475, 1520, 1700, 1835 and 1875, to name only a few. It should unite the population behind a symbol; but in Spain it has had the opposite effect, as in the savage divisions of the Carlist period. And it should provide competent if not brilliant leadership; but in Spain it has thrice propelled mental defectives to the throne, as in the case of Juana la Loca, Don Carlos, son of Felipe II, and Carlos the Bewitched, and on numerous occasions it has installed protracted regencies, as in the case of Isabel II and Alfonso XIII. In spite of such a delinquent record, Spain today looks sanguinely to the reestablishment of her monarchy, even though the new trial will begin with three different men contending for the throne. To prophesy success for such a shaky venture requires hope rather than logic.

  One Spaniard spoke for the many who had doubts: ‘It’s one thing to keep a royal family installed in a country like Denmark, which already has it. Quite another to introduce a king into a nation which doesn’t. If Spain brings back a nonentity like Juan Carlos he’ll rule for about twelve years. He’ll side with the landed families, meddle in government and be disciplined by the army, which will then establish a dictatorship in the Primo de Rivera mold. I see no merit whatever in reviving the monarchy.’ I asked him what alternative he saw, and he said, ‘A one-party state, with liberal safeguards. Power in the hands of a cabinet, pretty much as we have now. More and more, the leaders are coming from the new industrialists. What I’m saying is, a continuation of what we have now with logical improvements.’

  Another man explained the prevalence of articles favorable to the monarchy: ‘A whole lot of Spaniards visualize the return of the monarchy as a chance for them to shine in an archaic court life. They see the peasants kowtowing to them, carriages drawing up with footmen, titles and prerogatives, castles and sweeping gowns, as if that was what Spain needed today. So they support the concept with articles and books in hopes that when the restoration comes they’ll have a part in the court life, no matter how trivial.’

  Three different men in three scattered parts of Spain pointed out something I had not formulated for myself. To lead into the generalization they reiterated a truth which I already knew, ‘It’s a sad fact that during the nineteenth century no Spanish-speaking country on earth learned how to govern itself effectively by a system of ballots. We’re a people of such mercurial temperament that the two-party system is quite beyond our capacity to handle. Spanish countries require a one-party state, something perhaps like Mexico’s, although I deplore her attitude toward religion.’ Then came the surprise. ‘You norteamericanos haven’t liked Franco, but have you noticed how many travelers to South America report that they were told in Argentina or Uruguay or Bolivia, “What we need here is a Generalísimo Franco”? Believe me, when people from South America see how we achieved balance and peace for more than a quarter of a century, they yearn for the kind of stable government we have.’ In succeeding months I watched the Spanish newspapers, which carried numerous stories of this type; many were suspect, because Spanish newspapers subservient to the Franco regime had sponsored the reporters who had dug up the quotes, but others appeared to be authentic. A good many South Americans, lost in the political confusion that seems to be the Spanish heritage, hungered for the hard, tight kind of rule Franco had provided the mother country.

  Guardia Civil.

  In Barcelona I heard a cautionary report. ‘This country is a boiling pot with the lid wired down. Coal continues to be thrown on the stove. Heat continues to generate. And the pressure of steam does not diminish. The army and the Church are going to try to keep the lid clamped down, but they’re not going to succeed, I do not think we can avoid major trouble when Franco goes.’

  Earlier I reported that whenever I asked the question ‘What will happen when Franco goes?’ almost without exception my Spanish friends replied that the transition would be both uneventful and peaceful; but when I got to know these people better, sometimes at night or after a long ride, it was they who raised the permanent question that hung over Spain: ‘Do you suppose there will be some kind of civil war?’ Apparently the problem was much discussed in private. I shall specify the types of persons whose answers I summarize.

  A top intellectual from Cádiz: ‘We’ve had twenty-five years of peace. It’s been a boon only an idiot would destroy. There will be no war.’

  A seminary student from Valencia: ‘The Church is so advanced in its social thinking that you wouldn’t believe what we discuss among ourselves. There is no need for war against the Church and there will be none.’

  Spokesman for a group of students in Barcelona: ‘I am worried. I see no sign that the government appreciates how determined the young people of Spain are to have more freedom. If we are refused it, there can be only one result. War is a possibility, but I pray that the government will see reason and take the simple steps necessary to avert it.’

  A rancher in Extremadura: ‘Let the Communists try. We learned how to handle them last time.’

  A strong anti-Communist in Córdoba: ‘I am frankly afraid. If there were serious trouble, or even war, I wouldn’t be surprised. Our government hasn’t done enough to win the working people over to our side. I see many signs that worry me.’

  A government official in Madrid: ‘War would be impossible … impossible. Can you imagine what the last one was like? No one would plunge this country into a repetition of that.’

  A literary man in Madrid: ‘Spanish history has an aggravating way of repeating itself. In 1833 when King Fernando VII lay dying without a successor who had been agreed upon by the nation, he could foresee the Carlist wars that would follow. He said, “Spain is a bottle of beer and I am the cork. When the corks pops out, all the liquid inside will escape, God knows in what direction.” Does the idea seem familiar?’

  A housewife in Jerez de la Frontera: ‘I come from an educated, liberal family who opposed General Franco in 1936. Today I would kiss his hands, for he has brought us twenty-five years of peace. When I hear students who can’t even add two and two telling me what Franco should do, I want to spank them. What can they know of how Spain was during the war? There will be no repetition of that, I can assure you.’

  An industrialist in Sevilla: ‘I fear there’s got to be trouble. When I walk through our plant I can feel the workmen staring at me with hatred, ticking off the days. It will not be pleasant here in southern Spain if trouble breaks out. We can always pray that the transition will be placid, and I must say that the closer we get to it, the more moves we are making to avoid trouble. They’re not dumb in Madrid. Slow, but not dumb.’

  A diplomat: ‘You forget how stable we are economically. There’s no cause for war simply over this king or that, this form or that. Now, if the United States hadn’t poured in money to help us out ten years ago, and if our tourism hadn’t brought us in billions of pesatas in the last five years, there would be cause for upheaval. But now? No.’

  In 1967 I found the mood of my informants a little less sanguine. Student riots in Madrid, widespread strikes in the north and the arrest of more young priests in Barcelona were disturbing signs that all could read. There was still no fear of open trouble, for all believed that the oligarchy was strong enough to maintain control and, indeed, there was no desire on anyone’s part to have trouble. ‘We must keep our heads,’ a Madrid businessman said, ‘because to
do otherwise would be insanity. Let the college students blow off a little steam. The police know how to handle them. Let the young priests agitate. The cardinals know how to bring them back into line. Labor? We may have to give a little here and there, but the future is reasonably secure.’

  A leading intellectual from Andalucía startled me by saying, ‘The forces we’ve been discussing—Church, army, labor—don’t touch upon the problem which looms largest to me. And to a lot of men like me. What should I do about Opus Dei?’ I had first come upon this mysterious organization of Catholic laymen in Mexico in 1959, when some feared that it was destined to take over that country, and I had long been interested in it, having read everything I could about its manner of operation. Those favorable to the movement maintained that it was a beneficial, voluntary organization of Catholics who were dedicated to the job of building better men and women and hence a better society. Those opposed said that it was either the agency for clerical fascism or Catholicism’s answer to Free Masonry, but all agreed that it represented a canny preparation for taking over Spain when Franco departed. ‘My problem is more difficult than you might imagine,’ my Andalusian friend explained. ‘On the one hand I am opposed to secret societies of any kind, and when they are led by priests I am terrified. Four times I’ve been approached to join Opus Dei and the invitations have been subtle. “We are the force of the future. We are the men who will count. Join us and help make the vital decisions.” I have never wanted to be a political leader and that sort of reasoning repels me. But now I begin to see that not only are three of the most powerful cabinet ministers Opus Dei, and some of the strongest generals and businessmen, but also the editors of the journals in which I want to publish and the intellectuals with whom I want to associate. And I also see that unless I join Opus Dei, I am going to be slowly excluded from the really important things I want to do.’ He was perplexed and I asked him about the politics of the society, which had been launched in 1928 by a devout Spanish priest who saw it as a means to regenerate the world. It had spread to most Catholic countries, and I pointed out that whereas in 1959 it had seemed destined to control Mexico it had subsequently lost its power. ‘In Spain it will grow,’ he insisted. ‘The men in Opus Dei are dedicated. Have you ever met an Opus Dei face to face? He’d surprise you. The typical one is a layman not a priest, but he’s taken vows of celibacy and poverty. He lives in a communal hall and gives his salary to the movement. He dresses in an ordinary dark business suit and works in one of the economics branches of the government. Most of Spain’s finest economists are Opus Dei. And they’re dedicated to public service. Tough-minded, well-behaved, moderate, attractive. Such men enable the Opus Dei to prove its claim … that it’s the best force in Spain. In the decades to come you may hear a great deal more about Opus Dei.’ When I left him I had the feeling that he had about decided to become a member, and that when decisions were reached as to what direction the new Spain should take, he and his fellow members of Opus Dei would do much of the deciding.

  But it was a businessman from Barcelona who came closest to my own guess as to what would happen: ‘I think that when news of Franco’s death flashes through the countryside … As a matter of fact, if they’re smart they’ll not announce his death for two or three days while they move troops into position … Well, hotheads in the cities will think, “Now’s the time!” and for six or seven days there’ll be sporadic trouble, which the army will suppress. Then a dictatorship from the military until things are stabilized … six months, maybe … then a general relaxation to the same thing we’ve had for the past fifteen years. I suppose they’ll choose young Juan Carlos to be king and throw him out about ten years later. Ultimately a gradual relaxation until we’re something like Italy.’

  An American expert on Spanish affairs spoke for many foreign observers: ‘At the change-over no visible trouble. But six months to two years later a substantial redistribution of power, probably without fighting … possibly with.’

  Don Luis Morenés: ‘The men I watch above me in the government are smart enough to make the adjustments necessary to keep this country stable. We have everything on our side and I can think of no one who would profit by a civil war. I think the transition can be made quite peacefully.’

  VIII

  SALAMANCA

  Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor is the finest in Spain and one of the four best in the world. St. Mark’s in Venice has a richer variety of architecture; the Zócalo in Mexico City is larger in expanse; and the barbaric Asian splendor of the Registan in Samarkand is without equal. But the Plaza Mayor is unique in that its spacious area is bordered on all four sides by what amounts to one continuous building, four stories high and graced with an unending arcade of great architectural beauty. It is the most harmonious plaza extant, with its repetitious balconies and windows providing just enough accent and its blending colors creating a vision of amber loveliness. On a sunny afternoon, with the sidewalk cafés filled and the parade of charming girls in progress, it has a human warmth that the other great plazas lack, and it is worth a considerable trip to see.

  To sit lazily in the plaza and study the minor variations in the vast building which curls about you is delightful. On the north side and the west the balconies are continuous, but on the south and east they are broken in interesting patterns. Both the north and south façades are interrupted by two large gateways, but the east and west have only one. The plaza isn’t quite a perfect square. One afternoon when I had nothing better to do I stepped it off in all directions, but I forget the results. And on the north face the continuous building elevates iteself slightly to become a palace serving as the town hall.

  The outstanding feature is the endless arcade; in heat of day café chairs are moved off the plaza and under the arcade, but at other times it forms a graceful promenade lined with fine stores. Between the arches of the arcade, medallions have been prepared for bas-reliefs showing the prominent figures of Spanish history; medallions along the north and west have remained empty, but the first in line along the east contains Generalísimo Franco, well sculpted and imperial of mien, followed by imposing figures like Alfonso XI, Fernando and Isabel, she most stalwart, and Juana la Loca and her collar-ad husband Felipe I, the tragic couple whom we met at Granada. A curious feature of the medallions, and one which must have been accidental, is the fact that the carving of Carlos the Bewitched has begun to crumble, so that his features have fallen away to leave a sense of idiocy. The once-proud Habsburg chin has vanished in the rain.

  Along the south there are generals, too. El Cid looking like a knight of medieval Germany, and el Gran Capitán who conquered Italy, Pizarro from the plains of Extremadura, and a strange fellow with German mustaches labeled Don Xptova Colón, the one who discovered America. The permanent impression of the plaza is one of complete unity rigorously enforced and quiet beauty where human beings can rest. Day or night, it is a magnificent setting.

  Salamanca is a very old city and the town fathers must have had courage to decide, as late as 1729, to build a new plaza whose four sides would be kept harmonious. The work of renovation took seven decades, and not one façade was left untouched. In recent years the city fathers have been less courageous; they have surrendered to the automobile. Salamanca is so laid out that the easiest solution to its traffic problem is to allow several main arteries to flow into the Plaza Mayor, which thus becomes a huge traffic circle, and one can no longer dawdle across the beautiful pavement for fear of being run down. Furthermore, as in most European cities, the politicians have been unable to withstand demands for parking space and have allowed this once-glorious spot to degenerate into a vast parking lot, while from its rooftops gleams a forest of television aerials.

  When I sat in the plaza I was accompanied by a ghost from my childhood days, a man whose trail I was to follow through many different parts of Spain, a man of the most contradictory and perplexing character but one who had been important to me for half a century. I could close my eyes and visualize him in th
is plaza he had frequented and recall the first time I had met him. It was in the sixth grade in a small Pennsylvania school and our teacher, a tall, rather thin woman whom we liked, had finally found a subject she could get her teeth in, and she spoke with an intensity that I can still remember.

  ‘Especially the boys in class should listen to what I’m going to say.’ No one moved. ‘In your life you must have some great man to whom you look up.’ We looked up to the basketball captain, who was in high school. ‘Not many are worthy of such respect, but the hero of our next poem was.’ We slumped. Another sales talk on memorizing poetry. ‘He was one of the bravest men in history and he did something I don’t believe any boy in this class could have done.’ We sat up again. ‘Any of you could be brave in victory. When your side’s ahead I’ve seen how brave you can be. But this man was brave in defeat. And that requires a real man.’ This was new and we listened. ‘Against odds so great that other men would have crumbled, he fought on. When his companions failed, he didn’t. He was more heroic than the heroes of fairy tales. He was a man you must remember.’ I often recalled this sentence. ‘But what do you suppose happened to him? At the very moment of victory, when he had done all he set out to do, what happened?’ I wanted to slump, because I was pretty sure this was where the girl came in. He married her no doubt. It always happened in poems, but something in the teacher’s voice caused me to hesitate. ‘At the moment for which all boys long, the moment when he had won, a cannonball killed him.’ No previous poem had ended this way, and we sat silent. ‘In a strange city, on a battlefield overlooking the ships he had been fighting to reach, he was killed.’ Moved by her own eloquence and feeling kinship with the boys of her class, she sat down, opened her book and began to read those lines, which, unknown to me at the time, she was engraving on my mind: