The Fountains of Silence (48 page)

A haggard and grief-stricken Carlos Arias Navarro, the Prime Minister, speaking to the nation at 10:00 a.m., said in a breaking voice:

“Spaniards. Franco has died. The exceptional man who before God and history assumed the immense responsibility of demanding and sacrificial service to Spain, has given up his life, burned up day by day, hour by hour, in the fulfillment of a transcendental misssion.”

Then with tears, welling up, he read the message General Franco is believed to have written a few days after he fell ill on Oct. 14. The general spoke of his love for Spain and implored his countrymen “to continue in peace and unity” and to “extend the same affection and support you have given me to the future King of Spain, Don Juan Carlos de Borbón.”

“Do not forget that the enemies of Spain and Christian civilization are watching,” he added.

At another point he said: “I ask forgiveness from all, as I give my most heartfelt forgiveness to those who declared themselves my enemies. I believe and hope that I had no enemies other than those who were enemies of Spain—Spain, which I will love until the last moment and which I promised to serve until my dying breath, which is near.”

Many Spaniards shared the Prime Minister’s grief and genuinely felt affection, or at least respect, for the only leader most of the country had known. There was official mourning in the form of black armbands on policemen, and many men wore black ties today. When the hearse with the highly polished wooden coffin went through the gate of the palace a small knot of people applauded and old women wept.

Others were glad to see what they considered a hateful period of Spanish history close and were impatient to get on with the task of forging a more liberal regime.

from “Franco Urged Spain in a Final Message to Maintain Unity”
The New York Times

November 21, 1975

It was with sorrow that I learned of the death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who led his country for almost four decades through a significant era in Spanish history. With his passing, I express deepest sympathy to his wife and family on behalf of the Government and people of the United States.

We wish the Spanish people and the Government of Spain well in the period ahead. The United States for its part will continue to pursue the policy of friendship and cooperation which has formed the touchstone for the excellent relations existing between our two countries.

—G
ERALD
F
ORD
, 38th president of the United States (1974–1977)

Statement on the Death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco of Spain

November 20, 1975

National Archives, Collection GRF-0248

White House Press Releases (Ford Administration) 1974–1977

131

Daniel slides the metal box from the closet. He opens it once every few years. Is it good or bad that the defining items of his life can fit into one small box?

His mother’s death notice. It mentions that she was a member of the garden club and supported the symphony. It mentions nothing of her vicious battle with cancer.

His Magnum photography prize certificate.

His acceptance letter and J-School diploma from Missouri School of Journalism.

A copy of Ben’s recommendation to
National Geographic
.

State Department credentials as a news service photographer.

The memorial card from Ben’s funeral.

And as he digs deeper into the box—

The newspaper photo with Ana and Nick at the embassy fashion show.

His photo negatives from Spain and Ana’s handwritten captions.

At the very bottom is the stack of envelopes. Seventeen of them, held together by an old rubber band. The eighteenth will arrive next month. They’re all from Nick Van Dorn. Every December, without fail, an envelope arrives from Nick. Each contains a photo with a brief message on the back, but never a return address.

He opens one. Nick lies in a hospital bed, his arm in traction.

1959. Skiing in St. Moritz. Tough break. Aren’t I punny?

He opens another. It’s a wedding picture in the South Pacific but the woman’s face is crossed out.

1965. Beach blanket bomb. Married and annulled in three weeks
.

He opens the most recent envelope. It’s postmarked last December. Nearly a year ago. From Madrid.

1974. Look where I am. Embassy job. Come back to Madrid!

Daniel looks at the photo. Nick has aged hard. He’s not sure he would recognize him on the street. But the woman in the photo has not aged. She’s beautiful.

She is Ana.

When Daniel first received the card, he spent weeks staring at the photo. Of course she must be married. Of course Nick mentioned nothing of it. Of course he’d be an idiot to fly to Spain to find out.

What would they even talk about? How after a decade as a photojournalist he succumbed to his father’s pleas and joined the business to provide stability for his sister? How he and his father struggled to raise a teen girl in an era of upheaval and free love? How he floundered through Hockadaisy sleepovers, David Cassidy concerts, Kotex errands, and a dreaded debutante ball? Or maybe they could discuss his father’s new marriage. No. None of it is interesting.

He looks at the photo. For eighteen years he’s carried a torch for a girl he spent a month with in Spain. It used to be an angry, flaming torch.

He and Ben argued about it one night during an assignment in Australia.

“You’re disappointed, I get it, but don’t play the blame game.”

Daniel certainly didn’t blame Ana. He didn’t blame himself. He blamed Franco.

“Blame’s a cop-out, Dan, and you’re better than that. It’s easier to blame someone or something than do the work. You gotta do the work,” said Ben.

“What are you talking about? I’ve been working my tail off for years.”

“Mileage doesn’t make the man. You’ve been working your tail off and you’ve been pissed off, but you’re avoiding the work. The work’s in here.” Ben tapped his chest. “You don’t think I’m disappointed? My parents died in a car accident when I was nine. It messed me up. I clung to books and words because, unlike people, they’d never abandon me. I’m so bad at relationships that no one’s ever loved me enough to marry me—or hell, even date me. But I’m not running around blaming anybody. I’m doing the work.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Letting it hurt. Scraping the rust off my heart. Sitting around this tent fire in the godforsaken bush, freezing my can off, and pondering life’s mysteries with my sad-sack cowboy pal, creating memories that will make me laugh.”

It made Daniel laugh too. “I can’t believe you’re actually sleeping in a tent.”

“Neither can my bulging disc. But I wanted to see the stars on this side of the earth. Thought if I put myself out here something might come of it. I’m doing the work.”

Many years later, he still thinks of Ben’s words. What good did anger and blame bring? It polluted him. It didn’t empower him. It didn’t bring him peace.

It didn’t bring him Ana.

Almost any bigtime Dallas socialite is likely to hire Draper’s Party Service to handle invitations. That means providing the printed invitations of course, as well as addressing them (you can always tell a Draper envelope—the handwritten lines are flush right), mailing the invitations and keeping track of RSVPs. Draper might also consult with a hostess on whom she’s inviting to the party. . . . If necessary, she might even do some matchmaking. Draper has lists of acceptable young men and women who want to attend the fall social events, and will match dates from her list, notifying a young man of his date for a given evening.

“Party Power: Why Society Loves Ann Draper”

D Magazine
, October 1976

132

Daniel parks outside of the estate. He pushes the Eagles 8-track into the player and stares out the windshield. He’ll sneak in late and slip out early. The grand gala, organized by a professional party planner, is a birthday celebration for his father’s new wife. Sissy is a lifelong Dallas socialite. She’s thoughtful, patient, and very kind. But she’s nothing like his mother.

Prior to the second marriage, the house held tight to the essence of his mom. The spirit of María Alonso Moya Matheson walked barefoot through the expansive rooms. She hummed her favorite melodies and hovered nearby during late paella dinners. He felt her. But over the past months Spanish food, music, and art have all slowly disappeared from his childhood home. Mealtimes have been altered. It’s not her fault, but Sissy’s presence seems to amplify his mother’s absence. It stings.

Today Spain has an absence—their dictator who ruled for thirty-six years. What is Ana’s reaction? What is the country feeling? If Ben were alive, they’d be on the phone. Daniel puts his hand on the steering wheel and closes his eyes, listening to the song, letting it hurt. He’ll do the work.

A knock sounds on the glass. A clean-cut valet gives him a wave. He rolls down the window.

“Good evening, Mr. Matheson. Your sister thought you might be out here. She said your father will be asking about you.”

“Thanks, Buck. You can take it from here. I’ll walk up.”

Daniel heads down the road. He runs a hand through his hair and
steps through the high, pillared gates of the family property. A trail of expensive cars lines the long ribbon lane leading to the fountain and circular drive in front of their Preston Hollow estate. The trees bordering the drive twinkle with tiny gold lights.

The party swings. Tuxedoed waitstaff circulate with champagne and hors d’oeuvres while a jazz singer croons from an interior Juliet balcony. His sister stands with a group of classmates from Hockaday. When she sees Daniel, she darts toward him.

“¡Hola!”
She throws her arms around his neck. “No fair hiding in your truck, unless you take me with you,” she whispers in Spanish.

“
Hola
,” he laughs. “Thanks for sending Buck with the two-minute warning.”

“De nada.”
She tugs at his sleeve. “Oh my, letting your rebel run? Most men are in suits and you’re wearing a blazer and boots. Mrs. Draper will not be pleased. You’re sabotaging her matchmaking efforts.” Daniel rolls his eyes.

His sister steps back to display her dress. “The new wife bought it for me. It’s pretty, don’t you think?”

“Very pretty, but don’t call her that. Her name is Sissy. And remember, no Spanish. It’s unfair. She doesn’t understand.”

Cristina sighs. “Mom would hate that the house staff speaks English now. It’s weird.”

It is weird, but he doesn’t comment.

“And . . . do not go upstairs. Sissy redecorated. Everything is chintz charming. Dad doesn’t like it but won’t say anything. Last weekend I found him long-faced, rooting around in the attic. He claims things are missing. Did you steal some of Mom’s stuff?”

“I didn’t steal it, I rescued it.” He smiles.

Cristina grabs his arm. “Oh, Danny, please let me come live with you. My friends, they all love you.”

“Shh,” he says. “Here they come. Remember, no Spanish.”

Daniel’s father and his wife circulate toward them through the crowd.

“Happy birthday, Sissy,” says Daniel.

“Thank you, Daniel, darling. And thank you for the beautiful flowers!”

“Well done, Dan. You’re showing me up,” jokes his father. Mrs. Draper, the party sovereign, appears.

“Good evening, Daniel.” She surveys his attire and pinches a smile. “So handsome and . . . individual. Funny, I know you were born here but sometimes you seem more Spanish than your sister.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replies, sliding a grin to Cristina.

Ann Draper takes Sissy by the elbow, pulling her toward a newly arrived guest.

“
¡Ay, por favor! No me vengas con tonterías
,” whispers Cristina. “You are not more Spanish than me.”

“It’s not a competition,” laughs their father. “All well at the office today, Dan?”

“Yes. Delta Drilling sent numbers over.” Daniel accepts a glass from a waiter and tries to sound casual. “Say, Dad, did you hear? General Franco died.”

“I heard it on the news. Must be quite the shock in Spain.”

“What do you think Mom would say?” asks Cristina.

Daniel has wondered the very same thing.

Their father pauses, enjoying the memory of his wife. “Honestly, I think María would be very sad.”

“Really? Was Mom a fascist?” asks Cristina.

“No,” says their father quickly. “Your mother was romantically old-fashioned about Spain. That doesn’t mean she was a fascist. I don’t think you’d understand. It’s difficult.” He sighs and leaves to join Sissy.

Cristina stares at the floor.

Daniel slings an arm around her. “As if being adopted from a foreign country and losing your mom isn’t difficult,” he says.

His sister nods, grateful. “Exactly. Just because I’ve never been to Spain doesn’t mean I won’t understand. Don’t forget. You promised, Daniel.”

“I know.”

“We better start planning now. I’ll be eighteen before you know it. Adventure in Madrid!” Cristina hugs him and sashays off to rejoin her friends.

Of course Cristina wants to visit her birthplace, that’s natural. His mother’s adamant refusal to take her to Spain always puzzled him. Perhaps her health was a factor. She felt so compelled to hide her illness.

Jorge, his father’s elderly butler, approaches. He’s well past retirement age but refuses to consider it. “
Hola
, Jorge.”

“
Buenas tardes, señor.
You received a phone call very early this morning. It was an international call and the connection was quite poor. Or perhaps the caller was inebriated. He kept repeating, ‘Tell Danny boy,
Franco ha muerto
.’”

“Did the caller give his name?”

“Indeed. It was Dick. Or Nick. Or maybe Rick.
Lo siento
, I can’t remember.”

Jorge has worked with the family for decades. He left Spain just before the Civil War. Daniel wonders what he thinks of the news. “Jorge,
Franco ha muerto. ¿Qué piensas?
”

Jorge releases a slow, content smile. “Every opportunity lies ahead,
señor
.”