Iberia (67 page)

 

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 ot 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 itself 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 this
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:

‘Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

 

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried.’

Books were then distributed, bearing not only the poem but
the famous painting by Smith, and we read the history of Sir John
Moore, the English general who in 1808 and 1809 led an invasion
into Spain against Napoleon and without fighting one engagement
turned around and retreated to the northern port of La Coruña,
where at the moment of having brought his army into sight of
the rescue flotilla, he was killed by a cannonball.