The Fountains of Silence(99)

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.


—GERALD FORD, 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.”