Just as quickly and effortlessly as Penny, Birgitta and
Helen had come into my life, so had they gone. As summer
approached I was left alone in Madrid, and I was lonely. I drank
much more than was good for me and on more than one occasion I
awakened early in the morning on the sofa where I had been
sitting, drinking and had fallen asleep, passed out. On weekends
I took long walks or got on a bus and rode for a while, got off,
walked, had a coffee in a cafe then got on another bus and rode
some more. When I was hopelessly lost I would catch a taxi back
to the Cafe Gijon or my apartment. I got to know the Prado
museum, and many other smaller museums and lesser known
attractions in the back alleys behind the Plaza Mayor, Plaza de
España and Puerta del Sol. One of my favorite places became the
home of the painter Sorolla which had been converted to a museum,
but as much as I loved Madrid I was not happy being alone in the
city. More than ever I came to know that half the fun in life is
poking someone else in the ribs and saying "hey, look at that."
Through Bob and Cyn Balzac I met Ivy, a TWA stewardess who
flew into Madrid once a week from New York. Ivy had become, the
Balzacs' airline person in their collection of people, and Cyn
thought that Ivy was a good match for me, but somehow Ivy and I
never hit it off.
Ivy's conversation was peppered with the word exciting, and
I always thought that she was caught up in her own fantasy. She
was self-absorbed, and more fascinated with her own image as an
"exciting" international airline stewardess than she was in
living her life. I had the feeling that she was not attracted to
me but to some image of me that she carried in her head. I was
an "exciting" FSO who complimented her own "exciting" fantasy of
herself.
Nevertheless, Ivy was company and I came to look forward to
her arrival in Madrid on Friday mornings. Like most of the
airline crews, Ivy stayed in the Hilton Castellana Hotel, not far
from the embassy, and she would call me when she was settled in.
I would join her for breakfast then go back to work while Ivy
slept. I met her again in the evening, generally with the
Balzacs, and together we would go taska hopping in the old part
of Madrid. Ivy would leave to return to New York on Saturday
morning. I always thought that the westbound passengers did not
get their money's worth in service, since Ivy and most of the
other stewardesses were tired and hung over on the homeward bound
trip.
I was pleasantly surprised one day to receive a note from Penny
who was still with Carlos. A four day holiday weekend was
approaching and Penny invited me to spend it with her and Carlos
on Ibiza. She had no telephone in the house they were renting as bohemian artists, and she said to send her a telegram if I could
make it. Since I was very lonely I never gave a thought to what
complications might arise from going to Ibiza; I quickly made the
airline arrangements, sent the telegram and on the next Thursday
morning I left Madrid to fly through Palma de Mallorca to Ibiza.
On Friday morning Penny was at the airport waiting when I arrived
in Ibiza for what turned out to be a disaster of a long weekend.
For openers, Carlos, in a fit of jealous rage, had moved out
of their house when he heard that I was coming, so he was staying
in another house with a Basque friend of his from Santander.
Secondly, the bonds of intimacy between Penny and me had clearly
changed, and I was not comfortable in the new role of ex-lover,
friend. Penny was in a funk because of Carlos, but nevertheless,
showed me around the island, introduced me to some of her new
friends and I got a good feel for the bohemian, expatriate
artist's life that she was leading. On Saturday we drove in her
little Morris out to Portonac Beach where we drank too much
sangria then went to dinner in San Antonio in a trendy little
whitewashed bar-restaurant not too unlike the Playa Monte Mar in
Torremolinos, and like Playa Monte Mar it was frequented by
trendy jet set suntanned Brits, Scandinavians and Germans. I
never heard a word of Spanish spoken except by the waiters.
Carlos had come back home, and was waiting for us when we
arrived at her house about midnight. He was cordial and
friendly, apologized to Penny for his fit of temper and begged
forgiveness. Since Penny was clearly paying all of bills I found
his performance a little sickening, but managed to bite my tongue
and hide my feelings. Penny, in order to feed his macho ego fell
all over Carlos and the performance became even more unpleasant
for me. We all managed to get through the weekend and early
Sunday morning Penny took me to the airport to catch my plane
back to Valencia on the mainland and then on to Madrid. I felt
worse when I got back home to Madrid than when I had left, and
that night I called Marsha; she said she wanted to come back to
Spain; I was wavering about continuing the separation, and I told
her I would write her a letter. I spoke to the children and by
the time I went to bed I felt a little better, but still lonely - lonely - lonesome.
The next day, Monday, after my return to Madrid the ambassador's
secretary called me to say that the ambassador wanted to see me
in his office. By the time I got upstairs she had already placed
a cup of coffee on the table for me.
The ambassador was sitting in his usual chair at the head
of the coffee table, and with him, sitting on the sofa, was a man
I had never before met or seen.
This was the first meeting I ever had with the ambassador
when Tom Blacka was not present, and I was immediately curious.
"Good morning, sir," I said.
"Good morning," the ambassador said. "Pete, I'd like you to meet Ambassador Dan Thornton. Dan is head of the Base Rights
Section of the Bureau for Political-Military Affairs in
Washington."
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ambassador," I said and
shook his hand.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Pete," Thornton said. "I've been
reading some of your reports about the food program in Spain.
You're a good drafting officer - a good writer."
"Thank you, sir," I said and sat down.
Although I had no way of knowing it at the time, the meeting
that morning with Ambassador Dan Thornton was an important event
in my Foreign Service career.
The moment that Ambassador Walker mentioned the name of Dan
Thornton, I knew who he was. Dan Thornton had a reputation.
Ambassador Thornton was a trim, grey haired, cordial, pipe
smoking, fatherly man, but he had a reputation for liking the
ladies. He loved to give and go to dancing parties where he
never missed an opportunity to embrace an attractive wife, and
occasionally pat her on the fanny.
The ambassador was a career Foreign Service officer and, as
frequently is the case with career officers who make it to the
top, he had received his ambassadorial appointment as a reward
for thirty years of loyal and dedicated service. He was not
regarded as an especially brilliant diplomat, but he did know his
craft.
He had a reputation for being a courageous, tough minded and
skilled negotiator that he had established when, as ambassador to
a small Caribbean island republic, he challenged the main man
about corruption and the abuse of foreign aid. In the end the
ambassador had won what some people called a pissing contest
between skunks, and the aid program was terminated.
"I'm over here in Spain to kick off the negotiations for the
renewal of the access agreements for the bases," Ambassador
Thornton said.
"Yes, sir," I said. "I knew that the agreements were due to
be renegotiated."
"Most of the work is done in Washington, and we have a
regular team of officers who do nothing but work on access
accords. We shuttle back and forth, but I need an officer here
in Madrid as our liaison with the Spanish, and there's some
analytical number crunching that needs to be done here."
Ambassador Thornton picked up his coffee and sipped it, and I had
the feeling that my life was about to change, that yet another
dimension was about to be added.
"We expect to have the negotiation concluded by the end of
May, and I'd like you to be my man in Madrid for the next few
weeks. You've got all the qualification - you speak Spanish,
you're trained in economics, and you're a good drafting officer."
"I thank you, sir. I'm pleased to have the opportunity," I
said. "What about my other work on the PL 480 program?" I looked at Ambassador Walker.
"We can put that on ice for a while," Ambassador Walker
replied. "If you have time, you can work on it, but your work
for Dan will be your primary responsibility."
"Very good, sir," I said. "What do you want me to do
first?"
"Bob Walker and I are having lunch with the Foreign
Minister," Thornton said. "Maybe you'd like to join us. I can
introduce you to a few of the people you'll be dealing with."
"I'd be glad to join you," I replied. "What time?"
"We'll meet downstairs in the garage about one thirty. We
can all go in my car," Ambassador Walker said and stood up.
"I'll be there," I said and returned to my office.
That luncheon was the first high level Spanish government affair
that I had ever attended, and it was impressive. We met for
drinks in the diplomatic reception room of the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs.
Decorated with ornate gilded furniture, lush
tapestries, and original Goya, El Greco and Velasquez paintings,
it was a show place of Spain's rich and colorful history. It was
obvious that Spain was still a monarchy, even though the King was
in exile.
In addition to the two American Ambassadors the U.S.
delegation included Air Force Lieutenant General William, "Bull,"
Hanley the ranking military officer in Spain, and Chief of the
JUSMAAG, the Joint United States Military Assistance Advisory
Group, Major General Tom Sykes, the Commanding Officer of
Torrejon Air Force Base, and Vice Admiral Jake Weatherspoon, the
CO of the Naval base at Rota in the South of Spain.
These officers were part of the new breed of soldier, sailor
statesmen that had come up in the services since the end of World
War II. They all had excellent and impressive military
credentials. "Bull" Hanley was a fighter pilot, and an "Ace" in
both WW II and the Korean conflict. He had done his tour in
Vietnam.
Sykes was a SAC B-52 pilot, but he was much more than just
an airplane driver. He spoke Spanish, and understood
geopolitical issues as well as any of the State Department
political officers.
Weatherspoon was a submarine officer, and could hardly wait
for the transfer of U.S. nuclear subs from Holy Loch to Rota
where he could once again get his hands on one of them.
In addition to this top brass, there was a covey of lesser
ranked Colonels, Captains and Commanders from all the services,
who were either from Washington, in the JUSMAAG or the Defense
Attache's office in the embassy. Several civilian FSO's from the
State Department in Washington who were on Ambassador Thornton's
staff mixed with this display of military might.
The Spanish Delegation included the Minister of Foreign
Affairs, all of the Chiefs of the Army, Air Force, Navy and Guardia Civil as well as Ambassador Santiago Ibañez, the head of
OCON, the Spanish Oficina de Convenios con Norte America, a
special section in the Foreign Office set up to administer the
economic and military cooperation agreements with the United
States.
Like the U.S. delegation the Spanish contingent included a
host of lesser ranked staff officers from the services as well as
OCON. My working level counterpart would be Juan Calderon, a
Spanish Foreign Service officer, from OCON whom I had known as a
student at Georgetown University. It was comforting to see the
familiar face of an ordinary person in the midst of all of the
power and egos that were represented in that room.
The military officers paired off with their own kind, air
force with air force, army with army, navy with navy, and
Ambassador Thornton circulated through all of them with me in
tow. He made sure that he personally introduced me to every
senior member of the U.S. team.
"Bull" Hanley was talking to his Spanish counterpart when
Ambassador Thornton and I approached them.
"Bull," Ambassador Thornton said. "I want you to meet Pete
Stuart, he's going to be our man in Madrid."
Hanley turned from the Spanish General, pulled a cigar from
his mouth, and stuck out his hand.
"Hi, Pete, pleased to meet you. I haven't seen you around
before. You new in Madrid?"
"I've been here about six months," I said.
"Do you know General Oviedo, Chief of the Spanish Air
Force?" Hanley asked.
"Yo creo que no," I said and offered my hand to General
Oviedo. "General, mucho gusto. Me llamo Pete Stuart. Estoy en
la seccion economica de la embajada."
"Mucho gusto, Señor Estuart, Rafael Oviedo." The general
clicked his heels and shook my hand. Like most Spanish speaking
people he had trouble with the "St" combination in English.
"Hey," Hanley said. "You speak good Spanish, Pete. That's a
plus for our team."
"Mas o menos puedo defenderme," I replied and smiled.
Like most military officers Hanley was suspicious of State
Department "pantywaiste cookie pushers," and he
fished around to see what kind of a "striped pants" liaison
officer he was getting. I redeemed myself, somewhat, when I told
Hanley that I had been in the Air Force in my youth. The fact
that I had been in the famous 94th Fighter outfit cinched the
relationship, and Hanley breathed easy. Fortunately, General
Hanely had not asked what my rank was. I'm not sure he would
have been quite as relieved if he had known that I had been a
corporal.
"Hey, Rafael," Hanley said to General Oviedo. "We've got
one of our own kind looking out for our interests. We're birds
of a feather."
"Que bueno," Genteral Oviedo, also a fighter pilot, said and
smiled. He seemed as pleased as General Hanley that I had an Air
Force background.
The luncheon was served in an elegant state dining room and
started with cold jellied consomme, then ranged through both fish
and meat courses, with red and white vintage wines, and ended
with flan and fresh fruit.
I was seated between the Commandant of the Guardia Civil,
and an American Army Lt. Colonel who was a member of the JUSMAAG,
and a specialist in public safety and police work. After my
experience with the Guardia Civil in Badajoz, I wondered to
myself which of the two men was the teacher.
The two officers knew one another and they were both fond of
perdiz, partridge, shooting as it is done in Spain.
In these outings the villagers in the pueblos outside Madrid
organize weekend shoots for up to twelve hunters. Blinds are set
up, and each hunter is assigned a secretario who carries two
double barreled shot guns for his patron. One hunter and his
secretario enter the blind, and a group of village men serve as
beaters to drive the birds into the line of fire formed by the
arc of the twelve blinds, spaced every hundred feet or so across
a field.
As the birds flee ahead of the beaters, and eventually take
wing, the shooters squeeze off two rounds, pass their gun to the
secretario to reload, take another loaded weapon, and fire again.
This goes on in a fre nzy of shooting and killing for some ten
minutes until all of the bir ds have passed or been shot. The
secretario collects the birds that were downed, and the shooters
move on to a new series of blinds.
This goes on all day. At the end of the shoot each hunter
calls off his count, tosses his day's kill into a pile, and the
dead birds are divided evenly among the shooters.
I had been on a couple of these outings with Carmen
MacGregor's uncle, but it never appealed to me. The birds don't
have much of a chance. The deck is stacked against the birds in
favor of the hunters even more than it is against the bull in a
bullfight.
For the villagers who organize the outings it was, like
making shirts and dresses from left over flour sacks, a way of
keeping body and soul together. They earned a small amount of
money in a country that was a wonderful place to live, but a hard
place to make a living.
The American officer asked me if I liked perdiz shooting.
"I've done it," I said. "But I really prefer tennis."
The luncheon ended with coffee, cognac, and cigars.
