COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 12

Part 2

The next several months held a dramatic change of pace for me. I went into the embassy early, and I left late. Every morning when the secretary passed out the classified mail I received a stack of red bordered immediate action cables out of Washington. The Washington based negotiators wanted information on a myriad of details on Spanish military expenditures, numbers and types of aircraft, small arms, tanks, ad infinitum.

Every cable required a trip to Torrejon Air Force Base, the Ministry of Defense, JUSMAAG or OCON. If it was not a cable requesting information on some aspect of the Spanish military there were several messages that asked questions about Spain's balance of payments with the U.S., gold reserves, GNP or agricultural production, ad infinitum. Every cable required a trip to OCON, or a Ministry: Industry and Commerce, Foreign Affairs, Agriculture, Finance, ad infinitum.

Through their embassy in Washington, the Spanish were making known their wants and needs, and inevitably the former exceeded the later. The negotiators wanted information to counter Spain's requests. They needed bargaining chips.

Even though I had little time to think about anything except answering the daily flood of action cables, I had to squeeze in time to make hotel reservations, set up appointments or meet some member of the negotiating team travelling out from Washington.

I went home at night, ate and fell in bed on the nights that I could, but two or three times a week I had a cocktail party or reception to attend. Occasionally, maybe once a week, I carved out an hour to stop by the Cafe Gijon to visit and gossip.

Ivy, the exciting TWA stewardess, also dropped out of my life. She transferred to a once-a-week run to London, but on her last trip to Madrid we went taska hopping with the Balzacs before dropping her at the Hilton Hotel. We never did get the point of sleeping together. I got up early and went to the Hilton to see her off on Saturday morning. She was hung over, but she got up early to catch her crew bus to the airport.

"This has been an exciting time in my life, Pete. I'll miss it, and you, too," she said as we stood on the Paseo de la Castellana in front of the hotel to wait for the crew bus.

"I'll miss you, Ivy. It's been an exciting time for me, too," I said. "Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye." I kissed her, and she climbed in the bus and waved.

The next time I would see Ivy would be many years later on the CBS Evening Television News when Ivy would get all of the excitement that she needed. She had been on an airplane that was highjacked on a flight between London and Tel Aviv. After several hours of flying over the Mediterranean the captain finally got clearance to land at Lanarca on Cyprus. Unable to strike a deal they refueled and took off for Algiers, but ended up in Beirut. Ivy showed that she was made of the right stuff.

According to the press reports Ivy shoved aside a bearded, wild eyed Iranian terrorist who was holding an AK 47 on her to give succor to a Jewish passenger whom the terrorist had beaten.

"You call yourself freedom fighters," she was reported to have screamed, "but you're all animals!"

Eventually the passengers and crew were released, and the terrorist highjackers went free, but Ivy was a heroine. She was invited to the White House where she received an award from the President for her heroic conduct.

"Your acts of valor and compassion were in keeping with the highest traditions of American womanhood," the President said. "I am proud to know you."

Ivy stood smiling beside her airline captain husband holding her young daughter in her arms to receive the President's praise. I was proud to have known Ivy, too.

Marsha was talking about coming back to Madrid in July.

As the negotiations were reaching a crescendo I had an early evening appointment in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to iron out some last minute details. I had an hour to kill before the meeting, so I stopped by the Cafe Gijon. Bob Balzac and Cyn were there with their journalist friend Barbara a stringer for the London Economist. Bob introduced me to her and I sat down at their table.

"Bob tells me you work in the American Embassy," Barbara said. "Yes,"I replied.

"I'm doing a piece for the Economist on the U.S. base agreement negotiations," she said. "Can I come by the embassy and talk to you one of these days?"

"I'm swamped with work, on the negotiations, but I doubt that I could give you much info anyway. All I get are bits and pieces. I'm just a high paid messenger boy. There's a press officer in USIS who's handing out statements, though,"I said.

"What's his name?" she asked

"Jay Garcia,"I replied, "But you can call me, too if you want. I'll answer what ever I can. What else?" "That's all," she said. "I can tell you're maxed out. I'll call Jay."

"You're a sweetheart," I said. "But seriously, Barbara, if you can catch me at the office give a call if you think I can help."

"Thanks," she said. "You're a sweetheart."

"Any friend of Bob's is a friend of mine." I said. Barbara did call me, and we had dinner a couple of times to discuss the negotiations. I did not have time for anything else.

By the first of May the Spanish and American negotiators in Washington had hammered out a working agreement. The Spanish had set their terms, and the Americans had bargained, but there was still more bargaining to do in Madrid before the final agreements were reached. On the military front, the Spanish had requested new toys for every branch of the service: a squadron of F-5 fighter planes for the Air Force - new tanks, state of the art small arms and communications gear for the army and Guardia Civil - a small fleet of high speed coastal patrol boats for the navy.

Highly classified and hush-hush was a request by the Americans to allow the U.S. to deploy nuclear armed submarines to the Rota Naval Base. The Spanish were dragging their feet. The subs were under NATO control, and Spain was not a member of NATO, although they wanted to be a member. The agreement to this request was Spain's big bargaining chip, and they knew it. They were holding it until the final negotiations.

On the political front the Spanish wanted revisions to the Status of Forces part of the agreements that would eliminate protection of U.S. forces from prosecution for civil crimes under Spanish Law. The economic package included sales of grains on concessional terms with long term, low interest credit, program budget support, grants to finance essential imports of commodities and equipment for the private sector - educational scholarships for training in economics and science - technical assistance grants for several sectors of the economy including tourism.

Finally, on the cultural front there would be an extension of the agreement to promote the exchange of artistic and cultural expression by both Spanish and American artists.

Everything was still subject to the final negotiations and bargaining sessions. The U.S. team was sending their flight arrival times, and hotel requests. I had a big plastic bulletin board in my office on which I had posted the names of all the U.S. negotiators, their areas of specialization, the names of their Spanish counterparts, along with the hotels and telephone numbers for both the Americans and Spanish. Everything was set, and I was ready for the curtain to go up on my drama when I received a telephone call from Andre Dubois, the Director of the CCS Mission to Spain. It was urgent that we have a meeting, as soon as possible, Andre said.

"Can't it wait until after the negotiations?" I asked.

"No," Andre said. "What I have to talk to you about has to do with the negotiations. Can you meet me for dinner tonight?"

I had no plans for that night other than to go home and collapse. "Yes," I said. "I can meet you."

"How about ten o'clock at Horcher's?"

"Horcher's! Wow! this must be important."

"It is important," Andre said. "I'll see you tonight."

Andre was already waiting for me when I arrived at the restaurant a little after ten. He was sipping a martini, and I ordered the same.

There was no banter, or superficial chit chat. Andre got right to the heart of the matter. He cut to the chase.

"Pete, I'm concerned that the Spanish are going to terminate my program."

"What makes you think that, Andre?" I asked.

"They haven't included any request for continuation of the program in the base negotiations, have they?" Andre asked.

"Not that I know of," I said.

"Have you taken any steps to see that our program is continued?" Andre asked. "No, but it's not my place to take any steps. Have you taken any steps to get it included?" I asked.

"I thought you would do that," Andre said.

I picked up my martini and sipped it, and looked at Andre. He was nervous, and he kept playing with the silverware. "I don't think you know how these negotiations work, Andre," I said.

"No, I don't know how they work. I wasn't here when the last agreements were negotiated. I just assumed that the embassy, you, would see that our program was included."

"Do you know what it means to assume anything?" I asked.

Andre looked at me with a questioning expression. "No."

"To assume means to make an ass of you and me," I said and smiled.

Andre did not see the humor. He was concerned, but I didn't know whether his concern was for the poor people who would no longer receive food, his job in Spain, or the possible loss of his girlfriend, Margarita, in Barcelona. Maybe it was all three, I thought.

"Let's get back to how things work," Andre said. "How do they work?" he asked.

"The U.S. wants to continue these bases in Spain, and they want to pay as little as possible," I said. "The Spanish want the bases continued, but they want to get as much as possible. The Spanish are just like rug merchants. A rug merchant wants to sell his rug, but he wants the best price he can get. Don't forget the seven hundred years of Arab occupation of Spain." I smiled again. "There's a little rug merchant in all of them."

Andre still did not smile. "Pete, I don't think you're taking me seriously," he said.

Andre was right, I thought. I was not taking him seriously. I had become so concerned with my little part in the base negotiations, that I had lost sight of the PL 480 food program, and the significance it had to millions of poor people. "I take you seriously, Andre," I said. "And I see that poor hungry people are not a very powerful constituency. They have no one to represent their interests."

Andre smiled for the first time. "Exactly," he said. "Who is representing their interests?"

"I think you're supposed to be representing their interests," I said.

"That's the reason I called you, Pete."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"I want you to put our program on the bargaining table," Andre said.

"That's not the way things work," Andre. "The Spanish have to ask for it. We don't offer. The Spanish ask and we agree. Remember the rug merchant analogy."

"The Spanish are too proud to mention a program to feed the poor," Andre said. "It makes them sound like beggars."

"Then you, and the Church, and maybe the Papal Nuncio, better find the man in the government who is not too proud to admit to the truth that there are poor, hungry people in Spain," I said.

"Who is that man?" Andre asked.

"You know who runs this country," I said. "What he wants, he gets."

"You mean Franco?" Andre asked in a whisper. "I don't have access to Franco," Andre said.

"The Papal Nuncio has access to him," I said. I had planted a seed in Andre's mind, and the expression on his face reflected that Andre was already planning his strategy.

"Andre, the Americans want something very special down in Rota. I can't say more than that. If the Nuncio could get Franco to tie granting of what the Americans want in Rota to the continuation of the food program, you would get it," I said. "Don't say that I told you"

"What is this thing in Rota?" he asked.

"I can't say anything more than I have, and I may have said too much, but General Franco will know what the Nuncio is talking about when the Nuncio mentions what the Americans want in Rota."

"I think I get what you're trying to say, Pete," Andre said. "I'll talk to the Nuncio."

"I think he's the key to unlocking the door to your problem," I said. "Remember, when you talk about this thing do not, repeat not, mention my name."

"I've got you," he said. "I'll attribute it to a usually reliable source."

"Even that may be too much. Make it a usually unreliable source," I said and laughed.

For the first time, Andre laughed, too.

I had no idea how things would play out. I didn't know whether the continuation of the PL 480 food program warranted such a grandiose strategy as linking it to the deployment of nuk subs in Rota.

"You know Andre, the answer to your problem could be as simple as getting the Spanish to swallow their famous pride and ask for the food," I said.

We finished dinner, and I went home. Ambassador Thornton was arriving in Madrid from Tripoli, Libya the next morning, and I had to meet him at the airport. The ambassador was in Libya to work on base negotiations there, too.

I was on the tarmac, standing beside an embassy sedan the next morning when Ambassador Thornton arrived on an Alitalia flight from Rome. I walked to the stairway with a local employee from the Admin Section to greet the ambassador.

"Good morning, sir," I said. "Do you have your passport and luggage checks?"

"Good morning, Pete."

He handed me his passport and ticket envelope. "Jose will clear you through customs and immigration," I said. "We can go right on to town." I handed the papers to the local employee. The ambassador and I walked together to the car, and slipped in. "I wish all countries were as civilized as Spain. The Libyans won't even allow an embassy person into the immigration area to meet somebody." he said as we pulled out of the airport gate.

"You're staying in Ambassador Walker's residence," I said. "Do you want to go there or to the embassy."

"We can go straight to the embassy," he replied.

I took ambassador Thornton to his office, gave him copies of all the cable traffic, showed him the board where I had posted all the names and phone numbers of the two negotiating teams, and gave him a set of briefing papers that the Washington team had sent out by diplomatic courier.

"You're doing a splendid job, Pete," he said. "I need someone like you to handle things for me down in Tripoli. Where's my office?"

"You can use the Deputy Chief of Mission's office up on the fifth floor, sir. The DCM is away on leave," I said.

Thornton picked up the file folders. "That sounds great," he said.

"Do you want me to go with you?" I asked.

"No, I can find my way," he said.

"You can use the DCM's secretary, too," I said.

"Very good," he said. "You've thought of everything."

Over the next few days the entire State Department team arrived from Washington. They all met to caucus in the embassy, then moved to the JUSMAAG to meet with the military members, and finally they met with the Spanish in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs who acted as hosts.

The top members of both teams sat at a round table. There was no head, nor were there sides. The Spanish sat next to their American counterparts, so that there were alternating nationalities around the table grouped by their areas of interest and specialization. The rest of the staffers and I had chairs behind our principles.

The bargaining started. The Spanish took the squadron of F-5 fighter planes off the table in the first round in exchange for a lucrative contract that would earn big money for maintenance on a squadron of American fighter planes to be rotated to Spain from Germany.

The political package was accepted, and the Status of Forces agreement was amended. In the future U.S. troops would be subject to Spanish laws and courts.

By the third day the cultural package was accepted. Bargaining on the economic package started, and ground on for days. In the end the Spanish got what they wanted.

On the last day Admiral Jake Weatherspoon brought up the need to get the standard of living of the Spanish people up to a level where they could participate in the better life that was coming to Spain because of the Agreements.

I was dumfounded. This had nothing to do with Weatherspoon's interest in nuclear submarines.

Weatherspoon's Spanish counterpart, the co-commander of the Naval Base at Rota, said that it was important that they upgrade the quality of social services to the people who worked on all the bases. A long debate followed about the need to improve the quality of life to insure a decent standard of living for all Spaniards whether they worked on the bases or not.

Finally the Commandant of the Guardia Civil chimed in to praise the work of Caridad and Catholic Charity Services. Their food program was a major factor in reducing hunger, crime and political unrest on the countryside, he said. In the end he proposed the continuation of the PL 480 food program at the same levels as the past for three more years. His proposal was endorsed unanimously by both teams.

Final speeches were made. Mutual praise and respect were expressed by both teams. A signing ceremony was held; Ambassador Walker signed for the U.S., and General Franco signed for Spain. The press was invited - photographs were taken; a joint communique was issued. The meetings were adjourned, and the base agreements were renewed for three additional years.

It was never discussed in the open meetings, and no announcement was ever made, but shortly after the negotiations were concluded, four nuclear subs were redeployed from Holy Lock in Scotland to take up patrol duty in the Mediterranean Sea with their home port in the Rota Naval Base in the South of Spain.

That night at a reception hosted by the Spanish in the diplomatic reception room of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs Ambassador Thornton walked up to me. "You did an outstanding job, Pete," he said. "How would you like to go on a TDY assignment in Libya for the summer?"

"To do the same thing there?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"You know, part, if not all, of what I could do here is because I speak Spanish," I said.

"It was more than that," he said. "It took organizational skills, and the ability to work with people. You showed your strength in both areas." "I'd love to go to Libya, sir, but I don't speak Arabic," I said.

"We can get you some interpretive assistance. You just take your own skills with you," he said.

"When would you want me down there?" I asked.

"About the middle of July," he said.

"I guess I have to talk to my boss Tom Blacka, and Ambassador Walker," I said. "I'll take care of them," he said and offered his hand. "You'll go?"

"Yes, sir." I said. "I'd like to go."

"Good," he said. "Say, by the way do you know Monsignor Bartoli, the Papal Nuncio?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I've met him."

"He's an interesting man. Very forceful, and determined."

"I've heard that," I said. "Why do you ask?"

"I had dinner with him the other night. He had some good things to say about you."

"Really, that's good to hear," I said.

"He said he was very pleased with the work you're doing with CCS and Caridad, and that you're doing a much better job than you predecessor, a man named Bill Shannon."

"I'm glad to hear that, too," I said. "Bill Shannon was selected out of the Foreign Service."

"I doubt that will ever happen to you. I told the Nuncio that you had done a good job for me, too," he said. "Once again congratulation on a job well done. I'll be getting a cable out from Washington authorizing your TDY in Libya." The ambassador moved on to circulate through the party.

* * * * *

I stayed until the ranking guests had departed and the reception had ended; on my way out I turned down several invitations to join groups of men who were going out to dinner or tasca hopping. After two weeks of hearing nothing but male voices drone on an on about strategic interests, deployment of fighter planes and nuclear submarines, poverty, grain sales and grants, I wanted a change of pace.

I left The Ministry of Foreign Affairs to walk alone to the Plaza Mayor, and I felt like an only child on the day after Christmas. The excitement was over; I had gotten all that I wanted, but I had no one to share it with me. I had no playmates. I needed a woman, and not just for her body. I wanted to hear a lyrical female voice talk about something besides instruments of death, hunger and economics.

Helen had gone home to the States. Even though it was Friday night, what had been Ivy's night, Ivy would no longer be flying to Madrid. Marsha and the children were still in California, and Barbara had gone away for the weekend with Bob and Cyn Balzac.

It was just after nine o'clock, and the cafes in the Plaza Mayor were filled with people engaged in animated discussions; they laughed and gestured by poking their fingers in the air or in their friends' chests; with a shrug of their shoulders they turned their palms up flat with a gesture that said, "No hay mas remedio," there's nothing one can do.

Lovers walked with arms around one another, or held hands. Some stopped to have their photographs taken while looking into each other's eyes. Children played with balloons and pull toys while eating cotton candy. I took a table in a cafáe in the corner of the plaza near the Arco de Cuchilleros, and ordered a San Patricio sherry.

I again recalled what Penny had said about half the fun of seeing things was poking someone else in the ribs and saying, "Hey, look at that." Half the fun of getting a little recognition was telling someone else about it and getting their approval, too. It was just like getting a good report card in school. Half the fun was rushing home with it to show your mom and dad. I had an intellectual understanding of the saying that it is "Enough that the work be done; let the recognition go to others," but I was too human to live by it. I hungered for approval and recognition, and if it came from a woman, so much the better.

I felt a cavern of emptiness in my chest, and I could hear the wind whistling through me. I was lonely, and sitting in the midst of all of those people who were loving, laughing and living just made me feel more lonely. I wanted to be a part of their gaiety.

I also wanted some female companionship, and I thought about flying down to Torremolinos, but I knew that too would just make things worse. The ghost of Birgitta would be everywhere. Then I thought of Rosa Mercedes Serrano in Barcelona, but I still had some details to take care of to finish up the aftermath of the negotiations. I couldn't leave Madrid to go to Torremolinos, Barcelona or anywhere else. I ordered another San Patricio. The last place in the world that I wanted to be was home alone in an empty apartment.

I eavesdropped on the conversation between two young Spanish women sitting at the table next to me. By their make up, and the gypsy flamenco dancer's dresses under their coats, I concluded that they were dancers on a break from some nearby flamenco club. One had red hair, and the other had black. The one with the black hair looked like a gypsy. They were talking about another dancer. "Carmina is marvelous," the redhead said.

"I know," the gypsy said. "I envy her talent. She is going to be numero uno, the best. Carmina is better than Rosario or Amaya."

"I'll bet you that when Antonio sees her dance, he'll want her as his partner," the redhead said.

I reckoned that the Antonio she spoke of was the Antonio, the number one male flamenco dancer in the world, the Nureyev of Spanish dance.

The women finished their coffee and the gypsy dancer clapped her hands to get the waiter's attention. They paid their bill and stood up to leave.

"Pardon me," I said. "I overheard you talking about another dancer."

"Yes," the gypsy said. "We were talking about Carmina de los Reyes."

"Is she dancing tonight?" I asked.

"Yes," the gypsy said and smiled. "Why don't you come and see her. Es una maravilla." "Where is she dancing?" I asked.

"In the Club Arco de Cuchilleros, just down the steps under the arch on the Calle de Cuchilleros," the redhead replied. She pointed toward the steps that lead from the Plaza Mayor to the Calle de Cuchilleros.

"What time does she go on?" I asked.

"Carmina is in the cuadro flamenco, but she will dance alone in about half and hour," the gypsy dancer said.

"Muchas gracias, señoritas," I said.

"No hay de que, señor," the redhead said. "Adios." They walked under the arch then went down the steps.

I finished my sherry, clapped for the waiter, then paid my bill. I followed the dancers down the steps to the narrow cobbled Calle de Cuchilleros. At the bottom of the steps, just to the left of the arch, was the Club Arco de Cuchilleros.

Located in a cave carved back under the Plaza Mayor, in one of the oldest sections of Madrid, the Arco de Cuchilleros was probably several hundred years old. I imagined that Goya might have sat in the same place to watch a dancer.

It was early, and only a few other patrons sat at the small tables facing a darkened stage. It was between shows, and on stage a row of empty straight back chairs awaited the arrival of the cuadro flamenco. A single guitarist plucked out the complicated, intricate falsettas to Bulerias. I was given a table in the front row, and I ordered a brandy.

Speaking Spanish a man sitting at the next table asked "Don't I know you?"

I turned to look at him. "Yes," I replied. "I was in your restaurant in Zaragosa once." I offered my hand to him.

The man was Manolo el cojo, the famous gypsy flamenco dancer and teacher. I had lunched in his place on the day that I was driving back from Barcelona, just after I arrived in Spain.

"You are about to see a miracle," Manolo said in his raspy cante hondo singer's voice.

"So I've heard," I said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Gracias," Manolo said. "Un thiento tres."

While I had been absorbed with base negotiations, economics and the deployment of military hardware a phenomenal occurrence had taken place in the world of Spanish dance and flamenco. While we waited for the dancers to come on stage Manolo told me about Carmina de los Reyes.

Carmina danced almost from the time that she took her first steps in her family's tiny whitewashed house in the Triana section of Sevilla. She continued to dance on the streets and in the bars and tascas along the Calle Sierpes in Sevilla until one day through fate or coincidence she met Manolo el cojo, the finest dance coach in Spain.

Manolo the crippled was the antithesis of what a flamenco dancer should look like, but this balding, paunchy middle aged man, with one leg two inches shorter than the other, knew more about flamenco dancing than any man alive. He knew and felt what the dance critics call honda de cara, the facial expressions that range between agony and orgasmic ecstacy. He knew and understood honda de manos, the artistry used by dancers to sclupt air with their hands. And when Manolo saw Carmina dance in a taska called El Rincon del Gitano Flaco in Sevilla's Barrio de Santa Cruz, he knew that he had at last found the medium through which he could express his genius.

With meticulous, painstaking, attention to detail Manolo refined Carmina's intuitive, God given, talent until every trace of vulgarity had been removed. It was only when Manolo felt that Carmina knew and understood as much as he, and in his opinion had become the incarnation of artistic purity, that he presented Carmina to the Madrid public.

Now, in the Club Arco de Cuchilleros, the lights went up, the dancers walked on stage to sit on the straight back chairs. Wearing red, green, purple and blue polka dot gypsy dresses they were as colorful as an Easter basket or an Andalucian patio.

Carmina wore a long white dress with a ruffled skirt. The top of the dress revealed her smooth brown back, bare shoulders and arms. Her black hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her long neck.

The cuadro went through their routine of piro-po-po's and Sevillanas. Carmina seemed to restrain herself so as not to upstage her companions, but even in restraint she shimmered with her unique abilities. She was a thoroughbred; she could not hide it.

The other dancers left the stage. The lights were lowered and Carmina, sitting alone on a straight backed chair, began to weave her spell.

She transported us to a gypsy cave lighted only by candlelight, and in the shadows were two guitarists sitting on straight back chairs. They leaned their heads over the guitars on their thighs to listen to their own music. Their fingers crawled over the strings like spiders as they went through the intricate falsettas to Soleares.

From the side of the stage came the raspy voice of a cante hondo singer in a protracted lamentation like an Islamic muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.

The singer walked to where Carmina was seated and for several minutes he stood beside her repeating his lamentations while the guitars played in counterpoint.

Carmina rose from the chair, and in two quick feline steps she was in the center of the stage where she stood, back arched, head erect, face turned upward.

The guitarists followed Carmina's lead. Slowly her left hand moved in serpentine rhythm with the guitars. Her left arm rose until it was fully extended above her to complete an arc with her right arm which was thrust downward behind her.

The guitars stopped. The lamentations ceased. She was Aphrodite, and the focus of all attention.

"Ole," I said.

The guitars started again, and Carmina ebbed and flowed from the guitarists then back to the singer. Her hands and arms undulated like the wings of an angel in flight. With their music the singer and guitarists charmed her, and with her body she seduced them. Her face was illuminated with the torment of creating and the sweet agony of release. The tempo of the music increased. She swayed, lifted her skirt and clicked her heels against the floor. Pulling a comb from the back of her head she let her hair fall over her face, and she taunted the guitarists like a wild creature with a final explosive flourish.

The lights were lowered. There was a deafening silence. Then the room was filled with shouts.

"Ole!" "Bravo!" "Viva la Carmina," the people screamed.

Carmina de los Reyes burst upon the Madrid flamenco scene as a meteor flashes across an inky midnight sky. Myriads of other dancers were paled by the brilliance of Carmina's art and talent. Overnight this tall slender gypsy girl from the Triana section of Sevilla became to the art of flamenco dancing what Manolete had been to bullfighting, numero uno, the greatest, the most adored, the most worshipped. When Carmina danced critics raved, women wept and men lost their hearts to her. Carmina was the essence of grace. She was poetry in motion.

That such talent, natural beauty, grace and duende, the spirit that motivates all art, should be combined in one person was nothing short of a miracle. The duende of dance was hidden in Carmina's soul, and it used her arms and body to express itself. But Carmina had a secret that very few people knew.

After several minutes of applause, the lights went up. Carmina threw kisses to the crowd, accepted bouquets of flowers and finally bowed and left the stage. The other dancers returned.

"If you'll excuse me," Manolo said. "Carmina and I have a little routine that we do together. Please don't leave." He laughed and pushed himself up from the chair then limped to an exit door.

The dancers on stage went through several more routines. The girls danced Sevillanas, a man and a woman together did la Petenera, then they again all left the stage. The lights were lowered. A set to make the stage appear like a dance studio was moved in place. The lights went up. Manolo, followed by a guitarist, limped on stage.

From the door in the set came a knock. Manolo limped to the door, opened it and greeted Carmina who was supposed to be coming for a dance lesson.

"We're going to work on Alegrias de Cádiz today, Carmina," Manolo said.

"Muy bien," Carmina said and dropped her purse on a chair. When this number is performed in a regular performance, and not as a staged dance lesson, the dancer wears a black traje corto, the high waisted, tight fitting trouser suit that is worn with a short jacket over a ruffled bullfighter's shirt.

For this performance, however, Carmina, who was supposed to have just come off the street, was wearing a pair of tight fitting jeans that looked as though they had been molded to her slim hips. Over her breasts and the upper part of her body she wore a sleeveless white silk blouse tied in a knot to expose her bare stomach.

Manolo told the guitarist to start.

Carmina slipped into the zapateado passage in which the dancer using heel and toe taps out an increasingly complex staccato of rhythms.

Manolo interrupted her. The guitarist stopped playing "No, no," he said and limped to the center of the stage. "Like this."

The guitar started again, and Manolo tapped out a fiery heel and toe staccato. All traces of his limp were gone.

The audience applauded.

Manolo and Carmina danced together. They were the incarnation of the shape of motion and grace.

Manolo moved to the side of the stage, and Carmina continued. Her long brown body was liquid fire. As she reached the climax her hair was a swirl of glistening black, and the frenzy of her passion had the excitement of love making. The expression on her face was as though she looked at the face of God. It was pure ecstacy. So intense was the emotion she radiated I could feel a flicker of fire in my own loins.

Before Carmina had finished the room rocked with applause and shouts of ole. It was clear why they called this particular dance Alegrias. Alegrias is happiness.

Manolo and Carmina bowed, smiled and blew kisses to the audience. They were both happy with their performance, and it showed.

Ten minutes later Manolo limped back to the table with Carmina on his arm.

"I'm sorry," Manolo said. "I don't know your name." "Stuart," I said. "Pete Stuart," I kissed Carmina's hand.

"You were wonderful."

"Thank you," she said and smiled. "Won't the two of you join me," I said.

"Thank you," she said. They both sat down.

"You're an American?" she asked, speaking Spanish. "Yes," I replied.

"In the Air Force?" she asked.

"No, I'm in the embassy." I pulled out two of my cards and handed one to her. "Su servidor." I gave the other card to Manolo.

She took the card and looked at it then slipped it under her blouse.

"Can I invite the two of you to dinner?" I asked.

Carmina looked at Manolo.

"Thank you," he said, but I'm an old man. "I want to take a nap. We still have one more performance to do."

"At what time?" I asked.

"At one o'clock," he said. "Carmina, you can go if you're hungry. Just be back at one. I can't do it alone."

"What time is it now?" she asked with hesitation in her voice.

I looked at my watch.

"It's just after ten o'clock," I said.

She again looked at Manolo.

"Go ahead, niña. Es un diplomatico," Manolo said.

"I can't go like this," she said. She was still dressed in her jeans and white blouse. "I'll change. It will just take me a minute."

Carmina returned in less than fifteen minutes, dressed in a simple black dinner dress. Around her neck she wore a plain gold chain and cross. With her natural radiance she needed no adornments.

"We can walk down the street to Botin's, go around the corner to Casa Paco's or take a taxi to Horcher's," I said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know Madrid," she said. "What ever you say."

"Let's go to Horcher's," I said and looked at Manolo.

Manolo nodded his approval, and we walked out to the street to hail a taxi.

For the third time in a month I was once again in Horcher's and it was still the perfect place for two young people to celebrate; the lighting was soft, the tables were covered with stiff red linen tablecloths, and set with fine bone ivory colored china; an array of gold plated knives forks, spoons and, crystal glasses reflected the candlelight.

"I can't believe this is happening to me," Carmina said after we had ordered.

"I know exactly what you mean," I said. "I have to keep pinching myself to make sure that I'm not dreaming."

Their waiter poured wine into the oversize red wine glasses. I raised my glass in a toast.

"Here's to Carmina, and to what I know will be a long and exciting career."

"I hope so," she said and smiled.

"I know so," I replied.

"How do you know?" she asked. "Do you tell fortunes?"

"No," I laughed. "I just know what I see, and tonight I saw a miracle. You don't know how good you are, do you? You don't know that you're the best?"

"Oh I know I'm pretty good, but I have to get better. You can never stop reaching," she said and sipped her wine. "Let me have your hand," she said. "I want to look at your palm."

I turned my palm up and she took it in her hand to look at it. "Do you tell fortunes?" I asked.

"I'm a gypsy," she replied and smiled. "Do you like bullfighting?" she asked, still looking at my palm.

"Yes," I said.

"It's a good thing you are not a bullfighter. You should stay away from bulls. Bulls are not good to you."

She closed the fingers of my palm and looked into my eyes. She smiled.

"I can't read your palm. There is something cunning, baffling and powerful in your hand, but I can't read it. You should just stay away from bulls."

We finished dinner then walked to the Cafe Gijon for coffee. Carmina did not know of the Cafe Gijon, but several people recognized her. She seemed surprised when they stopped at the table to congratulate her, and I wondered how long her pure innocence would last under the soul eroding onslaught of fame.

"I'm going to tell you a secret," she said speaking English with a slight New York accent.

For the entire evening we had spoken Spanish and I was flabbergasted to hear her speak English. "I didn't know you spoke English," I said.

She leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. "I'm an American from New York."

I looked at her and smiled. "I don't believe you," I said.

"Why would I lie?" she smiled at me. Reaching into her purse she pulled out an American passport and handed it to me.

I opened the passport; it was hers. "Does Manolo know?" I asked and returned the passport to her.

"Yes, of course" she said. "Outside of my family only you and Manolo know." She looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary. "I'm really a gypsy, and my mother and father are from Triana, but I was born and raised in Brooklyn. I decided if I was going to be a dancer I wanted to learn in Triana, so I went to live with my aunt and uncle. The rest of the myth about me is true. I danced barefoot in the bars and taskas along La Calle Sierpes; I met Manolo in the Rincon del Gitano Flaco, and he has taught me all that I know." She smiled and then giggled. "Aren't I terrible?" she said.

"Not really," I said. "I think you are not only very talented as a dancer. You are very smart about handling your life, and promoting yourself."

We taxied back to the Arco de Cuchilleros in time for her next performance, and I stayed to watch her. Like any great artist each performance was unique and a work of art unto itself. When she finished she looked at me, smiled and winked.

I said goodnight to both Manolo and Carmina, and returned to the apartment. I was still lonely, but filled with a good feeling that I had known Carmina de los Reyes before fame had eroded her wide eyed innocence, and I loved sharing her secret.

Over the next Two weeks I went to the Arco de Cuchilleros several times to see Carmina dance, and later Carmina left Madrid for Paris to begin a world-wide tour that would take her to Paris, London, New York, Mexico City and Buenos Aires. I went to the airport with Carmina and Manolo.

"I want to thank you for all that you've done for me," she said. She was excited, and barely able to contain herself.

"I didn't do anything for you," I said.

"Oh that dinner that we had was the most wonderful night I've ever had," she said. "I'll never forget it."

"Neither will I," I said. "You were just what I needed at the time that I needed it." I embraced her.

"Don't forget to stay away from bulls," she said and laughed.

Iberia announced the departure of her flight.

"Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye," I said, and kissed her on the cheek. I turned to Manolo.

Manolo embraced me and shook my hand. He was as excited as Carmina. "Goodbye, Pete," he said.

"Goodbye, Manolo."

Together we walked to the gate. Carmina seemed to glide, with an etherial grace. Manolo limped along beside her.

I hoped that, even though she was an American, she would never lose that quality of the little gypsy girl from Triana who was as awed by her talent as was the public who adored her.

* * * * *

Early Saturday afternoon I called Marsha to tell her about the assignment in Libya.

"Will it be dangerous?" she asked.

"I don't think so." I said. "Unless it's the danger of dying of boredom. I don't think Libya is all that exciting."

"When will you be leaving?" she asked.

"They want me down there about the middle of July," I replied. "I'm waiting for a cable out of Washington for the exact date."

"How long will you be there?" she asked.

"Until sometime in October. It depends on how the base negotiations go," I replied.

"I guess there's no point in my coming back to Madrid, then, is there?" she said.

"Not unless you just want to see me before I leave," I said. "Oh, I do want to see you," she said. "I miss you terribly, but I don't want to sit around Madrid all summer by myself."

"Well, why don't you just stay in California until I know for sure when I'll be back here," I said.

"That's what I'd like to do," she said. "Is that okay with you?" "Sure," I said.

"Thanks, Pete," she said.

"Por nada," I said and laughed.

"I love you. Goodbye," she said.

"I love you. Goodbye."

I had no more than cradled the phone when it rang, and I picked it up on the first ring. "Hello," I said. "What are you doing, sitting on top of the telephone?" It was Marge Winslow-Chamberlain.

"Marge!" I said. "I was just talking to Marsha. How are you?"

"We're fine," she said. "We're all settled in here in Madrid, and we're having a few friends over for drinks tonight. Are you free?" "I'm not free, but I don't charge much," I said. "What time do you want me?"

She laughed. "About seven," she said. "I've got some good news for you."

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a surprise. I'll tell you tonight," she teased.

"I'll see you then," I said, and dropped the receiver in the cradle. It rang again, and I picked it up. "Hello," I said.

"Pete, Andre Dubois here."

"Hello, Andre," I said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, Pete, just fine. I called to thank you for your help on getting the food program renewed," he said.

"I didn't do anything," I said.

"Oh yes you did," Andre said. "That little tip you gave me the other night was just what I needed to know when I needed to know it." "I figured as much," I said. "I was flabbergasted when the Commandant of the Guardia Civil spoke out to propose the continuation of the program."

"Yes, I heard about that," Andre said. "Those Vatican Diplomats have a convoluted way of doing business, but they know what they're doing. They get results, too."

"God moves in strange ways his wonders to perform," I said.

Andre laughed. "Isn't that the truth," he said. "I guess it's back to business as usual."

"Yes, I guess so," I said. "I've still got a few things to do to clean up the afterbirth, and then I'm going down to Libya in July for about three months."

"Libya? What are you going to do in Libya?" he asked.

"Work on base negotiation. The same thing I did here."

"Well, be careful down there. The Libyans are not like the Spaniards," he said.

"So I've heard."

"Very good, Pete. I just wanted to thank you. Let me know if I can be of any help to you." "Thank you, Andre, Goodbye." I cradled the phone. It rang again, and I picked it up on the first ring. "Hello," I said.

"Pete?" "Yes."

"This is Carmen MacGregor. I just called to thank you for your help in getting the food program renewed."

"I'll tell you the same thing that I just told Andre," I said. "I had nothing to do with it. It was all handled at the Highest level."

"I don't believe that," she said. "I think you're just being modest." "Modesty is not one of my long suits," I said. "I swear to you. I had nothing to do with it, but I'm glad it was renewed." "Have it your way," she said and laughed. "Pete, I'm going to be making a trip down to Valencia on an inspection tour. I wondered if you might like to go with me?"

"When are you going?" I asked.

"Next week," she said. "Since I last talked to you I've been down to see Father Dino in Tarifa. I agree with you. He's a fantastic man. I want to pass on some of his ideas to theother priests."

"I would like to go with you, but I've still got some work to do on the negotiations, and them I'm going to Libya. Can I get back to you later in the week?"

"Libya! What for?" she asked.

"Same old stuff, base negotiations," I said.

"Well be careful down there," she said.

"That's what everybody says," I laughed. "I just had my palm read by a gypsy, and she didn't say anything about being careful in Libya."

"Oh really?" Carmen said. "What did she tell you?" "She told me to be careful around bulls. She said there was something cunning, baffling and powerful in my hand but she couldn't read it." I laughed again. "Really? She used those words?" Carmen asked.

"More or less, the Spanish equivalent," I said. "I think she said artificioso, burlon y poderoso."

"My God!" Carmen exclaimed. "That's a line out of the "Big Book" of Alcoholics Anonymous."

"No kidding," I said. "Maybe I should be careful with alcohol as well as bulls."

"Maybe you should," Carmen said. "More will be revealed."

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "More will be revealed is also and AA saying."

"Speaking of alcohol, how is our friend Morgan O'Rourke doing? Did she ever call you?" I asked.

"Yes," Carmen said. "She's going to AA meetings?" "No kidding! That's terrific!" I said.

"I think it is," Carmen said. "She's doing all right."

"It sounds like it," I said.

"Who was the gypsy who read your palm?" Carmen asked.

"Her name is Carmina de los Reyes. She's a dancer. You should go see her; she's terrific," I said.

"I like her name," she said. "Where does she dance?"

"In the Arco de Cuchilleros, down by the Plaza Mayor," I said.

"Oh yes, I know the place. Maybe I will go and see her," she said. "If I can be of any help to you just call me," she said. "Once again thanks for your help. Goodbye."

"Por nada, and I mean nada," I said. "Thanks for the invite to Valencia. I'll call you about going. Goodbye." I hung up.

The good news that Marge had was that she and Ralph had rented a cottage in San Sebastian for the summer, and that I was invited as often as I would like to go. I told them about the Libyan Assignment, and that Marsha was coming back to Madrid, then Marge invited Marsha and the children to San Sebastian. Marge said Marsha and the children could spend the summer there while I was in North Africa. The next day I passed the invitation on to Marsha, and to my surprise she accepted; the following week Carmen MacGregor and I left together for what was to be eventful trip to Valencia and along the coast to Castellon de la Plana, Taragona and Barcelona. Had Carmen known in advance what we would find in Valencia, I am not sure that she would not have asked me to accompany her.

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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