COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 8

The next morning Andre Dubois called to invite me for lunch in the Restaurant Gayango, a small simple place just off the Gran Via, that had been a favorite of Ernest Hemingway during his reign in Spain. The walls were covered with photographs of Papa sitting at tables, loaded with food, wine bottles and glasses, holding court in the company of famous American movie actors, actresses, bullfighters and the owner of the restaurant. Andre brought his assistant, Carmen MacGregor, with him.

Carmen, was no more the ascetic, missionary, social worker than was Andre. Carmen was the product of the marriage of a Scots-American engineer and a Spanish lady of an aristocratic family in the early 1920s. Carmen, although born in Spain, was an American citizen, unmarried, slender and elegant. Like Andre, she was stylish, polished and shrewd.

Andre tended to be liberal in his politics and outlook on life. He was easy going and tried to do the right thing that would keep everybody happy. Carmen however was rigid, conservative and picky. She had never married, and was a feminist before the word had become fashionable. She was the only American I ever met who went to Spain to fight on the side of Franco during the Spanish civil war. It did not take me long to realize that there was no love lost between Carmen and Andre.

Carmen was in favor of putting pressure on Caridad to improve their operations, tighten controls and expand their services to unwed mothers and fatherless children. The church did not wish to encourage what in its view was promiscuity, and Andre did not like to make waves. He tried to maintain a balance between the demands of his New York Head Office, the American Embassy and the conservative hierarchy of the Spanish Catholic Church.

Andre's was a delicate and sensitive job since every one had their own agendas, their own axes to grind. However, when push came to shove in any dispute, it was whatever the American Embassy wanted that prevailed.

I soon learned that whenever there was an internal argument about anything, and there were many, I would be lobbied and courted by Andre, Carmen or the Caridad powers in attempts to sway my opinion, which would in most cases ultimately become the embassy position.

The things that both Andre and Carmen agreed upon were that they both wanted to continue their jobs in Spain. They were both afraid of one another, the embassy and anything else that presented a threat to their tenure. I found it quite easy to play one of them against the other. For kid from it was a heady, power laden Machiavellian experience.

The waiter put a pitcher of Valdepeñas wine on the table and took our orders. I picked up the pitcher and poured the wine. Carmen held her hand over her glass. "I'll just have water," she said. She ordered a bottle of agua mineral.

"I wanted to get together and talk about your trip to Andalucia," Andre said after we had all ordered lunch. "I'm especially interested in your remark at the ambassador's residence about getting the PL 480 legislation changed. What did you have in mind, Pete?"

"Just what I said," I replied. "I think your head office needs to give Congress the facts of life about the way feeding programs really work, and get this prohibition against charging for the food removed."

"That's a complete reversal from the previous attitude of the embassy," he said.

"No it's not," I said. "The embassy position is and always has been that we have to abide by the law. We simply recognize that maybe the law needs to be changed. It's in your interest, by that I mean CCS's interest, to get it changed."

"That would have implications that go beyond Spain," Andre said.

"I know that," I said. "There are certain conditions under which allowing the people to make small donations is appropriate. Do you know a priest named Father Dino Garibaldi?" I asked. "He's down in Tarifa."

"No, Andre" replied.

"He's doing some interesting work. I think it would be worth while for you and Carmen to go down there, and see for yourselves what he's doing."

"Make a note of that name, Carmen," Andre said. Carmen had an open spiral secretary's note book on the table, and she made a notation in it.

"Father Dino Garibaldi, in Tarifa?" she asked to confirm what I had said.

"Yes, I replied then gave them a rundown on what Dino was doing; the way he used the left over flour sacks and oil and cheese cans, and a little about his philosophy of "leveraging up the people" by instilling in them a sense of personal dignity and self©worth.

"He sounds interesting," Andre said. "Maybe we could all take a trip down there together?"

"I don't have the time to go back now," I said. "There's a lot more than Andalucia to look into, but you and Carmen could go."

The waiter served our food, and Andre refilled the glasses with wine. Carmen covered her glass again with her hand.

"There's another thing that I noticed on my trip, Andre. There's no exchange of information among the priests. Everybody is trying to discover the wheel for himself. If he happens to find it there's no forum he can use to get the word of his discovery out to others who could use it."

"I don't think I know what you mean, Pete." Andre said. "We have meetings, and bring all the Bishops into Madrid once a year." He sounded defensive.

"I don't mean the Bishops," I said. "I mean the frontline troopers, the parish priests."

"We couldn't possibly bring all the priests in Spain to Madrid. There are too many of them. The cost would be prohibitive," he argued.

"I don't mean bring them into Madrid," I said. "Your Spanish counterpart Caridad could print up a little newsletter of things that the priests are doing. Let the priests tell in their own words, how they are 'leveraging up the people,' trying new things, and the things they are finding that work."

"Yes," Andre said. "They could do that." I had the impression that Andre was a little dismayed by the interest that I was showing in the details of the program.

"Bill Shannon was not concerned with these operational details," Andre said.

"Well, we all know that Bill Shannon got fired, so his way is not the way that we want to continue, is it?" I said. "At least it's not the way I want to continue."

Andre laughed. "No, no it isn't."

"Look, Andre," I said. "I know that I'm a new kid on the block, and that you and Carmen have been in this business for a long time. You've both seen a lot more than I have. You know all the tricks, pitfalls and danger points. You're poverty professionals. You've both been trafficking in misery a hell of a lot longer than I have."

Carmen blushed with anger at my choice of words to describe their work. "Trafficking in misery! Next you'll be calling us poverty pimps," she said.

Andre glanced at Carmen, and with his eyes he told her to shut up.

"I didn't mean to disparage what you're doing," I said. "I respect both of you. I was trying to say that you know a lot more about this business than I do. Sometimes a fresh look at things by a person not burdened with background can be useful."

"I agree, Pete," Andre said trying to get the waters calmed.

"What else did you have in mind?"

"I think you and Caridad can do more to set up a forum or medium where priests can share information. Caridad can show more initiative in feeding ideas to priests. Caridad needs more professionals on their staff."

I told them how a Father Anselmo who had adopted some ideas from Father Dino, and about other priests who, because of a lack of interest or knowledge, were not doing anything innovative. I gave Andre and Carmen a textbook Foreign Service Institute lecture about transfer of technology through replication and the use of the multiplier effect.

"Caridad needs to become more professional, more concerned with the physical and psychological needs of the people, and less concerned with their souls."

"You know we have a very conservative clergy in Spain," Andre said. "There are many Bishops who don't agree that the Church should be involved in meeting people's material needs at all."

"Send those Bishops down to talk to Father Dino. He believes that if you help the people to help themselves, become self-supporting through their own efforts, their spiritual life will take care of itself. He believes that people are basically good, and they want to do the right thing."

"That's my philosophy, too, Pete," Andre said.

Carmen, who had been taking notes during the conversation put her pen on the table. "Is Father Dino doing anything to help unwed mothers?" she asked.

"I didn't notice anything targeted specifically toward that group," I said. "I think Dino believes that unwed mothers have the same problems of survival as anyone else, and like any priest, he probably wants to deal with the issue in an unrealistic way. Go to the source of the problem."

"You mean celibacy, abstinence?" she asked.

"That's exactly what I mean," I said.

"If that's what he believes, you're right about him being unrealistic," she said.

"I know. He's working against Mother Nature, and she's a powerful control officer," I said and smiled at both of them.

We finished lunch. Andre asked me to join him for coffee in a nearby cafe, but I declined the invitation. "I want to get back to the embassy," I said. "I have to get a report of my trip drafted."

We walked together to the Plaza de Callao on the Gran Via and stopped in front of Galerias Preciados, one of Madrid's largest department stores. The sidewalk cafes were filled with the after lunch crowd. "Where are you going next? Andre asked.

"I haven't decided," I said. "I'll see you later, ciao." I hailed a taxi and rode back to the embassy.

* * * * *

For the next few months, as the year came to an end, life in the embassy was quiet. I busied myself with work in the office or with field work around Madrid that did not require travel overnight. Marsha and I had Thanksgiving dinner with Frank and Frieda Harrison; the Harrisons were the most delightful, and most typically American couple in the Embassy. They had three children including Nancy, a daughter about the age of Laurie, and Kit, a very precocious teenager who was both attractive and vivacious. Christmas Eve was spent with Andre Dubois and his family. Carmen MacGregor was also invited to Andre's, and Carmen and I had an opportunity to talk for the first time. I had gotten the impression that Carmen was a little bit officious and aggressive, but in the course of the evening I learned that my impressions had been wrong.

Carmen, Andre, and his family had all been to mass that evening, and they were fasting until midnight, so we all celebrated a typical Spanish "Noche Buena." Andre played his guitar, we listened to and sang Christmas Carols, and drank and snacked until midnight, when Andre's wife, Holly, served a full turkey dinner with all of the trimmings.

I was the embassy duty officer over the Christmas and New Year's holidays, and I gave Andre's telephone number to the Marine guard at the embassy as the place where I could be reached. The guard transferred a number of welfare and protection calls about American citizens who had been arrested for drunk driving, public drunkenness or disorderly conduct, but all of the calls were about military personnel. The embassy's Welfare and Protection Officer had already set up a special arrangement with the Military Police at Torrejon Air Force Base whereby the MPs would handle the military cases, so I did not have to do anything. I did spend much of the evening on the telephone, however, talking to the commandante of the First Brigade of the Madrid Police, and the MP Officer-in-charge at Torrejon AFB.

We had just finished eating, at about one o'clock Christmas morning, when the Marine guard transferred a non-military call to me at Andre's house. Andre's maid answered the phone then called me.

"Merry Christmas, this is Pete Stuart," I said. "I'm the duty officer, can I help you?" "Dahling," a woman with a husky, theatrical, whiskey and cigarette baritone voice said. "I've just come back from Tangier and I've heard that Morgan O'Rourke is in jail."

"Oh really," I said. "Who's Morgan O'Rourke?"

"Is this the American Embassy?" she asked.

"Yes it is," I replied.

"And you don't know who Morgan O'Rourke is?"

"No I don't," I said. "Should I know who Morgan O'Rourke is?"

"You most certainly should. Morgan is a very important American living in Madrid, and a dear friend of Ambassador and Mrs. Walker." The baritone voice dropped the right name.

"I see," I said. "Well, I'm just the duty officer, and I don't know all of Ambassador Walker's friends. Why is Morgan in jail?"

"That's the reason I called you," the baritone voice said. "Maybe I should just call Bob Walker."

"There's no need to call the ambassador on Christmas Eve," I said. "If Morgan is an American citizen in distress, I can help you, and Morgan, too, I hope."

"Good," she barked.

"What makes you think that Morgan O'Rourke is in jail?" I asked.

"I called her house, and her maid told me," she said. "The maid said the police came and took her away."

"I see," I said. The thought that Morgan O'Rourke was a woman had not entered my mind. "Do you know why they took her away?"

"No, that's why I'm calling you," she said, exasperation was creeping into her voice.

"The only thing I can tell you is that we have not received any calls from Morgan or about her. Do you have any idea what jail Morgan might be in?" "None," she said. "I think I will just call Bob Walker."

"Do you know what time it is?" I asked, but did not wait for her answer. For the first time I heard the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass come over the line. "I'm not sure the ambassador is home tonight. I think he's gone out of town for the holidays," I lied. "However, if you wish to, you can try him."

"I don't want to bother Bob on Christmas Eve," she said. "I want you to help me."

"I'm trying to help you," I said. "But first I have to find out what you know."

"I've told you all I know. Now what are you going to do?"

"Is there a number where I can call you back?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm at home," she said and gave me her telephone number.

"And your name, please?"

"My name is Bankhead," she said. "And you are?"

"My name is Pete Stuart, I'm the duty officer. I'll see what I can find out about Morgan and call you right back."

I cradled the receiver and walked back out to the living room to pick up my Duty Officer's Handbook in a large three ring binder. This contained instructions on how to handle emergencies, and an embassy telephone list. I looked up the number of Kate Farnsworth, a young woman FSO who was the embassy's Welfare and Protection Officer. I excused myself from the party and walked back to the phone and dialed.

A servant answered, and I waited while Kate came to the phone. From the music and laughter in the background I could tell that Kate was having a party at her house, too.

"Merry Christmas, this is Kate Farnsworth."

"Merry Christmas, Kate, Pete Stuart here. I'm the duty officer, and I just had a call from a woman named Bankhead who was calling about another woman named Morgan O'Rourke. Bankhead claims that Morgan is in jail. She says Morgan's maid told her the police came and took Morgan away. Bankhead also dropped the name of Morgan's good friend Bob Walker. Does any of this mean anything to you?"

"A little bit," Kate said. "Morgan O'Rourke does know Ambassador Walker and his wife, and Morgan's been in jail before for disturbing the peace."

"Well Morgan hasn't called for any assistance, and her friend Bankhead keeps saying that she'll call the ambassador," I said. "I doubt that the ambassador wants to handle this case on Christmas Eve or any other time."

"I know he doesn't want to know anything about it," Kate said. "The reason Morgan hasn't called is probably because she's passed out. She has a little problem with alcohol."

"Well, what do we do now?" I asked.

"Let me make a couple of phone calls, and call you back." "Okay," I said and gave her Andre's phone number.

Ten minutes later Kate called back.

"Morgan is passed out in a back room of the seventh comisario de barrio, the same as a precinct. The watch commander will release her to anyone from the American Embassy who wants to take her home," Kate said.

"So now what?" I asked.

"I can go," Kate said. "I've done it before, but I've got a party going here. Would you mind going?"

"Well, I'm the duty officer," I said. "Sure, I'll go."

"I'd appreciate it. It's really easy, Pete. The watch officer knows the drill. Morgan will be all contrite, and hung over. All you have to do is take her home."

"Okay, thanks, Kate. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, Pete, and thank you. If you need anything call me," Kate said.

I called Miss Bankhead to tell her that Morgan should be home in a few hours, then called for the duty driver to pick me up.

Returning to the party I told Andre and the others that I would have to leave.

"Some trouble on Christmas Eve?" Andre asked.

"Not really," I said. "An American citizen had a little too much Christmas cheer, and she's in jail."

"Can I go with you and help?" Carmen asked.

"There's no need, Carmen, but I thank you," I replied.

"I'd like to go, I might be of some help to you," she insisted.

"All right, come along," I said.

We wished everyone a Merry Christmas, said goodnight, and took the elevator downstairs. The duty driver had already arrived and we slipped into the back seat of the black embassy sedan. "For this I got a college degree?" I said as I slumped into the seat.

"Why are you bothering to do this?" Carmen asked.

"The woman who called claims that Morgan O'Rourke is a friend of the ambassador, and she kept threatening to call him. I figured it's easier to take care of it than have the ambassador bothered on Christmas Eve."

Christmas Eve is the most holy and family oriented of holidays in Spain, and the streets were deserted. "Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," or a taxi. All of the restaurants and cafes were closed. Christmas Eve is probably the only night of the year when the Gran Via is not jammed with people, even at two or three o'clock in the morning.

The driver pulled the car up in front of an old building that had a sinister facade. It looked as though it could have once belonged to the Spanish Inquisition. Two Policia Armada wearing long grey overcoats stood on either side of the narrow doorway. Carmen and I climbed out of the car to enter.

The Septima Comisario de Barrio, was like any police precinct station in the world. Officers sat at desks pouring over paper work. Others stood under the bright florescent lights talking, laughing and drinking coffee, and the commandante de torno, watch commander, was seated in a glass enclosed cubicle.

I showed the commander my identification, we shook hands, the officer offered coffee, then ordered another officer to fetch la señorita.

Ten minutes later the officer returned with his hand on Morgan O'Rourke's bare arm to steady her.

Dressed in a long black evening dress and wearing a single strand of pearls, Morgan was a woman who had once been beautiful, but in that moment she would not have wanted a mirror. Her makeup was smeared, her cheeks were streaked with mascara, and her hair looked as though it had been combed with an eggbeater, but everything about her shouted money, class and power. The clothes and jewelry were expensive, discreet and understated. A silver fox stole hung over her shoulder. From the police forms I knew that she admitted to forty eight years old.

"Miss O'Rourke, I'm Pete Stuart, the embassy duty officer. Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, Mr. Stuart, Merry Christmas to you," she said and managed a slight smile. "I thank you for coming out tonight. This is terribly embarrassing." She had a husky baritone voice like her friend who had called on the telephone.

"No problem, not to worry," I said. "If you're ready we can go now."

"I'm ready," she said then turned to the watch officer and offered her hand. "Buenas noches, Teniente, Feliz Navidad."

The watch commander clicked his heals, bowed and kissed her hand. "Buenas noches, señorita, Feliz Navidad."

I introduced Morgan to Carmen, said goodnight to the watch officer, and we walked back to the car. Carmen and Morgan rode in the back seat and I slipped in the front beside the driver.

"God, this is excruciatingly painful," Morgan sighed. "I just have to stop drinking. I can't handle it. I go crazy."

"You don't ever have to drink again, if you don't want to," Carmen said in a soft, but firm steady voice.

I turned to look in the back seat. I had noticed that Carmen did not drink, but I thought nothing of it. There was something in the tone of her voice when she spoke to Morgan, though, that told me that Carmen knew what she was talking about.

Apparently, Morgan had the same impression. She looked at Carmen with wide eyes, as though the idea that she never had to take another drink if she didn't want to was a revelation. "You know, you're right, Carmen," Morgan said. "I don't have to ever drink again."

"You don't have to drink today," Carmen said. "And if you don't drink today, one day at a time, you won't ever drink again."

"God, that's so simple! Why didn't I think of that?"

Carmen reached in her purse and pulled out a card. "Here's my card with my telephone number, both at home and at work. If you want to stop drinking, I might be able to help you," She said. "You can call me later today. I'll be home. If you'd like I can take you to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Alcoholics Anonymous! Here in Madrid?" Morgan asked.

"Yes, it's a nice group. Mostly foreigners. I think you'd like them," she replied.

The car pulled up in front of an elegant old town house on the Calle Rios Rosas in one of Madrid's most exclusive and fashionable sections.

"Would you like me to go upstairs with you?" Carmen asked.

"Thanks, no. I can manage, but I will call you later," Morgan said. She reached over the seat and offered me her hand. "And thank you, Mr. Stuart."

The driver opened the door for her and Morgan slipped out. I climbed out of the car. She was still a little unsteady on her feet, but she managed to walk to the doorway and after fumbling with the keys she unlocked the door and entered. I got back in the car, Carmen gave the driver her address, and in a few minutes we were stopped again, this time in front of Carmen's apartment. It was four o'clock in the morning.

"I'd invite you up for a drink or coffee, but it's late. In another couple of hours my daughter will be clamoring for me to get up with her."

"Your daughter!" I said. "I didn't know you were even married, Carmen."

"I'm not and I never have been," she said. "Goodnight, Pete." She slipped out of the car.

"Goodnight, Carmen. Thanks for your help. I hope Morgan O'Rourke calls you. Merry Christmas."

"I hope she does, too," she said. "Merry Christmas."

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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