COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 9

The most significant political event to occur in Spain since the end of the civil war in 1939 was the signing of the military and economic cooperation agreements with the United States. Despite this alliance, with the "world's greatest democracy," and promises by Franco to allow the Spanish more democratic freedom, there was still no tolerance for political dissent in Spain.

For all practical purposes, either out of fear, lethargy or both there was no expression of opposition to anything. Franco ruled the country with an iron fist. Any manifestations of dissent were dealt with swiftly and harshly by the Policia Armada, the army and the Guardia Civil. My barber once said to me that "ante' la Guardia Civil nosotro' e'pañole' somo' todo' gitano'." When we Spanish are standing before the Guardia Civil, we're all gypsies. He was from Andalucia and he dropped his S's, but he was only half joking.

However, in January, 1962 a series of strikes in the coal mines of Asturias, and the steel mills in Bilbao were allowed to go unchallenged, and they opened a pandora's box of resentments that had been dormant but smoldering for years.

This minor success by organized labor stimulated other opposition groups to come out of the woodwork where they had been hiding. The long standing mutual hatred between the Basques and the Madrid government, in general, and the Guardia Civil in particular, suddenly flared up. It was not long before the rebellious Basque separatists, and the para military Basque underground army, ETA, were carrying out demonstrations, and acts of violence against the government, especially the Guardia Civil.

After so many years with political activity either dormant or non-existent, the embassy Political Section and the CIA also came to life. These sections at last had something to get their teeth into; they had issues they could follow and talk about with their Spanish counterparts; they had something they could report on in cables to Washington.

In so far as I was concerned, all of this new activity was interesting, and it made the ambassador's staff meetings more stimulating, but it was only peripheral to my own work in managing the PL 480 food program.

In late January I had grown weary of the incestuous socializing in Madrid and I planned another long inspection trip out through Extremadura to Badajoz, Cáceres and Jerez de los Caballeros along the border with Portugal, but I did not expect that it would be anything like my trips to Andalucia or Barcelona.

Extremadura is the region from which most of the great conquistadores came, and the road that goes straight West from Madrid toward Lisbon is referred to as la ruta de los conquistadores. Both Cortez, and Pizarro, the leaders of the conquests of Mexico and Peru, were from Extremadura.

Before starting the trip I stayed for the ambassador's morning staff meeting to get the latest on the political situation. A Guardia Civil outpost had been attacked in the Basque province of Viscaya. Two troopers had been killed. Steve Chandler, a political officer, reported that he had picked up rumors that the strikers and the Basque ETA were being supported by factions outside of Spain. It was suspected, he said, that money was being smuggled across the borders from France and Portugal, and that the Guardia Civil was stopping foreigners to make summary searches.

"If any of you should be stopped by the Guardias" the ambassador said, "you should not be provocative or arrogant, but make it clear to the Guardia that we enjoy diplomatic immunity from searches." "I would be careful with the Guardia Civil. They're probably feeling a little bit defensive," he said.

I left Madrid around noon for Extremadura driving the Peugeot. Once out of the city, on the ruta de los conquistadores, the countryside became barren and bleak. It was easy to see why the men who became the conquistadores would have wanted to leave. Extremadura was not the romantic, folkloric Spain of Andalucia and Garcia Lorca. The people in the villages looked tough and tenacious. They were as hard and dry as the soil they tilled. Unlike Sevilla it does not attract a lot of interesting foreigners or women like Angela.

I was on my way to Badajoz, but I got only as far as Merida before dark, and since I did not like to drive at night on the narrow Spanish roads, I decided to stop in the Parador, a government run hotel, at Merida.

Extremadura never attracts many tourists, or travellers, but in the dead of winter there are practically none. The wind howls across the plains; it snows, and even without snow, the cold penetrates to the marrow of your bones. I was not surprised to see only one other car when I pulled into the parking lot of the parador. It was a little English Morris Minor, and even though the car had English plates it had a left hand drive. I figured the car belonged to an American tourist who had picked it up in the U.K.

The parador in Merida is built in an old restored 15th century convent, and it is filled with wonderful art treasures, and paintings, but it was cold, damp and drafty. I checked in, cleaned up a bit, then went to the bar. A fire was burning in a huge fireplace, and a lone barman doubled as the waiter. There was one other patron sitting at a table in front of the fireplace. Dressed in ski pants and a bulky knit sweater coat over a turtle neck cashmere pullover, she was an attractive, maybe forty year old woman with shoulder length strawberry blond hair. She was reading a Feodor's Guide to Spain and Portugal. I guessed that she was American. I walked to the table beside her's and sat down. I turned to look at her, and she looked up from her book.

"Hi," I said and smiled.

"Hi," she said, and smiled back.

"Would you like some company or would you prefer to be alone and read?" I asked.

"Sure, I'd like some company," she said and folded her book. "It would be kind of silly for both of us to sit in this place by ourselves and not talk to one another."

"I agree," I said. "My name's Pete Stuart." I reached to her table and offered her my hand.

"I'm Penny Hartford," she said and took my hand. "Why don't you move over here."

"Thanks," I said and slipped to her table. "Pleased to meet you, Penny. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll have another sherry."

I called the barman, ordered a sherry for Penny and a Pernod for myself. After a little question and answer period we got our identities sorted out.

I told her who I was, and what I was doing in Spain, and Penny told me that she was a recently divorced psychologist from East Hampton, Long Island. She had picked up her car in London, shipped it to Cadiz, and had just driven up to Merida that day from Sevilla. She was on her way North through Cáceres, and Salamanca to Oviedo then Santander to tour the Basque provinces.

"You're kind of off the beaten path," I said.

"I know," she said. "I heard on the BBC news this morning that there was some trouble up in the Basque country, and I was surprised. I didn't think Franco allowed political dissent."

"He doesn't, or at least up until now he hasn't," I said. "Everybody is surprised that he has allowed these strikes to continue."

"You're in the embassy," she said. What do you think? Should I go up there alone?"

"Hell, I don't know," I said. "I Think the worst that could happen is that you could get caught in a crossfire in a shoot out between the Basques and the Guardia Civil. I can't imagine that anyone would deliberately set out to harm you. But if you're really worried you can go to Madrid first and check with the embassy. See what they say. I know they haven't issued a travel advisory on the Basque provinces."

"What's a travel advisory?" she asked.

"It's what the State Department issues when they think it's unsafe for American citizens to travel to certain areas. There's a travel advisory, for instance, on Vietnam."

"I suppose I could go to Madrid first, but I know what the embassy would say."

"What would they say?" I asked.

"We do not encourage American citizens to travel in troubled areas, and right now the Basque region is a troubled area." She picked up her sherry and sipped it. "Typical State Department stuff."

I laughed. "You're right," I said. "But they may be right, too."

We finished our drinks, and moved into the dining room for dinner. We were the only patrons, and the choices on the menu were limited and unimaginative. We both ordered consomme, salad, and grilled chicken, and asked for a pitcher of the local white wine. The big empty room was cold and drafty.

"God, this room is a good place to store meat," she said."They need a fireplace in here."

"You're not kidding," I said. "This is the coldest I've been since coming to Spain." I filled our glasses with the wine.

"How did you happen to come to Merida?" I asked.

"I came to see the Roman ruins," she said.

"God, I'm such a klutz, and so caught up with contemporary Spain, that I never thought of Spain as a place where there are Roman ruins," I said. "Are the ones here in Merida famous?"

"Oh yes," she replied. "Spain has a lot of Roman ruins. Hadrian was born in Spain."

"I knew that much," I said.

The waiter served our consomme.

"Would you like to go out with me tomorrow?" she asked. "Travelling is fun, but I get lonely. Half the fun of seeing new stuff is poking somebody else in the ribs and saying hey look at that."

"I know what you mean," I said. "Sure, I can take a few hours and go with you. I have to get to Badajoz tomorrow, but there's no hurry."

The waiter served our food and the conversation during dinner ranged over, my work, Penny's interest in art, the cave paintings at Altamira, the beauty of Andalucia, which Penny said she loved, and Tangier. She had taken the ferry from Tarifa to Tangier. When she mentioned Tarifa, I told her about Father Dino.

After dinner we moved back to the bar and the fireplace for coffee and cognac. "You've got a neat job," she said. "It's nice to meet someone who's happy in their work."

"I could not make-up, invent, fantasize or dream a better job. I love what I'm doing," I said.

"That's obvious. I envy you."

"Envy is one of the seven deadlies," I said and laughed.

"You're right." She laughed along with me. "I don't envy you. Can I buy you a another cognac?"

"Sure," I said. "But I'll teach you how to play chinos to see who pays."

"What's chinos?" she asked.

"It's a Spanish game made to kill time."

I reached in my pocket and pulled out six, five peseta coins, duros, and gave three of them to Penny. I put my hands behind my back and slipped two coins in my right hand, closed it, then held my closed fist out in front of me.

"You do the same," I said. "Put your hands behind your back, slip from zero to three coins in your closed right hand, then put it on the table, like I did."

She did the same.

"Now, the idea is to guess how many coins we hold in our two hands. There could be from zero to six," I said. "You call first."

"Okay," she said and closed her eyes. "Three."

"Four," I said and opened my fist to show the two coins. She opened her hand. She had two coins.

"You win," she said. "Now who pays?"

"According to the rules, you pay since I made the right call."

"Gee, I'm glad I met you tonight," she said. "I didn't know how lonely I was. I was in denial."

We ordered another cognac, drank it, and Penny wanted to play again for another round.

"Okay," I said, and picked up the coins to put my hands behind my back. This time I held one coin in my right fist in front of me.

"You go first," she said. "I went first last time."

"Three," I said.

She closed her eyes again like she was getting some cosmic signal. "Four" she said and opened her fist to show two coins. "You won again!" she squealed. "There's gotta be some psychology to this game."

"I don't know," I said. "You're the psychologist. Tell me what it is."

"Let's play again, just for fun. I can't drink any more."

We played several more times, and I won every time.

"How does it work," she said with exasperation.

"I think the secret is to hold two coins and call four. The odds are in your favor then," I said.

"But you held one and called three, and you won!"

"I know," I said and smiled. "There must be some psychology to the game."

The barman walked to our table and asked if we wanted another round. He was getting ready to close the bar. We both said no, and together we settled the tab then walked through the lobby toward our rooms. Away from the fire the old convent was cold.

"Would you like someone to snuggle with you tonight?" I asked. "This place is cold."

She stopped at her door. She looked at me and smiled. "I'll play chinos with you. If you win, it's yes."

"Okay," I said and reached in my pocket for the coins. I gave three coins to Penny, and took three for myself. I held my hands behind my back, put three coins in my right fist and held it out front. She did the same.

"You go first," she said.

"Five," I said.

She closed her eyes to pick up her cosmic signal. "Six," she said and opened her fist to show three coins.

"Rats! You win," I said.

"The answer is still yes." She smiled and opened the door. "Come on in."

"Just let me get my toothbrush," I said. "I'll be right back."

I picked up my toothbrush, a pair of clean shorts and my bathrobe, and returned to Penny's door. I tapped softly. Penny had already undressed and she was wearing a heavy, course wool Moroccan djelllaba, a long, hooded robe. On the floor she had spread out a five by eight Moroccan rug. Both were souvenirs from her trip to Tangier.

"Do you want to take a shower first?" she asked.

"It's too cold," I said. I'm clean."

"Me too," she said, and dropped her djelllaba then jumped in bed. She pulled the covers up to her chin. "My god, it's freezing!"

I pulled off my clothes.

"You're not kidding," I said and slipped in beside her. "But you're warm." I snuggled up to her.

"So are you," she said and slipped her hand on me and gently stroked. "You're hard, too."

"Do you want the light off? I asked.

"Do you?" she asked.

I turned to look at her. "No," I said. "I like to look at you."

"Good, I like to look at you."

I rubbed my hand over her breasts, and drew her close to me to kiss her.

"I think you're a neat man," she said.

"I think you're a neat woman." I let my hands roam over her back and body then rubbed my fingers through her pubic hair. It was soft and silky.

"You're sort of a puer aeternus," she said.

"What's that?" I asked.

"An eternal boy. It's a Jungian term," she said.

"Psychology?" I asked. I slipped my hand between her legs. She was moist and open.

"Yes," she said.

The next morning we were awakened by the sound of church bells from the chapel in the convent. We made love, then showered together.

"I think it's kinda neat to shack up in a convent," she said. "There's something perverse or ironic about it."

"It is rather ironic," I said and rubbed her body with soap. "It's even more ironic when you consider that I'm out running around checking up on priests and the Catholic Church."

She laughed. "God is going to strike us dead. We're outrageous."

"I know,"

We dried ourselves, dressed and went to the dining room for breakfast, and after eating we checked out of the parador to drive out to the Roman ruins.

We made a very quick tour, but it was too cold. A fierce bitter wind was blowing out of the North. I sat beside Penny in her car. "It looks cold and dark up where you're going," I said. "Do you want to go with me to Badajoz?"

"What would we do in Badajoz?" she asked.

"The same thing we did last night; eat, drink, play chinos and other fun and games. If you want I can take you out and introduce to you to some priests," I said and laughed.

She looked out the car window toward the North. "It does look stormy up that way," she said and looked back at me. She smiled.

I smiled at her.

"You are a puer,"

"What ever that means," I said.

"It means that you're an imp, a leprechaun, a Dionysian devil."

"All of the above," I said.

"You're also a good lay, and I'm tired of being alone. Sure, I'll go to Badajoz with you. Shall I follow you?"

*******

There was one hotel in Badajoz, and the best that could be said for the Hotel Badajoz is that it was clean, but simple. We walked together to the registration desk.

"I think we'll have to take separate rooms," I whispered to her.

"Why?" she whispered.

"The Spanish don't allow unmarried people to shack up," I whispered.

"You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not," I whispered. "Do you have your passport?"

She pulled her passport out of her purse and handed it to me. I pushed the passport and my carnet across the desk.

"Do you have a double?" I asked in Spanish.

"Si Señor, the clerk said and picked up the carnet. He looked at the name, then opened Penny's passport. He looked again at the carnet, then at me.

"Are you married?" he asked in Spanish, and blushed.

"No," I said.

He blushed again. I could tell that he didn't like what he had to say.

"I'm sorry, sir, but ah...."

"Not to worry," I said. "We'll take two singles."

We filled out the police and hotel registration forms, and pushed them to the clerk.

He gave us two keys.

"The rooms are right next to one another," the clerk said and smiled. "There's a connecting door."

We moved our bags up stairs, and opened the door that joined the two rooms.

"What hypocrisy!" Penny said when I opened the door.

"It's not hypocrisy," I said. "It's Spanish. The law says you have to be married to stay in a hotel together, and you can't break the law. You allow the breaking of one law, and who knows where it will end. The next thing is anarchy in the mind of a Spaniard."

"Call it what you want. To me it's hypocrisy."

"Okay," I said. "Do you want a coffee?"

"Sure," she replied.

I stopped at my car to pick up the Caridad reports on Badajoz, then we walked across the street to the main cafe. We both ordered cafe con leche.

I looked at the report. There were three parishes in Badajoz. "I still have time to pay a visit to a priest," I said. "Do you want to go with me?"

"Sure," she replied. "I'd love to go. I'd like to see my tax dollars at work."

"Okay, let me ask somebody where these parishes are located."

I got up, walked to the bar, and consulted with a peasant who was drinking a chato of vino tinto. There was a parish within walking distance he told me, and I returned to the table. "There's one close by," I said. "When we finish our coffee we can go."

"Great. Vámos a jugar chinos?" she asked.

"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," I said and reached in my pocket for six coins. I gave three coins to Penny.

"Just a little bit, un poco," she said.

"It sounded pretty good to me."

I held my hands behind my back and put two coins in my right fist. I put my hand on the table, and Penny did the same.

"You go first," she said.

"Four," I said.

"Three," she said and opened her hand to show one coin. She smiled when I showed my two coins.

"You win, I pay," I said.

"There is some psychology to this game," she said.

We finished our coffee, I paid the bill, and we walked a few blocks to a narrow cobbled street beside the main church. It was cold, and we turned our collars up to ward off the wind. Half way down the block we saw a group of shabbily dressed children and women standing in a line. They were bundled up in ragged heavy coats.

"There it is," I said. "Your tax dollars at work."

We walked to the doorway and looked in. Several volunteers worked behind a counter, measuring flour and oil, cutting cheese, and mixing powdered milk. There was a pail on the counter for contributions.

A portly, bespectacled priest wearing a cassock supervised the operation. I walked up to him, and Penny stood just inside, in the doorway. "Father Antonio Sanchez?" I asked.

The priest turned to look at me. "Si Señor, a sus ordenes," he replied.

I told him the purpose of the visit.

"Very good," the priest said in Spanish, and smiled. "What do you want to see?"

"Oh, the warehouse where you keep the food stored," I said. "I have a friend with me."

We walked to Penny, and I introduced them to one another. "Mucho Gusto, Padre," she said and smiled.

"It is all my pleasure," Father Antonio said in English. He was smiling, and both Penny and I could tell that he was pleased to have a visit by two Americans. The fact that one was an attractive woman made it that much better. "Come on, please, let me show you our warehouse."

We followed Father Antonio behind the counter to a large room. As usual it was clean, well swept, and dry. The milk and flour were stacked on pallets, and the oil and cheese was stored on shelves. In addition to the food there were a few drugs and medicines. I noticed a pile of left over flour sacks, and tin cans from the oil and cheese.

"That's it," he said. "Every bag and can is accounted for. Do you want to see the records?"

"No," I said. "I'll take your word for it. Is there anything else?"

"No, that's all. Just this room," he said. "Can I offer you a coffee. My house is nearby."

I turned to Penny. "Can you drink another coffee?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "I'd love one."

We followed Father Antonio back to the distribution room, then walked out to the street. Antonio pulled a soft beret from under his cassock and slipped it on his head. I turned the collar of my coat up against the cold wind. On the back side of the church we entered a small house, but unlike Andalucia there was no patio. We walked straight off the street into a tiny living room.

Simply furnished, there was a minimum of space. A television set, covered with a table cloth to protect it, sat on top of a bureau to dominate the room. On one wall hung a small crucifix, and on another a large painting of Jesus. An octagonal dining table covered with a heavy tablecloth that reached to the floor occupied the center of the room.

"Mercedes," Antonio called out. "Traiganos tres cafes con leche, por favor." He called to his housekeeper and ordered three coffees with milk.

"We can sit down here," he said, and pulled a chair away from the table. "This is our central heating system." He lifted the table cloth to show that under the table a small brazier was glowing with a charcoal fire. "Sit down, please, Miss Hartford. Put your legs under the table and pull the cloth over them."

He pulled another chair away from the table, and gestured to me. "Mr. Stuart, please," he said.

I sat down in the chair, and pulled the tablecloth over my legs. The warmth from the brazier felt good. Father Antonio sat opposite us, and pulled the cloth over his legs.

A diminutive, bent over old woman shuffled into the room carrying a tray with three cups, two pitchers filled with coffee and milk, and a basket containing cookies and sweet rolls. "Buenos dias," she said in a frail voice as she shuffled around the table. She placed the cups in front of us, filled each with coffee and milk, then placed the basket on the table. "Con permiso," she said, and shuffled back out of the room.

"How long have you been in Badajoz, Father Antonio?" Penny asked.

"All my life, sixty years. I was born here," he said.

I told Father Antonio about Father Dino using the left over flour sacks and tin cans to make shirts, dresses and kitchen utensils.

"That's a good idea," he said. "I'll look into it."

"I've seen those dresses and shirts," Penny said. "There cute."

Father Antonio poured more coffee. "Where are you headed, Miss Hartford?" he asked.

"I'm going North into the Basque provinces," she said.

"You're not worried about the trouble they're having up there?" he asked.

"I don't know, she said. "Should I be? I asked Pete if I should go, and typical for the State Department he dodged my question?" She laughed, and Father Antonio laughed along with her.

"That's the way diplomats are," he said. "They say no when they mean maybe, and maybe when they mean yes. I heard once that a diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you look forward to the trip."

We all laughed.

Antonio pulled a package of half-made Ideal cigarettes from under his cassock, removed one from the box, and finished it. He licked the paper then lit it. He inhaled, and blew a cloud of sweet smelling smoke in the air.

"I don't know either," he said. "Those Basques are rebellious folks, and the young ones don't know what the Civil War was like. I don't think you'll have any trouble, though. Just don't get in the way of any Guardia Civil bullets. How about you, Mr. Stuart, where are you going next?"

"I don't know," I said. "I have to study my map. I just go where the urge takes me."

"That's a good way to travel," he said. "If I travelled that's the way I would do it. I never go any place now. I'm too old, and I like my television.

" We finished the coffee, said goodbye and walked back toward the hotel. I noticed a pair of Guardia Civil troopers standing on the corner. The thought crossed my mind that they had been waiting for us to leave Father Antonio's house.

"I think it's about time for a sherry," I said, but first I want to stop in the hotel. All of that coffee is backing up in me." "Me, too," Penny said.

I asked for the room keys, and the clerk handed us the keys along with Penny's passport and my carnet.

We took care of our business, then went across the street into the cafe. "What'll you have? I asked. "I'm going to have a copa de jerez."

"Lo mismo," she said. The pareja of Guardia Civil troopers entered the cafe and stood at the bar. I now had the distinct feeling that they were following us. They did not remove their three cornered, patent leather, hats, and they kept their rifles slung over their shoulders. They ordered two coffees.

Penny pulled six coins from her purse and pushed three of them across the table to me. "Jugamos?" she asked. Shall we play.

"Claro," I said and picked up the three coins.

I held both hands behind my back, slipped two coins in my right hand, then put my fist on the table.

"I'll go first," Penny said and closed her eyes. She thought for a long time. "Five." She opened her eyes and looked into mine. She smiled.

I looked at her for a long time, and I closed my eyes to mimic her. "Four," I said.

She opened her hand to show three coins.

"You've got me," I said and opened my hand holding the two duros.

"I love this game," she said and laughed. "Where we gonna eat?"

"I saw a restaurant on our way down to the church. Do you want to try that?" I asked.

"Sure," she said.

I glanced up at the Guardia Civil troopers. They were watching us. I called for the waiter, and settled the bill. The troopers walked out of the cafe.

We finished our wine, and walked out to the street. The troopers, had been joined by a third, a sergeant. He called to me.

"Oiga, Señor, por favor," the sergeant said.

We stopped. "Si?" I asked. The sergeant motioned for us to enter an open doorway. "Pasen aca," he said.

"What's going on?" Penny asked. "I don't know - just do what you're told," I said, and took Penny by the arm to enter an empty room at the base of a stairway leading to the second floor.

"Pongan sus manos en la pared!" he barked.

"What did he say," Penny asked.

"Put your hands on the wall," I said. "Do it!"

"Tu, Carmona, a la puerta! Gomez, a la escalera" the sergeant barked commands to the two other troopers to cover the door and the stairway.

We put our hands on the wall and leaned against it. I heard the metallic click - click of shells being shoved into the chambers of the rifles.

"What the fuck in going on?" Penny whispered.

"Callate!" the sergeant barked. Shut up!

The sergeant ran his hands over both of us, looking for arms and or money.

"Turn around," he said in Spanish.

We both turned and faced him.

"Sus documentos," he held out his hand. "What does he want," Penny asked.

"Your passport," I said, and pulled my carnet out of my shirt pocket then offered it to the sergeant.

The officer glanced at the carnet, and must have seen that it was a diplomatic identity card. You could not miss the red leather and the embossed gold seal.

"Esperate!" Wait, he said, using the familiar, the way one speaks to a child. He took Penny's passport and looked at it. "Que haces por aqui?" he asked. What are you doing around here? He used the familiar with her.

"Porque quiere saber?" she asked. Why do you want to know?

"Porque soy un sargento de la Guardia Civil y tengo el dercho de preguntartte," the sergeant growled still using the familiar. It sounded like a line out of Garcia Lorca. I am a sergeant in the Guardia Civil, and I have the right to ask what you're doing around here.

He didn't wait for her answer, but looked at me, then took the carnet and opened it.

"Y tu? Que haces?" What are you doing here? he asked, in the familiar.

"Una mission oficial para la Embajada Americana," I replied. I'm on official business for the American Embassy.

He handed the carnet and passport back to us.

"Muy bien," he said, then turned and walked away.

"What in the fuck was that all about?" Penny asked.

"It beats the shit out of me," I said, and told her about Steve Chandler's report that money was being smuggled across the border to help the strikers in the North. "It was clear that he backed off when he saw the diplomatic carnet."

"He didn't back off very far," she said. "Jesus, they scared the shit out of me. Did you hear those shells being jammed into the chambers?"

"I sure did," I answered.

"Let's have a drink," she said, and we walked back to the cafe.

We both ordered martinis, then ate lunch, and spent the afternoon, drinking, playing chinos, and sight seeing. There wasn't much to see.

The next morning we made love, ate breakfast, and I helped Penny move her things to her car. She decided to go ahead with the trip up North.

"Lightning never strikes twice," she said and laughed.

"Goodbye, Pete, it was fun," she said.

"It was fun, Penny, Goodbye," I said.

She slipped in the little Morris, backed up and rolled her window down. I'll be in Madrid in about two weeks. "Shall I call you?"

"Yes," I said. "Please do." She pushed the car in gear and drove away, then waved to me, and I waved back.

Over the next few days I decided that I did not want to be married to Marsha any longer. I no longer wanted to live a double life and a lie, and I knew that if I ever had loved Marsha, I no longer did. I wanted to be free by the time that Penny came to Madrid, and when I got home I told Marsha I wanted a separation, and that I was sending her and the children home.

Marsha's spirits were as high as I had seem them in months, and on the Sunday morning in February of 1962 that I took them to the airport she and both of the children were excited and happy about going home.

After checking in I accompanied them to the departure lounge. "Marsha, I don't want to dampen your spirits," I said, "but did you ever think that maybe you drink a little too much?"

"Yes," she said. "I have thought that."

"Good," I said. "From all I hear about alcoholism, the first step is recognizing that you have a problem."

"I think maybe I do have a problem with alcohol, and I was thinking about going to an AA meeting in the States."

"I'm really glad to hear you say that Marsha, because I was going to suggest the same thing."

TWA announced the departure of their flight, I picked up the children, one by one, and kissed them goodbye then turned to Marsha.

"Goodbye, Pete," she said.

"Goodbye, Marsha." I kissed her. They boarded the plane, and I stood on the observation deck until it had taken off. I had no idea when I would ever see Marsha again.

That same Sunday afternoon Penny called me from the Wellington Hotel in Madrid, and I went to meet her at the hotel. It was the first time I had been back to the Wellington since Marsha and I arrived in Madrid. Penny was wearing her Djallaba and had her Moroccan rug spread out on the floor just as she had in Merida. We ordered Martinis, had lunch together and made love. She spent a week in Madrid and we had dinner together every night; some nights I stayed with her in the Wellington, and some nights she stayed at my apartment. During that time we discovered the Fado Restaurant on the Plaza San Martin which was a dark, romantic place given over to the tragic Fado music of Portugal.

In Badajoz we had talked about making a trip to Lisbon together, so I was stunned and I had a sinking feeling when one day at lunch Penny told me that on her trip to the north she had met Carlos, an interesting Basque painter, in Santander; Carlos had just come to Madrid to meet her and she was on her way with Carlos to Ibiza in the Mediterranean. In the not so far back of my mind I had been looking forward to a little affair, and who knows what else, with Penny.

"Actually it's because of you that I got together with Carlos," she said.

"Me?" I asked. "How so?"

"Well I was in a gallery talking to Carlos, and he invited me for a coffee. I asked him if he wanted to play chinos to see who paid. He was impressed that I even knew how to play the game."

"Did you play?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Who won?"

"He did, and I paid," she said. "I've discovered that there is some psychology to that game." She smiled.

Some months later Carlos and Penny got married, and many years later I spent a weekend in East Hampton with Penny. She and Carlos were divorced, but she and I laughed about that winter day in Badajoz.

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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