The museum director notes Daniel’s enchantment with the painting. “You’re a fan of Sorolla?”
Daniel sees Ana’s glowing face shining with excitement over the Sorolla book he bought her. He sees her walk into the flowered garden of the museum toward the fountain.
“Dan?”
“Sorry. Yes, a fan of Sorolla,” he replies.
“I’d like a Tom Collins, please.”
Daniel turns toward the voice. A gray-haired woman stands at the bar. She puts an affected hand to her pearls, greeting a friend. “Bless your heart. You’ve lost more weight than Patty Hearst. Have a drink.”
“Excuse me,” says Daniel to the museum director.
He walks through the gallery, exchanging quick pleasantries with those who recognize him.
“Great year for your company,” says a man in a turtleneck with thick sideburns. “Your father must be proud to have you on board.”
“Thank you,” nods Daniel.
“But still the elusive bachelor,” says the man’s wife disapprovingly. “I hear Laura Beth is divorced. Didn’t you two date in high school?”
“What a strong memory you have. Excuse me, ma’am.”
He can’t exit the museum fast enough. Thunder rumbles in the distance as he jogs to his truck. The angry clouds are the stock of childhood nightmares, like villains descending from the sky. He grabs his camera from the floorboard and looks at the smoky, churning formations. Uninspired, he doesn’t press the shutter.
Drops fall against his windshield as he heads toward Preston Hollow. He turns on the radio, hoping to catch a forecast and hoping the horses are in the stable. Instead of a weather bulletin, the station offers a promotion for Foster Grant sunglasses. He turns it off.
Eighteen years. It’s been eighteen years and seeing a Sorolla painting or hearing the words Tom Collins still throws him into a spiral of memory.
Pathetic.
The storm swells past midnight with threats of tornadoes. Daniel spends the night in the stable with the horses, trying to calm the animals and stay on top of the weather. At 3:00 a.m. the breaking news tone sounds from the radio. He turns the volume dial, listening for the storm bulletin.
“CBS News reports that Generalísimo Francisco Franco, dictator of Spain, has died in Madrid. Despite his team of thirty-two doctors, the end was a struggle for Franco. The dictator came to power thirty-six years ago during the Spanish Civil War, with support from Hitler and Mussolini. Franco ruled his country with an iron hand. Recently, Spain has enjoyed relative stability, especially after reforms introduced in 1959. Leaders of European countries have been guarded in their reaction to the dictator’s death and express hope for modern democracy in Spain. No Western nations will be sending a head of state to the funeral apart from Monaco. Flags around Spain are at half-mast and the general’s body is now lying in state at El Pardo Palace. Franco will be buried next week at the Valley of the Fallen. Official mourning will last thirty days.”
A haggard and grief-stricken Carlos Arias Navarro, the Prime Minister, speaking to the nation at 10:00 a.m., said in a breaking voice:
“Spaniards. Franco has died. The exceptional man who before God and history assumed the immense responsibility of demanding and sacrificial service to Spain, has given up his life, burned up day by day, hour by hour, in the fulfillment of a transcendental misssion.”
Then with tears, welling up, he read the message General Franco is believed to have written a few days after he fell ill on Oct. 14. The general spoke of his love for Spain and implored his countrymen “to continue in peace and unity” and to “extend the same affection and support you have given me to the future King of Spain, Don Juan Carlos de Borbón.”
“Do not forget that the enemies of Spain and Christian civilization are watching,” he added.
At another point he said: “I ask forgiveness from all, as I give my most heartfelt forgiveness to those who declared themselves my enemies. I believe and hope that I had no enemies other than those who were enemies of Spain—Spain, which I will love until the last moment and which I promised to serve until my dying breath, which is near.”
Many Spaniards shared the Prime Minister’s grief and genuinely felt affection, or at least respect, for the only leader most of the country had known. There was official mourning in the form of black armbands on policemen, and many men wore black ties today. When the hearse with the highly polished wooden coffin went through the gate of the palace a small knot of people applauded and old women wept.
Others were glad to see what they considered a hateful period of Spanish history close and were impatient to get on with the task of forging a more liberal regime.
from “Franco Urged Spain in a Final Message to Maintain Unity”
The New York Times
November 21, 1975
It was with sorrow that I learned of the death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, who led his country for almost four decades through a significant era in Spanish history. With his passing, I express deepest sympathy to his wife and family on behalf of the Government and people of the United States.
We wish the Spanish people and the Government of Spain well in the period ahead. The United States for its part will continue to pursue the policy of friendship and cooperation which has formed the touchstone for the excellent relations existing between our two countries.
—GERALD FORD, 38th president of the United States (1974–1977)
Statement on the Death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco of Spain
November 20, 1975
National Archives, Collection GRF-0248
White House Press Releases (Ford Administration) 1974–1977
131
Daniel slides the metal box from the closet. He opens it once every few years. Is it good or bad that the defining items of his life can fit into one small box?
His mother’s death notice. It mentions that she was a member of the garden club and supported the symphony. It mentions nothing of her vicious battle with cancer.
His Magnum photography prize certificate.
His acceptance letter and J-School diploma from Missouri School of Journalism.
A copy of Ben’s recommendation to National Geographic.
State Department credentials as a news service photographer.
The memorial card from Ben’s funeral.
And as he digs deeper into the box—
The newspaper photo with Ana and Nick at the embassy fashion show.
His photo negatives from Spain and Ana’s handwritten captions.
At the very bottom is the stack of envelopes. Seventeen of them, held together by an old rubber band. The eighteenth will arrive next month. They’re all from Nick Van Dorn. Every December, without fail, an envelope arrives from Nick. Each contains a photo with a brief message on the back, but never a return address.