June 1994. Madrid is still the capital of a nation under attack by centrifugal and autonomist forces stirring from the Balearics to the Canaries and as far as Andalusia—but above all by the terrorist group ETA, born as a Marxist-Leninist movement that claims, through violence, to fight for the independence of the Basque Country. Upon arrival at the dusty Barrancas airport, visitors were greeted by giant posters showing the most wanted terrorists.
At Las Ventas arena—the monumental, bronze-colored plaza de toros of Madrid—the bullfighting season had long begun. Among the reserved a la sombra seats sat members of high society. The ghost of Hemingway still hovered, and we had already devoured all his books, including those where he describes—with his masterful pedantry—the entire sequence of the ancient art of tauromachy: ancient, yet perhaps not so ancient after all, since in the Iberian Peninsula and its colonies the tradition can be dated to the 18th century, although some claim it goes back to the Etruscans. Thanks to Ernest, we knew the names of historic espadas such as Joselito and Juan Belmonte; thanks to tabloid chronicles we learned others, such as Luis Dominguín, once married to Italian actress Lucia Bosé and father of singer Miguel. Many lost their lives on the sand after a fatal horn thrust, like the charming Andalusian Francisco Rivera “Paquirri,” who died in 1984, with his agony broadcast live from a poorly equipped medical facility. He himself was the son-in-law of another famous matador, Antonio Ordóñez. At the time, it was estimated that the bullfighting business represented 1.5% of Spain’s GDP.
When, a las cinco de la tarde, everything was ready, a collective murmur began to spread: el rey, el rey! Yes, it was truly him—Juan Carlos Alfonso Víctor María de Borbón y Borbón-Dos Sicilias—in his full glory, height, elegance, and the striking resemblance to his ancestor Philip IV, portrayed in youth by Diego Velázquez in a painting displayed at the Prado Museum, with that unmistakable Bourbon blond hair.
The matadors made their honorary procession, paying particular respect to the sovereign and to his mother, María de las Mercedes of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, seated in a turret, with the customary fan and a constant tremor that did not stop her from attending the beloved spectacle.
Spain’s complicated history had turned the country—within less than a century—from a monarchy (and what a dynasty, what a past! We know something about that in Italy) into the First Republic (1873–1874), then back to a monarchy, then into the Second Republic (1931–1939) under Francisco Franco, who in 1947 placed the king back on the throne under his own regency. The eldest sons of Alfonso XIII, virtual heirs to the crown, renounced their claims for various reasons, leading to the Count of Barcelona—father and transmission belt to Juan Carlos.
Who was Franco?
Born in Galicia in 1892, reportedly of marrano origin (Sephardic Jews converted to Catholicism), Francisco—endowed with an endless string of names we will omit—threw himself into the military career, a family tradition. He succeeded despite his slight build and immediately yearned for service in Africa; he was granted his wish: destination Morocco.
His father did not appreciate his introverted and reserved character, unlike the other men in the family, apparently more daring and ambitious (qualities highly praised in Spain at the time).
The young officer, however, proved his courage, even in the Spanish Foreign Legion, enduring battles and wounds, comfortable in skirmishes on rough terrain, enduring mockery from fellow soldiers for his small stature and slim frame. He became the youngest general in Europe.
It was during this period that people began to say he had been rendered sterile due to a wound to his genitals; yet he married Doña Carmen and had a daughter.
Franco revered discipline and military life, which he considered the highest destiny for a man. He declared that, above all, he cared for the future of beloved Spain. Officially he sided with strict Catholicism, opposed Freemasonry, political gamesmanship, and liberal ideas, and preached patriotism. He was certainly not tolerant or humorous. He was rarely seen laughing; he was attentive to the soldiers’ well-being and dignity and set up so-called Tribunals of Honor. His strategy was that of the cunctator.
These values were mocked in the decades to come, but for him at least, they earned the respect—indeed the fear—of those around him. He had no regard for the dictator Rivera who preceded him and criticized his war practices in Africa.
The chapter of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) is complex, with several forces clashing: republicans, populists, and Franco’s rebel falangists, who eventually prevailed through an uprising that began in the Canary Islands. It took three years to consolidate full dictatorship. In the end, Francisco seized power and held it with a firm hand until his death.
Franco embodied the melancholic, proud nature of Spain at the time—a fallen former empire, austere, tied to its old rituals, and unwilling to involve itself in World War II. Spain historically dislikes international conflicts, reacting only for reasons of personal supremacy, as in the skirmishes with Morocco over Ceuta, Melilla, or Perejil. Moreover, never-denied rumors speak of huge British payments to keep Spain out of the war.
Afterward, he strengthened his power and launched modest reforms. He loved the fiesta brava: he invited celebrated matadors to lunch, such as El Cordobés, whose family was among the many ruined by the civil war.
In the book At Five in the Afternoon, the excellent Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins, recounting the biography of Manuel Benítez, known as El Cordobés, born in 1936 in the remote Andalusian village of Palma del Río in the province of Córdoba, paint the portrait of a nation poor and lost after its colonial glories.
Franco cared little for controversies over his rule. His pride lay elsewhere: having preserved an image of the country that remained intact for decades, creating tableaux of memory—Spain’s boundless Iberian landscapes, crossed by illustrious rivers, dotted with mansions from which solemn manterillas and caballeros emerged to the sounds of flamenco.
Franco was the protective bulwark against excessive modernity, foreign invasions, and the wild Americanization that befell—for instance—Italy. And never mind if illustrious figures like Pablo Picasso chose French exile.
Under his regime, the influence of Opus Dei was strong, supplying several ministers. Its founder, Escrivá de Balaguer, was Spanish—he died the same year as Franco and was beatified in 1992.
Meanwhile, the caudillo decreed that upon his death, the monarchy would return; thus began the new Spain.
The caudillo, who also distributed aristocratic titles, announced that his successor would be Juan Carlos, closely watched by the threat of competition from the other dynastic branch, in the person of Alfonso de Borbón Dampierre, married to Franco’s niece and also a pretender to the virtual French throne—those aristocratic quarrels beyond our comprehension, which we read in schoolbooks.
When Franco died in 1975, after a long agony and venerated as a saint by a schismatic church, he was not immediately repudiated by the newly appointed king, Juan Carlos of Bourbon.
Juan Carlos I was born in Rome in 1938, where his family was waiting for better days; the boy lived there briefly before moving to Switzerland. Raised in military fashion, he made a traditional marriage in 1962 to Sofía of Greece, from a royal house that itself fled the dictatorship of the colonels in 1970—a dynasty not even Greek by origin, but installed on the throne practically by mandate after a conference of major monarchies in London in 1832.
The reasons for choosing Juan Carlos were official but never convinced historians, rooted instead in international politics and alliances with the United Kingdom. These decisions displeased the traditionalist faction, which organized a kind of coup. On February 23, 1981, Colonel Antonio Tejero Molina, supported by units of the Guardia Civil, stormed the Congress of Deputies (Las Cortes), armed, and attempted a coup during a parliamentary session. Spain had been in crisis for years, and the Chamber was voting confidence in the prime-minister-designate Calvo Sotelo, who had already failed to secure it once. At the second vote, the armed invasion occurred.
The king took a firm stance and foiled the plan. Thus was born the reputation of heroic democratic monarch attributed to Juan Carlos, applauded by British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and Italian President Sandro Pertini, who overlooked the fact that he had been appointed by a right-wing dictator. The Reagan administration did not take a clear position, limiting itself to a later, fairly neutral statement of congratulations.
Autonomist movements were suppressed in the name of the new democracy; flare-ups did occur—such as the 1994 Plaza de Oriente attack in Madrid (a high-ranking officer was killed), the murder of Partido Popular councilor Miguel Ángel Blanco in 1997, and others—but largely in media silence.
Thus began Spain’s rise in international esteem: entry into the European Community in 1986, reconciliation with the United Kingdom—whose blessing or curse still sways global fortunes—and all that we know: an extraordinary boom in tourism and construction (responsible for the later real-estate bubble that wreaked havoc on the economy), and, in parallel, the liberalization of social customs, which made Spain beloved by the world’s liberals (same-sex marriage was legalized in 2005). In certain fields, Spain even overtook Italy, which for decades had looked down on its Spanish cousins with a hint of condescension—condescension that was fully reciprocated.
Juan Carlos’ leadership was praised for years and from all sides. A modern monarchy emerged: three children (Infanta Elena, Infanta Cristina, and Felipe), the king’s reputation as a womanizer, photos of him enjoying sailing, and political alternation between the sunny PSOE of González and the stern Popular Party of Aznar, the left-leaning Zapatero and the stricter Mariano Rajoy.
Everything went well until something cracked. Coincidence?
Juan Carlos grew tired of pretending his marriage was intact and was caught with a lover (fine, one might say), but even worse—on a big-game hunting trip in Africa (and that was no longer acceptable).
His daughter Cristina, married to the handsome former Basque handball star Iñaki Urdangarin, remained loyal to her husband when he was caught with his hands in the cookie jar of financial fraud—something the royal father-in-law may have known without reporting. At that point, a change was urgent. Juan Carlos abdicated in 2014, passing the crown to his son Felipe; Cristina was asked to distance herself from the court.
Felipe—now Felipe VI—who married divorced journalist Letizia Ortiz and had two daughters, initially faced difficulties: for instance, the overdose death of his new wife’s sister in 2007. But he was soon accepted by the establishment, which then discreetly began to sideline the father, eventually forcing his abdication.
How could a trendy monarch, praised endlessly, become the enemy to be fought?
Let us begin with the private sphere. That royal marriages were arranged until a few decades ago is no secret; and even when there was an appearance of free choice—as with Charles of England and Diana—we know how that ended. Juan Carlos and Sofia belonged to the old generation and, in a sense, fulfilled their duty.
Did he have children outside marriage? What a revelation—in his position! He was neither the first nor the last, but only against him was unleashed an unprecedented media campaign, centered on the Italo-American noblewoman and journalist Olghina di Robilant, alleged mother of a child he had fathered. Sofia does not eat meat and detests bullfighting; she devotes herself to charity and foundations, as befits her station. The two must have reached an equilibrium, and it is hard to see why anyone should care. Incidentally, in a list of about 5,000 alleged lovers of the king, Raffaella Carrà appeared, famously enamored with Spain.
Once dethroned, the former king was hit with every kind of accusation—from tax fraud, to secret dealings with the Saudis, to sexual harassment—from which he was shielded by immunity later granted to him, although today such immunity is no longer complete for Spanish monarchs. His hunting trips were dredged up as if they were war crimes. It is amusing to note that the British royal family, for example, remains immune from any kind of judgment regardless of what it does.
Stories of blue blood. If no one spoke of them ever again, we would lose nothing. Yet the strange trajectory of the king who “returned democracy to Spain,” only to be portrayed later as a lustful, corrupt arms-toting predator, says it all: sic transit gloria mundi.
Carmen Gueye
