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Cicera, Spain - September 1960
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The first thing one tended to notice about Cicera was the cats, hundreds of them easily out numbering the sixty some residents of the village that lay huddled in the bosom of the Cantabrian mountains. Rolling green fields bordered by waist high stone walls rolled gently upward until they gave way to rounded granite peaks that ran from Portugal to France. The ceramic red tiled rooves sheltered cream coloured homes so very different from the white washed peasant villages of Andalusia.
Time seemed to have stood still here. There wasn't a single automobile to be found in the village and the blacksmith still did a brisk trade in horseshoes. A single pub served as the focal point of village life every night, except Sundays when everyone filed into the small church that sat on the edge of town, surrounded by its dense garden of blackberry bushes that hid ancient stone walls built by the Romans a thousand years before.
Young people were few and far between, most moving away as soon as they could to the bustle of the cities, the promise of jobs, and the glamour that came with modern life. Only one young man of eighteen had remained in the village after he finished high school, Paco, son of Paco, son of Paco, and so, a dynasty of Paco's who owned the only pub in town. The building itself was by far the largest in the village and bore the same name as a testament to its history.
Paco the younger, his father was plain Paco Junior, stood behind the simple tile topped bar, dolling out small tapas and beers to the farmers fresh in from the fields. The room smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke, manure, and clean tilled earth. The nights were already getting chilly in the mountains and a fire crackled in a stone fireplace flanked by empty ale casks that served as tables. Pacos sister, Camila, waited behind a curtained off kitchen to prepare one of the six items available on the menu. Women in rural Spain they did not enjoy the same liberated life their city counterparts did and were forbidden to leave home without a chaperone. Had Camila known might have complained, but her knowledge of Spain did not extend past the next village down the road. If tradition held strong she would eventually marry, have children, and stay in the valley. Most women did. Only the boys left, usually to military service, few ever chose to return.
On that evening the door was propped open to allow some fresh air into the place, a heavy haze of blue woodsmoke beginning to fade at last. Paco the Younger had lit the first without first opening the damper, must to his embarrassment, and had almost smoked everyone out. Paco Junior had enjoyed the result immensely and was loudly telling the rest of the assembled male population the story for the third time when a low rumble interrupted him mid story. One of the other farmers, a square faced man who fancied Camila, stuck his head out the door, gave an exclamation of surprise, and then vanished into the night. A rush of feet followed him until the entire group, beers in hand, were standing on the side of the well worn cart track that served as a main street, watching as headlights bounced towards them.
The appearance of a vehicle in Cicera was cause enough for conversation. It happened once or twice a year, though even the local Policeman rode a horse on his rounds of the villages. The last car they had seen belonged to some American tourist who got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled free by a pair of stoic draft horses. This vehicle however was no tourist car. It had a large square body, big tires, boasted large windows and was painted a burnt orange. The engine, an unusual noise to the locals, sounded like the growl of some huge beast as it drew closer to the village. For one horrid moment the assembled watchers thought the driver was going to enter the town, there as no way the large vehicle would be able to navigate the small streets. The thought of its huge shining bumper pushing down walls and crushing neatly sculpted patios, almost sent them running toward the vehicle arms waving. Before they could more the vehicle came to a halt and the engine died, the headlights snapped off and an instant silence descended over the stunned villagers.
The driver side door opened and a man stepped into the fading light. He wore a long black coat, common short cap, and heavy duty riding boots. He stretched his arms out wide and even at a distance they could hear him take a huge deep breath. He paused, taking a moment to look about him and a small played across his face, a genuine look of joy that one sees on a man who had finished a long journey. A cat wove its way around his boot and he crouched to fondle tis ears before turning and heading for the assembled crowd.
The feeble light cast by the lantern above the door couldn't hide the curious and somewhat hostile looks of the villagers as he approached. The farmers were big men, but this stranger was as broad in the shoulders as any of them. He had a ramrod straightness to him and a spring in his step that hinted at military service. Not a word had yet been exchanged but the stranger radiated an authority that served to part the group with a glance. He did nod amicably to them and then moved through them with a pleasant "Excuse me".
There was a stunned silence and then a rush as the villagers crowded the small stone doorway, trying to be the first inside The stranger had already stepped up to the bar and was speaking with Paco the Younger.
"A beer, please. And an egg and bacon tapa if you have it." He had pulled off his jacket and hung it on a peg near the door, the Old King smiling down from his place of honour above it. The hat had followed next and the villagers could see the short cut hair and chiseled jaw that had eluded them in the gathering darkness.
"Right away!" Paco the Younger bustled about, puffed up with self importance that this stranger had chosen his family establishment to visit on such a night. The fact that it was the
only option didn't matter.
"I'll say, you look a bit familiar." The bravest of the farmers, also the loudest if, had taken the stool next to the stranger.
"I reckon you're right." Replied the other man. He held out a hand. "Francisco."
"Adoni." The farmer took the offered hand and a brief trial of strength took place as he squeezed the others hand, a grip that was returned with equal pressure until he let go. "I own the sheep yards on the Western edge of town."
"I know." Francisco replied. He nodded his thanks to Paco the Younger as his beer and tapa arrived. The reply stumped Andoni and he was watched in silence as the new arrival consumed his tapa in a single mouthful. Francisco chewed for a moment and then swallowed. "You knew my father."
"Your father?" Adoni's eyes narrowed as he looked the man over. There was something familiar about the facial features, but he couldn't place it. Not a lot of people came and went from town that he didn't know and it irked him he couldn't solve this particular puzzle immediately.
"Yes, Nekane de la cal Delgado."
"You're Nekane's boy!" Andoni fairly exploded with excitement, turning to the rest of the onlookers and repeating it as though they too hadn't lived their whole lives in Cicera. "I'll be damned. I thought he was dead."
"He is." The two words brought the mood in the room crashing back down as Francisco sipped at his beer. He looked around at the gathering and then waved a hand at them. "I'm not here to be sad, or to caused you good fellows an unpleasant evening. Paco, a round of drinks on me please."
A generous amount of good natured hubbub filled the space for a minute as farmers pressed forward to order their drink. No one was going to turn down a brew, no matter who paid for it. Once everyone had settled in their battered mis-matched Francisco turned to face them. Every man in the room could see him clearly now and all of them swore they knew him from somewhere, but none could quite say where.
"My father left when mother died. I came home to visit her. I haven't been back in nearly twenty years." A round of sympathetic nods greeted this statement. "You may recall he moved the family to Toledo?" More nods.
"Well, he didn't last long there. Drank himself to death, filled with guilt and remorse over mothers death. My brother was killed in an automobile accident a few years later and, just like that, I was the last of the Delgados." The mention of an automobile crash brought tut's from the crowd and a few muttered comments about how dangerous the things were.
"You seem to be doing well despite that." One of the farmers piped up. "That's a fancy machine you've got out there and them boots are worth more than my house." He gestured to the finely crafted and tailored leather boots Francisco was wearing. The fine leather was simply designed but expertly made.
"That's because he's the Viceroy." A quiet female voice cut through the babble of males voices and brought an instant silence to the room. Camila had come from behind her curtain, quiet unnoticed until this moment and was now standing just behind her brother. In her right hand she held a yellow
National Geographic, the cover showing Delgado's face with the words
A New Spain?.
Her words hit the assembled crowd like a freight train and not a man among them failed to turn as white as a ghost. They all saw it in that instant, the face that had graced a thousand newspapers, and even hung in their one room schoolhouse.
"You... Nekane's boy... You're the Viceroy? Of Spain?" Andoni finally managed to find his voice. Delgado had remained silent throughout the revelation, a strange, maybe even sad, smile on his face.
"Yes." It was all Delgado said as he tipped back his beer and drained it. "I am."
"Mary, Mother of God..." Muttered one of the gathered, his dog collar marking him out as the local priest.
"If we had known..." Started a third man.
Delgado held up a hand and it brought instant silence to the room. Again the almost sad smile flitted across his face. "For this evening I would prefer to be Fransisco, if you don't mind. I did come home to visit after all."
It took some time but eventually, as the beer flowed, the conversation became more natural and, at least for a time, Delgado become one of the people.
* * * * *
"Why did you come home?" Camila asked quietly, her head resting on Delgado's shoulder. The two were sitting on a small ledge several hundred feet above the village and she could see her father storming about the streets, no doubt looking for her. Several village cats scattered in front of him and though she could not hear it, she could tell he was shouting. She resisted the urge to giggle. An offended rooster scurried away, clearly baffled why people were awake before it could alert them to the suns arrival.
"It is good to remind yourself where you come from." Delgado's arm was about her shoulders, his heavy jacket protecting her from the early morning air. "I have found that my life in the Army kept me grounded. But now..." He paused and took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air and let it out with a sigh. "Ah... Now I find myself surrounded by people who will tell me whatever I wish to hear, in palaces that would hold this entire valley."
Camila had no concept of something so large. The largest building she had ever seen was Adoni's sheep barn on the edge of the village. The red shingles were visible from where the two sat and, as they watched, Paco the Younger appeared in the upper loft window and shouted down to his father who made a frustrated gesture.
"Isn't it nice?" She asked at length. A small Alpine Swift had fluttered down and was perched on the edge of the wicker picnic basket Delgado had brought up with them. The bird cocked its head and regarded them with one sharp beady eye before snatching a crust of bread and winging away.
"Sometimes." Delgado shifted to ease some of the ache in his back. He was leaning against a tall oak tree, one of the thousands that clung to the edges of the mountains and, at the moment, served to shield the two from the eyes of Paco Junior.
"The problem with some things in life, is that when you get them they are not all you thought they would be." He sounded tired and she squeezed his calloused right hand with her own. She did not know how long this short time would last and found she had enjoyed it far more than expected. Delgado had been gentle with her when she came to him in the night, waking him from his sleep curled up in the front of his truck, seat reclined.
"I have always sought to serve Spain and her people. I did not have any delusions of grandeur or desire for Government, but that was why I was chosen. A British historian, Lord Acton, once said: Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely. I try to be a good man but there are factions at every level who would have me make them rich and fat."
"Is that why you asked father and the others what they wanted from the Government?"
"Yes. I think the Spanish people have been forgotten for to long by their rulers. The people of Portugal as well. Every ruler seems to believe the people exist to provide them with their position. I believe we are in our positions to provide the people with good government."
She felt a hearty chuckle well in his chest as he held up a finger.
"Having said that, let us not pretend that the average Spaniard has any idea what is good for them. Most want a warm bed, a roof, a wife or husband, and a place to call their own. That's about as far as they can think. I reckon I can make that happen but it will not make me popular."
"Well it sounds lovely to me." Camila said with a contented sigh as she snuggled closer to him. She was naked beneath the heavy jacket but it didn't bother her. Virtually everything Delgado had said went clear over her head. It was fortunate that her father had even permitted her to learn to read and write.
Delgado, glancing down at silky black fan of hair that spread across his chest, was thinking the same thing. To much of Spain was like Camila, barely educated without any true idea of how the greater world worked. If Spain were to reclaim her greatness he would have to begin at the base, with people like Camila.
When she had tapped on his window that morning his initial reaction had been to send her away. But, looking at her fine features in the morning sunlight, he had realized he had not been with a woman since before the coup. He had shrugged on his coat, grabbed the picnic dinner he had brought with him, took her hand, and the two had headed up the mountainside.
It was the first time in a long time he had been alone with one person. Though the villagers did not know it, he had truly come to Cicera alone. His bodyguard waited at the foot of the mountains, no doubt very nervous and concerned but he had wanted to make this trip without watching eyes. Coming from humble beginnings had made Delgado a man who appreciated the little things in life. As a soldier he had served with honour, as an officer he had led by example, and as a Dictator he had tried to rule with intelligence.
Now the question of what to do lay open before him. The Army, always a troublesome mess of loyalties, was safely packed off to Algeria with a war to fight. The commanders chosen for the campaign were all committed Royalists or Church stooges, and putting them on the other side of the Mediterranean had worked out nicely, it made them feel useful. Those who had remained inside Spain included his Cazadores, and army units commanded by his conspirators. Most important among them was Admiral-General Navarette and the Navy. Though not large, the Navy was arguably the most technologically advanced of the Spanish armed forces and boasted an elite Marine corps. It was enough to hold Spain in thrall for the moment.
The Police at every level seemed to more or less uninterested in what happened in Government as long as they were paid on time and Delgado had gone to great pains to ensure they received their money, and a small raise, courtesy of his own office of course. It was a small gesture but it had not gone unnoticed by the rank and file.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Camila slid a hand between his legs and gently began to stroke his cock. He could feel himself harden at once beneath her touch. Without saying a word she swung her hips over him so that she was straddling him. In one quick movement she impaled herself with a moan and heat flushed through his body at once as she began to rock her hips back and forth, hands on his shoulders. For a moment the troubles of Spain were quite forgotten.
