Imagining Memoirs

Now that my project is put away like the straw bales from our field that got loaded onto tractors today, I’ve been pondering a bit more about Spain.

Specifically, I’m wondering whether the man who was hand-picked by a dictator to be his successor—from tender years, having seen his father exiled, always in the shadow off a minor tyrant, groomed, indoctrinated, cloned—has any plans to write about any of it. Because the minute the tyrant died, against all expectation, the new king called a general election, and when the military rebelled, he calmed them down and nobody died. How refreshing.

Whether he has plans to write about seeing the decades of Doña Carmen terrorizing the jewelers of Madrid as she was driven up in the black Cadillac, terrorizing them so much so they took out insurance policies against her. He was unable to speak up or say much.

Everyone assumed he was stupid; he never said anything at all. Present at minor foreign functions and royal weddings in Europe, diffident, silent, brooding. Turns out he was probably thinking all the time.