There exists within the tightly woven machine that is Spain a collection of important bodies that interplay and contribute to its story. The characters of the royalty, of the government, of the people, and of the rebellious. Either quarter has its own degree of importance, as one part of the greater whole they belong to. The three settings where the tales of these quarters unravel are called Villamejor, Bailen, and Santatejo. All rest in areas close to each other, but vary drastically in their design and purposes.
Palacio de Villamejor, Madrid, Spain
It was a cloudy afternoon in Madrid, and the radio broadcast voices of weathermen all requested that the public remained wary of quite likely rainfall. Standing as only a three storey addition to the inner Madridian cityscape of classical and Baroque buildings,
el Palacio de Villamejor didn’t appear all that important, and it wouldn’t to newcomers to the city. One wouldn’t guess that it was the seat of the nation’s President, of one of the most powerful political entities in the West. The building didn’t exactly radiate that.
Within its hallways rested numerous offices, reception areas, meeting rooms, and other areas. On it’s second story, towards the back (opposite to the front facade, that is) was a larger room. It was primarily composed of high quality and finely cut wood and other classical elements all woven into an extravagant Baroque design. Thirty feet across and fifteen wide, the fancy office - with walls covered in bookshelves filled with hardback encyclopedias, classical works, literature, et cetera; high quality Baroque-style tables, desks, seats, and other furnishings; historical and non-historical works of 19th century oil paintings favored by the President - was of the perfect excessive quality to bear the title of the President’s office. There seated, behind a curtained glass door that led out into a balcony/pulpit, at a large Baroque desk with a display of common office appliances was the legendary figure, the powerful autocrat, Efrain Galan.
At first glance he appeared as an average man, and his combed-back locks of black and some white gave him a touch of wiseful age. The grey bespoke suit he wore with a checkered pattern made from thin, white lines with a red tie, folded handkerchief, and an eagle lapel pin was his common look, though the Continental costume was not characteristic of a dictator. He looked like a humble businessman at the very least, and that’s what he went for. He wasn’t a tyrant, and he didn’t want to appear like one, since he was of humble beginnings and, as he frequently said, would be of humble endings. While that might not’ve sat well with his more radical ministers and senior politicians, he didn’t mind, as he knew he was truly the absolute authority in the country and
he symbolized the sentiments of the people, not politicians.
“Wh..what’s five times six…” Efrain mumbled quietly, going over some logistical info from the
Tercera División de Infantería that was dealing with rebellion suppression and border expansion operations in the unilaterally claimed province of Caceres.
As Efrain fumbled around with some simple dactylonomy, a well-groomed and intimidatingly dressed man stepped in. He had tan Mediterannean skin, pure black Mediterannean hair….he was Mediterannean. He wore an olive drab uniform that was impressively decorated, drawn tight around the waist with a thick leather ratchet belt, and bore epaulettes with a pair of crossed swords with a star over their intersection beside a crown. Here came now
General de Brigada Horacio Leguizamo, a proud and radical senior officer of the
Ejército Republicano Real who served as both a senior brigade commander and senior strategist, but also as a senior liaison between Villamejor and the military, as styled as by the Military Corporation. As Horacio’s polished black jackboots clacked against the ground as he saluted Efrain with a perfectly straight posture.
“
¡Ave, mi capitán general!” Horacio proudly exclaimed while saluting.
Efrain gestured with a sigh.
“
A gusto, Horacio.” Efrain said.
Horacio relaxed, and took a few steps towards Efrain. His jaw, whether consciously or if it was actually natural, was positioned to look very straight and square, perhaps to match some perfect Mediterannean appearance. It’s natural form was more diamond, as Efrain had noted upon first meeting Horacio several years prior, so it was likely it was an artificial alteration.
“I bring a message from the Military Corporation,
Su Excelencia.” Horacio informed Efrain.
Efrain nodded with tired eyes.
Su Excelencia wasn’t a style Efrain actually implemented, in fact, Efrain planned on simply being called
Señor Presidente or
Señor Galan. It was an uncontrollable motion passed by the
Corte Corporativo in 1933 that further deified him against his will. He had just came to ignore and accept it now.
“Legislative or military?” Efrain asked.
“Pardon?” Horacio said.
“It is regarding military legislation or military operations.” Efrain elaborated.
“Ah. It’s regarding military legislation.”
“Mhm...go on.”
“Motion M-113 has passed through the
Comité General del Militar, 37-40, and will now be passing into the docket of the
Corte to be subjected to a general floor vote tomorrow.” Horacio informed Efrain, his hands folded behind his back, reinforcing his straight posture, as he spoke.
Efrain nodded slowly with disinterest.
“Yeah...umm, what is M-113 about?” Efrain asked.
“It’s a bill proposed two weeks ago by
Coronel Ruiz that proposed the rebudgeting of around a billion pesos to the
Directorio del Investigacion y Desarrollo in order to stimulate the development and improvement of military armaments. This is especially in light of the recent successful Siege of Avila that has allowed us to rapidly regain control of Duero. We’re reaching a point in the growth of the
Republica Real where we can likely see rapid acceleration in our long-limited expansion.” Horacio explained and overexplained to Efrain.
As a military man, or perhaps a former one, the titles and responsibilities blended together at this point, this did interest him a bit. The reconquest of Spain was an important goal of his, even if his methods of doing so were more faceted than those of the military, and he was too joyed by the conquest of Avila. Although, a billion pesos? That’d definitely be coming out of the funding for the sciences and education, which was a damn shame. Perhaps he’d have to put his foot down.
“I see, what are we expecting the vote will be? The Military may be enthusiastic about this, but there might not be sixty-one other
diputados who aren’t as enthusiastic. Will the
Corporativo Académica be as enthusiastic? Will the
Corporativo Clerical be as enthusiastic? Right there is eighty votes against out of two hundred.” Efrain inquired.
Horacio blinked blankly. His brain fired best when it came to shouting orders or performing the relatively simply duty of advising the President on military matters and politics. However, answering questions regarding political processes and minutiae wasn’t his forte.
“Umm...I…
no se, Mi Presidente.” Horacio replied.
Efrain nodded with a sigh.
“Very well, then, Horacio. Dismissed.”
Horacio nodded and saluted straightly again, then turned on his heel and departed from Efrain’s office.
Efrain remained staring at the door Horacio had came and went through for a few moments, and then turned to the rotary phone on his desk. He picked it up and punched in a seven-digit telephone number into its dial, and waited as it rung and rung.
“
Ejem,
un momento tipo.” The raspy voice of a young man spoke on the other end.
“Javier…” Efrain spoke in a quiet but firm voice.
“¡
Mierda!” Javier shouted, the sound of gasps, smashing glass, and incoherent, loud whispering following.
On Javier’s end, he just jumped up off of his large and soft bed with silk bedsheets onto his feet. Javier Casanova was Efrain’s young and intelligent French-Valencian Interior Minister. At only 37, Javier was one of the youngest senior politicians in the world, his youthful assignment owing in part to both his honest skill and his relation to Efrain as his nephew (his cousin’s son, rather than his siblings’). Javier had a uniquely accurate surname, as he was in fact a casanova. Additionally, what was happening before the phone call was (this is with a few details excised) laying down with a lowball of bourbon with some lady friends.
On Efrain’s end, he simply waited with low eyes as he listened to Javier carrel his audience out of his bedchambers.
“¡
No te preocupes por mi túnica, él no sabe que estoy desnuda!” Javier shouted, groping the final girl out of his bedroom. Javier walked back over to his phone and picked up the receiver. “
Lo...lo siento, Tío.”
“
Estás desnudo, Javier?” Efrain asked.
Javier audibly winced on the other end.
“
Si…” He sighed.
“I can tolerate only so much of your
payasada, Javier.” Efrain said.
“I-I know,
Tío.” Javier grumbled. “Did you call as a
tío or as
el Presidente?”
“
El Presidente.” Efrain replied.
Efrain could just tell Javier had straightened his posture.
“How can I help,
Presidente?” Javier asked.
“Well…um…” Efrain said, pressing his thumb against his cheek.
“¿
Señor?”
Efrain paused. He lacked the confidence in being honest with Javier. Sure, he was family and a loyal politician, but he was also a manipulable and weak shill. He had to know who to trust. So, with a sigh, he spoke honestly.
“I find myself lacking confidence in my trust.” Efrain said.
Javier choked on his words.
“Y-you can’t trust me? Y-you...you’re…
m-mi Presidente!”
“Don’t take it
that close to heart. There’s more to it than that.”
“O-okay…”
“Let me just...say this,” Efrain said, carefully examining his words and piecing together a sentence, “I’d like you to call for a loyalty evaluation within the
Policía Nacional Real.”
Javier raised his eyebrow.
“Is that what you were actually going to say?” Javier asked.
“No.”
“Mhm...well, this is something that I can do easily. I’ll just submit a memo to the
convenciónes regional.” Javier replied.
“
Bien, gracias.” Efrain said with a nod.
“Anything else,
Señor?”
“No, that’ll be all, Javier. Let me hear word of this memo by tomorrow. ¿
Entiendes?”
“
Sí, Señor Presidente.” Javier replied.
“
Hablaré a tú luego, niño.” Efrain said.
“
Adiós, Tío.”
Efrain put down the receiver and sighed, leaning back in his chair while rubbing his face.
“There’s one thing done. This’ll probably make a difference over time.” Efrain thought to himself.
Efrain carried on with some more official paperwork, and when the five o’clock hour came he set down his utensils and left his office. He moved to the private quarters of Villamejor, and ceded his official duties for the night. Then, in nightwear, he took a seat in the classical living room of the private residence as he sat by a radio and listened to it drone on with a repertoire of classical music.
From the white double doors that opened from the living room into the bedchamber came a woman with a partly grayed head of light brown fashioned into a chignon. She wore a light blue cotton nightgown with white ruffling around the collar and cuffs.
Señora Marianna Garrido, the First Lady of the Republic, the wife of
Presidente Efrain. She took a seat on the old-fashioned floral armchair across from Efrain, and rested her hands on her lap.
“¿
Que sucede, cariño?” She asked, noticing the tense grimace that had wrinkled Efrain’s face.
Efrain, after waiting a moment, looked towards her slowly, and shrugged.
“Formal, political matters, Maria. You need not worry.” Efrain replied.
“Have you considered that, perhaps, the First Lady
doesn’t like to be on the sidelines of national affairs?” Marianne asked.
“There is no need for your position to be a formal one. I am the officeholder, I am the man who reunified the Kingdom. You just lucked out marrying me thirty-two years ago.” Efrain replied with a roll of his eyes.
More suffragist nagging, he tiredly thought to himself.
“Is that what our marriage is? A lucky coincidence?” Marianne huffed with a coy tone.
Efrain shifted into a more defensive position and he put up his hands nervously.
“¡
No, no! ¡De ningún modo, cariño!” Efrain said.
“Hmmf,” Marianne snorted, “you didn’t reunify the Kingdom either. Galicia and Catalonia seceded and a quarter of the provinces of the Kingdom remain independent, unorganized
terra nollorum.”
Efrain sat back, a bit offended, and scoffed in disbelief.
“I reconquered more of Spain than those Galicians and Catalans! I reconquered and reunified more of a country in this Godforsaken world that anyone else has, besides the Brits and, I suppose, Nords!” He refuted with a proud tone, pressing a clenched first over his heart.
“You focus too much on expanding rather than consolidating. Why are you slowing, Efrain? Not enough supplies getting around? Not enough food being produced? Perhaps you should, oh…
no se, subsidize industry more? Improve agricultural standards and practices? The Brits remain an intercontinental empire because they had a strong industrial base which, when the country came back together, they fired up once more. What did we have, Efrain? Barely a quarter of what the British have, and we still barely have made any more industry.” Marianne responded, showing off what years of sitting beside an autocrat could teach oneself.
“
Oye, there’s only so much I can do.” Efrain said.
“You can only do so much because you limit your options!”
“¿
Que?”
Marianne sat back and smiled, feeling as if she had the upper hand now.
“You close off our country from the rest of the World, priding yourself on some sort of...what is it that you call it,
autosuficiencia? Every nation that has reopened their ports have a stable economy because they are able to buy highly needed materials from other countries. Even if we were to only engage in trade with the French we could get cheap glass, coal, metals, and some other industrial products since they’re all bundled up in Algeria. We probably could get all this, since we share the Mediterannean with them! Warm up the Valencian ports, Efrain!”
Efrain blinked at Marianne incredulously. His wife was this smart?
Ay, Dios mio, he thought,
I’ve created an American wife.
“Where did you get all this? When we met you were a liberal arts student, and when I was in France you were a housewife.” Efrain asked.
“
Si tu es muy tonto saber la contesta, entonces yo no puedo ayudarte.” Marianne replied.
Efrain sputtered his lips and put a hand on his face. He sat back and grumbled in the confusing events of the last few moments.
“I…w-we suffer from a false association with the Flu, we do—”
“Then change public perception, Efrain. You prioritized the expansion of the health ministry, and it has the second most members, only surpassed by the Ministry of Defense. Efrain, use those members and prove our country is healthy.” Marianne interjected.
“You have a plan for everything, don’t you, Marianne?” Efrain snorted.
“Pretty much, I have a lot of alone time to think about important things. I can tell you how we could reconquer Galicia? They’re only a band of countrymen and commoners who lucked out by securing three good ports and most of our coal fields.”
“And the Catalans are just Marxian insurgents? Yes, perhaps. But, I cannot. I am bound to the Monarchy, especially since I saved their legitimacy and riches by seizing Madrid and expanding their powers in the 1930 Constitution.
El Rey, even though young and a hypogamist, has been wisened by his rule and the continued whispering of his advisors. He seeks peace with the Carlists, rather than war or tension. ‘I am a distant, royal relative of theirs,’ he says, ‘and I do not think family, however distant, should be fought with’. If it wasn’t completely lacking an awareness of the issue it’d bring to his legitimacy if we made peace with the Carlists, it’d be almost adorable.” Efrain replied to Marianne, twiddling a band of his hair with his forefinger.
“All in due time then, Efrain. It’s only been several years since the last few epidemics of the plague ended. Society has only just began to recuperate. We have time to appease the splintered powers of Spain, we have time to reopen our country.”
Efrain nodded, and rubbed his temples with either of his fingers.
“I have a headache now.” He groaned.
“There’s some aspirin in the cupboard of the dining room.” Marianne said.
Erfain stood up and went to get himself a pill. Marianne picked up a book and read it. The night went on with greater peace. Efrain took to his bed at around 9:00, received a final brief nagging from Marianne on topics more official than he expected her to opine about, and then fell asleep.
Palacio Real de Madrid, Bailen, Madrid, Spain
Much more prominent among the Madrid cityscape was the Royal Palace of Madrid, a massive Baroque and classical building standing in a region of the city solely dominated by it and its satellite buildings. The residence of the Bourbon monarchy, a proud and fiery symbol of the Castillian people. Within the southwestern wing of the palace, a small rectangular jut, stood the Royal Residence. It covered around eight hundred square meters and contained over a dozen rooms of the usual extravagant, Baroque style that filled the rest of the palace. One of these rooms, centered in the wing and larger than most of the other rooms, contained a large canopy bed with red and white sheets, a variety of dressers and full-length mirrors, classical artwork, and a variety of other decor that either had existed in the room for decades or which had been moved in by the new royals.
Standing in front of one of the mirrors, situated against the wall between two large square windows with beige curtains, was the tall, young, and square faced King of Spain. The young king, Alfonso XIX of Spain, was of mixed reception among the Spaniards. He was seen as young and naive universally, but also seen as capable by some; his hypogamous marriage didn’t sit well with aristocrats and traditionalists, but was permitted by the government due to the need for the unifying figure of the Monarchy to survive; he was also scrutinized by traditionalists and conservatives due to his inclination to be a reformist and modernist. No one really knew what to make of King Alfonso, which was a perception which he himself was well aware of, which drove him to simply do whatever he felt like he had to. The reception of his actions seemed as if they would always be 50-50.
At this moment, Alfonso was buttoning up the beige vest of his three-piece suit. It was one of four outfits he was commonly associated with: a beige, striped suit with a single button buttoned, atop a plain beige vest, under which was a white undershirt, and from his collar hung a checkered red tie. A classy and extravagant suit that matched his lifestyle, but was also just simple enough to convey a simple sense of fashion rather than an aristocratic one.
“Edelmira?” Alfonso called out as he finished buttoning up his outfit.
“¿¡
Qué!?” Edelmira exclaimed from the adjacent bathroom about several meters away.
“Exactly what time do we have to be at this place?” Alfonso asked.
“Oh...I dunno, 2:00?” Edelmira shouted back.
Alfonso turned to his right to a clock and huffed.
“I’m not sure about that, since it’s 2:30 now.”
“Well I don’t know then, Al.” Edelmira replied, walking out of the bathroom topless, looking around the room for her white hourglass corset that went with the outfit she was to be dressed in.
Alfonso turned around after fitting two cufflinks with his personal emblem on them on his sleeves. He noticed Edelmira and smiled while bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“
Oye, allí están.” Alfonso said.
Edelmira turned to him and scoffed, rolling her eyes and turning away from him.
“Can you be any more immature, Alfonso?” She grumbled, spotting her corset and picking it up, pulling it down over her light bronze skin.
Alfonso walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. At 6’2, he was a handsomely tall gentleman, and at 5’5 his wife stood much below him, so that he was able to rest his own head atop hers, and he did such with her at this moment.
“We probably don’t have to leave for, err...ten more minutes? ¿
Verdad?” Alfonso said, his hands crossing each other above her chest and holding the opposite shoulder. “So perhaps w—”
“
No.” Edelmira said with a sigh, although she did lean into Alfonso.
“
Oy, venga ya, Edel.” Alfonso said with a sigh.
“
Yo dijo no.”
“
Por fa—”
“
No.”
“
Este, estoy diciendo por favor.” Alfonso groaned.
Edelmira sighed, and then kneed Alfonso where it would hurt most, and stepped away from him with a disappointed laugh.
“There’s no time to mess around, Al, so get your brogues on while I get the rest of my dress on so we can get a move on.” Edelmira said, moving over to her own dresser.
Alfonso groaned, and agreed quietly. He stood slowly, and walked over to a wooden stand on the floor that contained quite a few pairs of clean and neatly arranged shoes. He posed up a pair of dark brown leather brogues and slipped them onto his feet. He looked over to Edelmira, who had all the undergarments on her and was now turning to the dress itself.
“Do you remember what to say?” Alfonso asked her.
“Oh, I have something to say? I thought I’d just be a pretty face to have o—”
“¡
Ay, ay, ay!
Cristo el Señor, how do you manage to shoehorn your nonsense into everything!?” Alfonso interrupted, throwing his hands up into the air with exasperation.
“Hmmf,” she snorted, “I’m assuming by ‘what to say’ are the brief and polite greetings and hellos I’m to give to these workers?”
Alfonso nodded as he shoved his left foot into the final brogue. He stood, clacked them against the ground twice, and turned to Edelmira.
“That’s exactly right. Now, you will also he meeting with uh…oh right,
Señora Gloria Hidalgo, who’s the forewoman of the factory’s female workers. That’ll be something I’m sure you’ll adore. Be able to fester in your foolish ‘empowerment’ jargon and what not.” Alfonso informed her.
“And I suppose we’ll also plot to overthrow the government, too, Al?” Edelmira replied with snark.
Alfonso simply laughed and requested her to continue getting ready. A few minutes later, a valet came to the room to inform the King and Queen that it was time to leave. Edelmira delayed them a moment as she put on several pieces of jewelry, and then stood, put on her black shoes, and followed Alfonso out. They exited the building and stepped out into the
Plaza de la Armería, where a four-car motorcade was waiting for them (all cars produced by
Grupo Riberas, the Spanish automotive cartel). Three cars were driven by small guard details who’d protect the royal car while in transport, and the fourth contained the monarchs and a senior guardsman. The motorcade cars were identical to one another, and the spot of the royal car was a closely guarded secret, to prevent - in the highly unlikely incident - the monarchs from being successfully targeted.
They stepped into their car, and a minute later they were off. They were not en route to their primary destination. That would be impractical, as it would be a six hour ride. No, they were instead en route to the
Cuatro Vientos Airport in southern Madrid, a semi-public airport used as the main airport for the transport of the King and/or Queen. The royal duo arrived at the airport three minutes later, and stepped onto the tarmac of the airport. Airplanes were a rare sight nowadays, but they were slowly returning as the oil wells in Arabia began to slowly restart and the Brits flexed its long underused muscles that it used to intimidate the Arabs into shipping that oil to the West. Slow developments had been made in recent years, and the Spanish aeronautic cartel,
Construcciones Aeronáuticas SR, had succeeded in creating three series of small biplane airliners that could hold several people in their fuselages. However, these were created mostly on the backs of German and British inventions, which many were aware of, and which was why many didn’t buy them, keeping a vast majority of the market restricted to Spain.
The royal biplane, the EC-BOR (nicknamed
el Realave), was situated in Hangar 3, which was in the shape of a half cylinder and had the royal emblem painted on its northern side. The motorcade arrived at the airport and dropped of the royal couple, including a senior courtier and a small guard detail (that would expand to well over a hundred once the two landed in Valencia). They boarded the small plane, which cabin was a bit cramped and had but two windows, but provided a non-turbulent, low-altitude, high-speed flight. The flight took off several minutes after three o’clock, and arrived at the
Aeródromo Torrent an hour and a half later. The two mile perimeter of the airfield was surrounded by over two thousand people cramming each other in order to get a glimpse of the royal couple. It was an important and high-profile operation the two were on, so the crowd was expected, as were the hundred plus journalists, intelligentsia, and other upper-class dignitaries who were permitted a closer view at the base of the gate of the airport that
el Realave was to disembark at.
As the airliner came to a halt on the tarmac, one of the senior courtiers who had joined them, Esteban Diaz, a
Subsecretario del Rey, turned to Alfonso.
“So, per our correspondence with the
Ayuntamiento Valencia and the
Asociación Nacional de la Prensa, once you enter the terminal you will be met by a group of press members. They’ll be from several Valencian agencies plus several from across the nation. Our friends in the ANP have taken measures to ensure that the three journalists you are to take questions from appear apart from the rest of the crowd. Once you’re done with those three you will be moved along to the airport’s main entrance, during which you’ll be joined by a larger detail to protect from any citizens who might try to get too close…” Esteban informed Alfonso, who nodded along slowly.
“Well, what about when we disembark?” Alfonso asked.
“Pardon?”
“When we step out onto the tarmac. There’s bound to be some people gathered about. I am the King, visiting a major city of my kingdom. So what about them?” Alfonso elaborated, but still received a look of confusion from Esteban. “¡
Por el amor de Dios, Esteban! I want to know if I’m expected to ignore my subjects when I walk by them!”
Esteban stuttered, and then laughed nervously.
“
Sí, sí, mi Rey, I can understand that.
Sin embargo, that’s not the usual protocol. There are usually never commoners along the tarmac, and based off of what I’ve heard they’ll be corralled behind the airport’s perimeter.” Esteban said.
Alfonso sighed, and shrugged his shoulders.
“The common rabble are as much my subjects as the patrician rabble i always meet with are. That’s probably why this meeting is so talked about in this country, since it’s the first time the monarchy has taken an interest in working-class plebs.” Alfonso said a bit solemnly.
Edelmira smirked, seated at his other side, and thought to herself,
Ja, eso es mi Rey del Plebeyos. As the daughter of a Cuban merchant rather a Spanish noble, or even a Spaniard, she knew very well of her husband’s preference towards the common folk.
Perhaps he can be turned into a little suffragist, she added.
Esteban glared at the King for a few moments, and then smiled. Alfonso noticed this and turned to him with a raised eyebrow.
“¿
Qué es?”
“Oh,
nada. I’m just coming to realize what people mean when they say you’re an odd king. Although I don’t mean that offensively, Your Majesty.” Esteban said.
“Odd? Who is ‘they’?” Alfonso asked, a bit offended.
“Oh, just some staffers, an ambiguous variety. I’ve just overheard them, not really interacted.” Esteban answered, not receiving the King’s tone of voice.
Alfonso glared ahead with a scowl, and shook his head.
The plane hit the tarmac a few moments later, and, as explained by Esteban, the bland, traditional itinerary of walking past some aristocrats with faux interest occurred. The
Aeródromo Torrent was a dilapidated airport, as much of Spain’s aeronautic industry was grounded as oil no longer circled the world as much as it had before. Two dozen planes sat in the Torrent hangars, and only two were used for the few rich flyers that needed high speed transport and could afford the fuel fees. The same was for all airports in Spain, all now part of an endangered breed. Esteban, Edelmira, a guard detail, with Esteban at his side, entered the terminal and were met by a large group of journalists as expected. Standing a few feet ahead of the rest were three journalists all holding microphones. Alfonso thought they were the journalists he was to speak with, and he turned to Esteban who confirmed that with a subtle nod. He stepped closer to the journalists, and took the three prearranged questions.
“What are you looking for the most during this trip?” One of them asked.
“I’m mostly looking forward to fostering a good, direct relationship with the workers of our proud country. I’d also like to acquire a greater understanding of the situation of labor in our country, which I can hopefully use to work with the Labor Corporation more closely.” He replied.
“Why did the monarchy decide to hold this meeting?” Another asked.
“Mostly because of what I just said. I want to foster greater relations with our truly integral laborers, and their bosses too. I want to understand the organ that drives our economy, and help develop it as a monarch and in these rough times.” Alfonso answered.
“Why isn’t
Presidente Galan here? Wouldn't he be more viable to send to meet with our country’s laborers?” The third and final journalist queried.
Alfonso turned to Esteban with a look that spoke
Are you kidding me?, and Esteban replied with a nod.
“Uhh...well, I and
Señor have a philosophy as co-leaders of this country that we’re both the leaders of the Spanish people, and we both have equal prerogatives to interact with and serve our people. I can come here as easily and appropriately as
Presidente Galan.” Alfonso answered.
After that, Esteban stepped in front of Alfonso.
“The King will not be taking any further questions,” he said, met with groans and complaints, ”yeah, yeah,
lo siento, but he must be on his way, as his meeting is set to start in fifteen minutes.
Gracias para tús tiempo.”
Esteban turned to the head of the detail and nodded, and they were off once more. Alfonso was lead towards the quiet and neglected airport, peering sadly at the underused infrastructure once filled with thrice as many people as it received in an entire year, and walked through it sadly. They entered a car, this time not part of a motorcade, and drove for ten minutes from Torrent to Valencia proper, near the old shipyards where the Valencian industrial complexes were built up at. The next hour of affairs could be summarized quite easily.
Upon arriving at 5:04, Alfonso, Edelmira, Esteban, and two guards stepped out onto the grounds of the
Complejo Industrial de Maíllo. They were met by Sebastián Cadaval and Rolando Andrade, both managers of two plants within the complex, and Arturo Obregón, a senior foreman from Andrade’s facility. Sebastián was a tall and slim man who wore a black suit with thin white pinstripes, Rolando was more simply dressed but still formal, and Arturo was dressed with raggy worker’s garb with hands that were calloused and - despite obvious, rough scrubbing due to their smeared appearance - dirty.
Alfonso and his entourage were led into Andrade’s factory, which was a factory for commercial appliances, a field that Alfonso was told fit into the broad category of ‘light industry’, and then explained about its contrast with ‘heavy industry’. He was then given a ten minute tour of the factory and its machinery, which was explained primarily by Arturo (as Andrade and Sebastián didn’t know that much about the true mechanics of their factories). He met some workers along the way and exchanged short words with them before moving on. During this, Edelmira broke off to meet Renata Morterero and Ana Mancebo, the forewomen of the few dozen female workers at the factory to discuss, without the press attention Alfonso had, women’s labor issues.
The ladies were seated in a small office in the back of the factory, nestled between the offices of the other foremen and factory managers. It was small, dank, and repurposed from a closet in 1933 when the first few women were hired and subjected to the worker representation laws passed by the Labor Corporation in 1932. Renata and Ana were, while both nearly Edelmira’s age, more scruffy in appearance and bore their own likenesses to the Rosie the Riveter caricature.
“Well, ladies, I’m glad I was given the time to meet with you today.” Edelmira said, overwhelmingly self-aware of the disparity in regality between her and these women.
Both women, either postured with highly gruff and masculine body language, leered back at Edelmira as she spoke. An aura of scrutiny arose from them, and caused Edelmira, usually a cool woman, to sweat.
“W-well, I think we have about...ten or twenty minutes here, shall we begin?” Edelmira added, hoping to break these ladies’ silence.
“Alright,” Renata said, “let’s just get this clear.”
“
Carajo...” Edelmira thought.
“We’re not enthusiastic about this meeting,
Su Alteza,” Renata said, adding a tone to the title that was mocking, “what is it that you can accomplish? Most every woman in this country who’s the wife of some bigshot politician or other figure ain’t speak a word about women’s issues. Basically because you can’t, not without being scrutinized for being unladylike by the entire male establishment!”
Edelmira stared in awe as Renata’s rabble went on and on.
Ay, I don’t even sound this moody when I bug Alfonso about women, she thought.
“...we’re all shoved under the carpet and made into second class citizens as workers! Over 90% of laborers are male, so us 10% are only treated with 10% of the respect the men receive. This ‘meeting’ between us? It’s nothing, just a setup cleverly crafted by the guys who put together this entire event to make it seem like the Monarchy gives even the slightest fuck about women in labor. Y—”
“You’re utterly wrong.” Edelmira interjected, straightening her posture and holding her head firmly.
Renata paused, and her eyes turned to Ana who shrugged.
“Alf…
el Rey requested this event in order to learn more about our country’s labor issues. He has lately felt disconnected and the criticisms of his opponents have gotten to him. This is part of a larger plan to expand the duties of the Monarchy. This meeting was conceived solely by him, although it was planned by his less like-minded advisors. However, his intention for this meeting is to have me, an influential voice in his ear, gather info on the one caste of our workforce he knows he won’t be allowed to meet with. There are things going on behind the scenes and far beyond you that you are unaware of so, I’d
highly suggest not jumping to conclusions on the thoughts of your superiors.” Edelmira spoke critically to the two, who’s blank expressions turned progressively brighter.
“¿
Seriamente?” Ana asked.
“
Absolutamente.” Edelmira replied.
The two sat up, having gained some more respect for their Queen, and Renata scratched her chin.
“So...do you have any idea of what King Alfonso wishes to know?” Renata asked.
“
Bien, esta es mejor.” Edelmira said with a smile. “Let’s start with wages.”
With a good reputation now achieved, Edelmira was able to dive into fourteen productive minutes of conversation with the two forewomen. The topics of wages, workplace safety, maternity leave, disparities in employee benefits, and workplace harassment were touched on during their discussion. At the end of their allotted time, the three stood and shook each other’s hands. A guard entered the room to retrieve the Queen, and she respectfully parted from the two women. She was lead back through the factory, and joined her husband at a high point looking over the factory floor, which had been crowded with its workers, journalists, and other individuals. In front of Alfonso was a podium with a microphone, and on the podium was a sheet of paper covered on either side with a speech.
“
Oye, cariño.” Alfonso said as she approached.
“You ready?” She asked.
“Mhm, just waiting for the green light from Esteban.”
“
Bien.”
“So, did you learn anything good from the forewomen?” Alfonso asked.
“
Si, I’ll fill you in later.” Edelmira answered.
Alfonso nodded, and turned back to the crowd assembled below him. Esteban was towards the back, talking to the more prominent dignitaries in the factory, and the journalists manning the recorders for the radios and holding cameras for the newspapers. A minute passed and Esteban turned around and gave a firm thumbs up to Alfonso, who nodded and cleared his throat into the mic. A loud feedback echoed throughout the factory, and he gained the attention of the factory.
“
Buenas tardes, señoras, señores, y trabajadores. I thank you for giving me the opportunity to come to this factory today in order to meet with you, talk to you, and understand you all as the backbone of our country. In these dark and uncertain times we all live in its more important than ever for every member of society, from the poor to rich, from the worker to the King, to look out for all they can and help build up society again. As King, I possess enough capital to look out for every Spaniard, and I want to do that, to look out for you Spaniards. What good is it be King if you treat your subjects as only aristocrats, and not every single person who live within the borders of your realm? In my view, the most important corporations in Spain are the Popular and Labor Corporations. Those two corporations consist of, pretty much, every Spaniard and represent the most important organs of Spanish society. To neglect them is to neglect one’s own body. You cannot be healthy if any of your organs are ill, and a country cannot be healthy if any of its organs are ill.” Alfonso spoke into the microphone his words written to be simple yet powerful and enticing. His eyes remained stuck to the crowd so he didn’t remain staring at the speech; he saw many of the people below him show looks that were indifferent, but many also showed proud and inspired looks. “I have learned much today about the mechanisms and minutiae of our country’s workforce. The people who I’ve met today represent the characteristics and demographics of the entire national workforce with a margin of error of only 10%, which is something some people who work for me and are generally smarter than me told me.”
Some sparse laughter followed.
“With that in mind, I will return to Madrid after this with an enlightened mindset, and attend a long and critical meeting with the Labor Corporation. I will seek to truly be the head of our state, the face of our country, the symbol of our people. I will do so by representing every little plebeian and patrician impartially. Hear me and believe me when I say: today, Spain changes; today, your lives change.”
Alfonso then took a deep breath as he prepared to hit the climax of his speech.
“¿¡
Oís me!?” He shouted, releasing an array of intense gestures to articulate his words, like any good orator did. “¡
Vos vidas van a cambiar! ¡
Vos será exaltado entre el pueblo de España! ¡
Como la columna vertebral nuestro del nación, mereceis eso!”
The once mostly apathetic crowd grew into a mass of applause, cheers, and whistling. Alfonso smiled happily, and looked at the happy faces exclaiming at him with thrill. However, he did not turn to the faces of the bourgeois and barons in the back who glared suspiciously and whispered disrespect to one each other. Alfonso relished in the cheers for a few moments, and then someone came up behind him.
“
Mi Rey, it is time to move on.” They whispered in his ear.
He nodded and turned back to the crowd.
“¡
Gracias por voz tiempo, y Dios te bendiga!” Alfonso said to the crowd before stepping away from the podium. He was escorted through the factory, with Edelmira and later Esteban at his side. At his behest, Alfonso went down to the factory floor and gave attention to a few dozen workers as he snaked his way through the factory.
He was met towards the entrance by Sebastian, Rolando, and Arturo and exchanged words with them again.
“Arturo,” Alfonso said to the humble and gruff foreman, “I heard that your eldest daughter, Adelita, is ill,
correcto?”
Arturo blinked at Alfonso, surprised to be addressed any more by the King.
“Ehh…
si, that’s true.” Arturo replied.
“Well, as I said up there I’d like the best of our country’s laborers. So, that’s why, when I get back to Madrid, I’ll be commanding a doctor from the prestigious
Clínica Moncloa to head down here to diagnose and treat your daughter. Okay?” Alfonso said.
Arturo gasped with surprise, and chuckled.
“Well, th-thank you,
Su Majestad.” Arturo replied.
“
De nada.” Alfonso replied, giving Arturo a firm shake of the hand before moving on.
Alfonso and his posse were in their car three minutes later, and heading back to Torrent within five. The event was over, and the changes stemming from it were set in motion. Alfonso thought of himself proudly, and made a few pleading prayers to God as he flew back to Madrid to bless his plan with success. By eight o’clock, the royal couple were back in the
Palacio Real, where they were welcomed by the part honest and part faux applause of their Royal Household and some nobles, then treated with a short celebratory dinner before they made it back to their private residence to conclude the night.