General Franco was taking him out as if he were the king of the Spanish decks and shaping his image and likeness. Prince Juan Carlos could learn something from his shadow. “He was like a father to me,” he said. Franco had highly developed small human virtues, suspicion, distrust, cunning, an insect’s sense of smell to detect the weakest and most vulnerable sides of others. Instead, his mind was denying him his greatest virtues: generosity, empathy, and generosity. While Franco did not die, Prince Juan Carlos broke the brick with a blow of his hand. He slammed his body against the window. He broke his bone skiing. He rode his motorcycle up and down the streets of Segovia, where a man named Adolfo Suárez was governor, wearing a mask under his helmet. People didn’t take it seriously. He made a joke at his expense. It didn’t matter to anyone what he thought or didn’t think. Suarez was the only one who seemed to care about the young stranded prince.
Adolfo Suarez was a politician at the time. He had the build of a supporting character in a Roman movie. He was like that anonymous young Praetorian who appears in the middle of the projection at the foot of the stairs or in the corner of the atrium, with his calves bound with leather bands, his tin skirt, and his fist clenched with a spear. As the meek Emperor passes in the direction of the Bacchanal with his robed aristocratic entourage, the camera stops in front of a muscular guard, studying his jaw and anxious gaze. Viewers were quick to guess that the man would end up cutting Tara, but his co-stars were still ignoring it. This is how I described him at the time, before he became a general in the transitional Rovere, a political adventurer who became a hero because he believed it was his destiny to bring democracy to Spain, the opposite path taken by King Juan Carlos, who went from hero to villain. The most interesting thing about this story is how their lives intersect in opposite directions.
Today it is accepted as a given that Juan Carlos declared himself King of Spain at 1 a.m. on February 24, 1981. His appearance on television with a message to the people in support of the constitution in the face of Tejero’s coup gave him real legitimacy. Apparently, he read this speech wearing only the upper body of a general’s uniform with a four-pointed star on the cuff. His lower body was not visible on screen and was covered by civilian pants. That submerged image, also the civilian part of the coup, remains in the dark. From that moment on, Juan Carlos I was crowned by a large number of politicians, intellectuals, artists, businessmen and ordinary people in the streets, who were fighting to shake hands with him.
While the young monarch was amiable and devoted to spreading Bourbon laughter everywhere, there was a time when he enjoyed general pleasures. He was the first Bourbon to be loved by the Spaniards. When Adolfo Suárez came to government, he was riddled with insults such as traitor, careerist, and illiterate; in fact, he was the most maligned politician of his time after Azaña, but the king was elevated to the limits of impunity, which gave him ample leeway to indulge in sexual and financial pleasures. However, Juan Carlos ceased to be king on April 18, 2012 after seeking forgiveness from the Spaniards after it was discovered that he had gone on a hunting trip to Botswana with his girlfriend Corinna Larsen. A king who asks for forgiveness is no longer a king. he dismounted from his horse.
He has just published his memoirs and is probably the first monarch in the world to have published a memoir. Written for his own greater glory, he once again occupies the forefront of general gossip in Spanish life. Therefore, anyone who reads this book will be able to understand the roots of the monarchy and dig into it to their heart’s content. It was a poisonous service he rendered to his son King Felipe VI, marking the 50th anniversary of the dictator’s death and the start of the transition. Although he helped bring democracy to Spain, in the end, former King Juan Carlos is left with a double bottom of sexual gluttony, financial misdeeds, and a broken family life. The hero of change was Adolfo Suárez. He was that young Praetorian in the Roman movies who made the camera stop in front of that square jaw of impeccable ambition. At this moment, Adolfo Suárez is already remembered by the Spanish people as a politician who showed courage.
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