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Jules Stewart is a journalist, historian and author. He spent twenty years in Madrid working as a journalist, and now lives in London. His books include Albert: A Life (I.B.Tauris, 2011); On Afghanistan’s Plains: The Story of Britain’s Afghan Wars (I.B.Tauris, 2011); Crimson Snow: Britain’s First Disaster in Afghanistan (2008); The Savage Border: The Story of the North-West Frontier (2007); Spying for the Raj: The Pundits and the Mapping of the Himalaya (2006) and The Khyber Rifles: From the British Raj to Al Qaeda (2005).

Published in 2012 by I.B.Tauris & Co Ltd

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Copyright © Jules Stewart 2012

The right of Jules Stewart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written

permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978 1 78076 281 4

eBook ISBN: 978 0 85773 271 2

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available

Text design, typesetting and eBook by Tetragon

, London

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 From Maŷrīt to Madrid

2 A Very Catholic Facelift

3 A Capital Idea – But Why?

4 Days of Glorious Decadence

5 Madrid Gets a Taste of Bourbon

6 1808 and All That

7 Madrid Comes of Age

8 Monarchy Is the Best Policy

9¡No Pasarán!

10 Euro Visions

11 Adiós Franco, Hola Almodóvar

Epilogue Madrid in Two Days (and Nights):

Glossary

Notes

Bibliography

Illustrations

‌List of Illustrations

1

. Las Navas de Tolosa, the turning point in Spain’s 800-year war against the Moorish invaders. Painting by Francisco de Paula Van Halen (nineteenth century).

2

. Fernando and Isabel, known as the Catholic Monarchs. This dual portrait was painted for their wedding in 1469. The artist is unknown.

3

. Felipe II arrives in Madrid in 1561 after proclaiming it the capital of Spain. Author’s collection.

4

. The Plaza Mayor, one of Madrid’s main tourist attractions. Painting by Juan de la Corte, 1623. Courtesy of the Museo de la Historia de Madrid.

5

. Fernando VII, ‘the Desired One’. Painting by Francisco de Goya, 1814. Courtesy of the Museo Nacional del Prado.

6

. The 2 May 1808 uprising. Painting by Joaquín Sorolla, 1884.

7

. Manuela Malasaña, heroine and martyr of the 2 May revolt. Painting by José Luis de Villar.

8

. Goya’s Allegory of Madrid, 1810. Courtesy of the Museo de la Historia de Madrid.

9

. The 1854 revolution, in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol, by Eugenio Lucas Velázquez, c.1855. Courtesy of the Museo de la Historia de Madrid.

10

. Aerial bombing in Madrid in the 1936–39 Civil War. Photographer unknown.

11

. ‘¡No Pasarán!’ (‘They Shall Not Pass!’) banner, hanging over the entrance to Madrid’s Plaza Mayor during the Civil War. Photographer unknown.

12

. General Francisco Franco’s Civil War victory declaration of 1 April 1939.

13

. The Puente de Toledo. Author’s collection.

14

. Pedro Almodóvar. Photo by Roberto Gordo Saez.

15

. Real Madrid Stadium. Photo by uggboy.

16

. Real Madrid celebrates its Spanish Super Cup win against Valencia in 2008. Photo by Juan Fernández.

17

. The Cibeles Fountain. Courtesy of Artimagen.

18

. The Bear and Strawberry Tree (Oso y Madroño). Courtesy of Artimagen.

19

. Plaza Mayor. Courtesy of Artimagen.

20

. Palacio Real. Photo by Gryffindor.

21

. The Cibeles Fountain facing the start of the Gran Vía. Photo by Louise O’Gorman.

22

. The Metropolis Building. Photo by Louise O’Gorman.

To the People of Madrid

‘Petersburg has finer streets, Paris and Edinburgh more stately edifices, London far nobler squares, while Shiraz can boast of more costly fountains… but the population!’

George Borrow on Madrid,

The Bible in Spain (1843)

‌Acknowledgements

I am humbled by and grateful to the Authors’ Foundation of the Society of Authors for their award of a magnificent grant, which enabled me to carry out research work in Madrid. Helen Crisp has once more taken time out from a demanding job to cast a critical eye over the manuscript and bring to my attention some potentially disastrous howlers. One could not ask for a more supportive and skilful agent than Duncan McAra, and thanks also to Joanna Godfrey at I.B.Tauris for seeing the text through the editing process. The work of the copy-editor is too often taken for granted, so many thanks are due to Alex Middleton for applying his skills to the manuscript. I am indebted to the helpful and friendly staff at the Biblioteca Nacional de España (Spanish National Library) and Hemeroteca Municipal de Madrid (Madrid Newspaper Archive), both world-class research facilities. Anyone who endeavours to write about Madrid, past or present, will find Madrid, villa y corte by Pedro Montoliú, an official ‘Cronista de la Villa’ (‘Chronicler of the City’), one of the most insightful and invaluable accounts of the city’s history. I would also like to thank the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea Central Library for making available a badly needed space in which to write in peace and quiet. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the people of Madrid. My gratitude goes to them for providing me with such an extraordinary story, and to these frequently exasperating and always endearing Madrileños, I dedicate this book.

Madrid: The History

‌Introduction

One could forgive Madrid’s town-hall authorities for failing to observe that 2011 marked the 450th anniversary of the city’s designation as the capital of Spain. My first visit to Madrid came on the heels of the fourth centenary and I do not recall a single event having taken ‌place to commemorate the occasion.¹

This is not so surprising, for Madrid is more a way of life than a city, to be accepted rather than commemorated. It is an accident of history, a whim of King Felipe II, with no more legitimate a claim to the title of capital of Spain than Valladolid, Toledo or Sevilla. Perched desolately in the middle of the Castilian plateau, astride the sad little Manzanares River, which not many Madrileños have laid eyes upon, as remote as a place could be from Spain’s historical centres of industry and great ports, Madrid is a village that plays at being a city.

Soy hijo de Madrid’ – ‘I’m a native son of Madrid’. This comment came from the driver of a clapped-out and rather dangerous 1950 Citroën Traction Avant taxi, a butane-gas fuel tank bolted to the boot, as we bumped along Calle Serrano on the way into town from the airport, more than 50 years ago. He stated his pedigree with the same bravado as if he had revealed himself to be the Emperor Charles V. ‘Look!’ He pointed with pride to the statue of the pagan goddess Cybele that sits in the city centre, driving a chariot drawn by two lions atop a fountain. ‘Your first view of La Cibeles!’ he proclaimed. The fountain’s proper name is Cibeles – the addition of the definite article represents a singularly Madrileño term of endearment equivalent to the working-class ‘our Maggie’, one indicative of the statue’s exalted status among the city’s people.

I was dropped at my hotel in the Puerta del Sol at midday, a punishing July sun beating down on the pavement, to be greeted by a deafening, shrill chorus from blind lottery vendors with strips of tickets pinned to their shirts. ‘¡Veinte tiras para hoy – tengo la suerte!’ (‘Twenty strips for today – I’ve got the winning ticket!’) they shrieked across the square. A one-legged Civil War veteran sat crouched on the pavement and, when I dropped a 50-peseta coin into his outstretched hand, he struggled up on his good leg, propped himself on his crutch and flicked me a smart parade-ground salute. It seems I had given myself away as every inch the country cousin, for I later discovered that my handout to the beggar almost matched the cost of a night’s stay at my hotel. To complete the Goya tableau, two moustachioed members of the Guardia Civil (Civil Guard) in patent-leather hats, their sub-machine guns cradled lovingly in their arms, cast a scrutinising glance in my direction.

By late afternoon the temperature had risen to the level of the engine room of the Titanic. Desperate to escape the raging furnace, I strolled across town to the Plaza de la Marina Española and parked myself on a granite bench under the shade of a poplar. Presently there appeared a sight that could have walked off a Buñuel film set. A ragged Gypsy leading a donkey, a dog and a monkey sporting a straw hat positioned his menagerie below the windows of a block of flats and began solemnly, expressionlessly beating on a drum. This was the signal for the dog to leap up onto the donkey, followed by the monkey, which clambered atop the dog. And there they stood in the blistering heat, waiting for someone to appear at the window with a peseta or two – or, what is more likely, to release a barrage of expletives for having the siesta hour interrupted.

Madrid’s afternoon siestas and the Gypsy with his bedraggled troupe are things of the past, and one is tempted to ask what there is to celebrate in this congested, noise-bedevilled, air-polluted, in-your-face city. Fair question. However, Madrid has one defining feature and this has remained largely immutable over the years: its people.

A few years ago, an English acquaintance of mine returned from having spent a year in Madrid, complaining that it had all been good fun, but that the people he came across did not strike him as very ‘inquisitive’. I would strongly disagree, but nevertheless I reminded him of an incident I once witnessed on a bus in Plaza de Cibeles. An elderly woman with a stick was having difficulty boarding, so the driver engaged the emergency brake and got off to help her up the step and into a seat before carrying on. It was mid afternoon and people were on their way back to the office, yet I could not fail to notice that none of the passengers rolled their eyes, checked their watches or clucked their tongues. That to me is worth more than any alleged lack of inquisitiveness – and it’s a cause for celebration.

I would also celebrate the fact that Madrid remains a very young city in a very old country. In spite of the strains and stresses attendant in a city that is the third largest in the European Union, with nearly 3.5 million inhabitants – 6.5 million, including the greater metropolitan area – Madrid holds fast to its youthful qualities of energy, openness to change and a delightfully presumptuous self-esteem, something expressed in the local proverb ‘de Madrid al cielo’ – once you’ve been to Madrid, the only place to go is heaven.

A late-winter afternoon in 2004, more than 40 years after that first encounter with Madrid, found me on a short visit to the capital, walking up the Calle de Alcalá towards the cathedral-like central post office in Cibeles. It was 11 March, a day that was to become one of the most tragic in the city’s history. In the intervening four decades, Spain had moved forward from ruthless dictatorship to drabocracy, dictadura to dictablanda (dura meaning ‘hard’ and blanda meaning ‘soft’), in a popular Spanish play on words of the day, gradually mutating into an embryonic and fully-fledged democracy. Those crucial years of transformation, from the early 1960s to the late 1970s, were a time of stop-start reform, groping in the dark, never knowing for certain where the goalposts stood, and not without their moments of political hilarity. In 1964, the Franco regime choreographed a national jubilee to mark the 25th anniversary of the end of the 1936–39 Civil War. Madrid was festooned with banners proclaiming ‘25 Years of Peace!’ This also coincided with the time Spain began to open its floodgates to mass tourism from abroad. Millions of visitors from the US and Europe flocked to the beaches. These package-holiday sun-seekers returned to Stuttgart, Sacramento and Sheffield with cherry-red shoulders and an ‌affection for tapas and sangría.²

The only problem arose when tour operators began picking up on a common quibble: many holidaymakers expressed disappointment that Spaniards don’t smile. This information was passed on to the Ministry of Information and Tourism and the reaction was one of horror at the thought of the dour, po-faced descendants of Seneca refusing to greet foreign visitors with a broad grin. The reality is that the Spanish, and particularly the Castilians, receive foreigners with courtesy, but few would go out of their way to make themselves ‘typical’ for tourists. The government panicked at the prospect of upsetting the goose that was just beginning to lay the golden egg. In response, street hoardings were swiftly covered with a ‘Smiley’, the hideously grinning image created in 1963 by the US artist Harvey Ball. This was placed above the slogan ‘Sonríe, Por Favor’ (‘Smile, Please’). It was not long before a Madrid satirical magazine displayed on its cover ‘25 Years of Peace’, and, below it, ‘Smile, Please’. The publication was shut down for three months. That was in 1964: by 2004, Spain had enjoyed nearly three decades of genuine peace, as well as media freedom. But with the world convulsed by the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and ferocious wars being waged in Iraq and Afghanistan, the country was to suffer the consequences of its having embraced the causes of its NATO allies.

On that afternoon in March, a young man sat slumped on a bench in front of the Café del Círculo de Bellas Artes, sobbing bitterly. His friends tried to comfort him, softly uttering words of reassurance, but it was in vain: his face remained buried in his hands. Then he looked up, his expression contorted with grief, and said in a trembling voice, ‘I have lost my faith in humanity.’ A group of Muslim terrorists with links to al-Qaeda had that morning exploded ten bombs on the city’s commuter-train network, killing 191 people and wounding nearly another 2,000. It was the deadliest terrorist action in Europe since the Lockerbie bombing in 1988. Many of the victims were poor immigrants from Latin America on their way to work from the city’s industrial suburbs. The coordinated attacks, it later emerged, had been carried out in revenge for Spain’s support for the Iraq war.

Within hours of the bombings, black crêpe hung from Madrid’s most iconic buildings and an eerie quiet descended on the city’s streets, punctuated by the wail of ambulances and rescue vehicles. The following night, two million people marched to the Atocha railway station, the scene of the worst carnage. The mood in the street was one not so much of anger as of defiance and indignation. The prevailing sentiment among the demonstrators, their heads held high, seemed to be, ‘We are Madrileños and you do not do this to us.’

The tragedy of that day brought to light the Madrileños’ deep humanity and sense of dignity. Among those lying in hospital or the morgue were many illegal immigrants, whose loved ones dared not make enquiries for fear of being expelled from Spain. The ruling right-wing Partido Popular (People’s Party, PP) rose to the occasion by granting automatic Spanish citizenship to relatives of the victims. But then this same government offended the dignity of the city’s people by making a desperate attempt to claim that the attacks had been carried out by the Basque separatist group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (Basque Homeland and Liberty, ETA).

A general election had been scheduled for 14 March, three days after the bombings. Prime minister José María Aznar’s designated successor Mariano Rajoy was favoured to win, albeit by a narrow margin. Aznar and his ministers knew that acknowledging Islamist responsibility would jeopardise their chances of winning the election, as the attacks would be perceived as a consequence of the PP taking Spain into the Iraq war, a policy highly unpopular with most Spaniards. Ministers therefore strived furiously to convince the electorate that ETA was behind the bombings. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ana Palacio, even sent instructions to all Spanish diplomats to place the blame on the Basque guerrillas at every opportunity.

The government’s ploy backfired. ETA denied any involvement in the atrocities. It was not their style, and everyone knew it. When ETA committed an outrage, they were swift to claim responsibility, almost always through a feverish communiqué sent to a radical Basque newspaper. Equally, when they denied responsibility for an act of barbarity such as this one, it was so. Sometime after the attack a van was discovered near the site of one of the explosions, with a tape of the Quran on the front seat. Then, when an Arabic newspaper in London printed a letter from Islamist extremists claiming responsibility for the bombings, the people of Madrid were outraged. They had been lied to, and the government was to pay the inevitable penalty for having attempted to deceive them. On the day of the election, Madrid voted massively against the government. The rest of the country followed suit. The PP was ousted from office and the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party, PSOE) came to power.

This book tells the story of a heroic city, which in 1808 led the uprising against Napoleon’s army of occupation and gave the world its first taste of guerrilla warfare. Madrid is a city that in the 1936–39 Civil War held out to the end against General Franco’s troops, suffered constant air raids and shelling for three years and was overrun and captured, but never signed a surrender document. This is a city that in 2004 stood in defiance against the onslaught of Islamist terrorism, and which seven years later, in May 2011, again showed its fighting spirit as the cradle of the worldwide ‘Indignado’ (‘Indignant’) movement.

‌— 1 —

‌From Maŷrīt to Madrid

Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman knew the attack would come from the north. In the ninth century, the emir of Córdoba was the most powerful ruler in Spain. His dominions stretched across most of the Iberian Peninsula and covered a large swathe of the modern states of Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. The emirate of Al-Ándalus, the Arabic name for Andalucía, was a land of splendour in every sense, with its fields of olive groves extending to the horizon, the cooling breeze of the snow-capped Sierra Nevada peaks to the south, and the vast acres of vineyards and orchards, watered by sophisticated irrigation systems imported from North Africa.

In 711, the Berber chieftain Tariq ibn Ziyad led an army of 16,000 warriors ‌across the Strait of Gibraltar,¹

the narrow body of water that separates Spain from Morocco, taking advantage of a dynastic civil war between Christian Visigoth pretenders, who three centuries earlier had themselves conquered Roman Hispania when that empire began to crumble. The Moors, as the North African invaders were collectively known, displayed a remarkable tolerance towards their new subjects, Christians and Jews alike. Córdoba, the capital of the Arab-Muslim emirate of Al-Ándalus, became a beacon of multicultural enlightenment, a glittering, bustling city of poets, mathematicians, philosophers and musicians. It is estimated that in those days there existed in France some 700 books worthy of the name, while the library of Córdoba, at the peak of its glory, held more than 100,000 volumes.

For a brief period, Muslim Spain was the most vibrant spot on earth, a place that saw the magical fusion of commerce, learning and power that put it in the rarefied company of classical Greece, imperial Rome, Han China and Renaissance Italy. The Umayyads, exiled from Damascus, had carved out a kingdom, and Córdoba was the jewel in the crown. The city matched Baghdad as a treasure house of culture, wealth, commerce and ‌learning throughout the Muslim world.²

The emir Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman, whose dynastic title was Muhammad I, faced a double-edged threat to his authority. A rebellion by Iberian Christians, known as Mozarabs, often in league with Mudalies, a people of mixed Iberian ancestry, required the almost permanent deployment of Muslim troops to rebel-held enclaves. Far more worrisome were the separate uprisings in Toledo, the former capital of the Visigoth kingdom. The city’s overwhelmingly Mudali population had risen in revolt against Córdoba, enlisting the support of Ordoño I, the Christian king of Asturias, something that would eventually, in 1031, result in the fracturing of the Caliphate into a number of smaller, independent kingdoms. It was in Asturias, a remote mountainous region of north-western Spain, that in 718, nearly a decade after the Moorish invasion, the warrior Don Pelayo had raised the standard of insurrection, signalling the beginning of the Reconquista, eight centuries of warfare that saw control of Spain gradually wrested from Muslim hands, with the conquest of the last Moorish redoubt of Granada in 1492. Now, as the emir waited, Ordoño’s forces were marching south under the banner of St James the Apostle, patron saint of Spain, threatening Toledo, the ‌gateway to the Al-Ándalus heartland.³

Forty-five miles north of Toledo lay a small, almost forgotten settlement, sited close to what was once a hub of roads linking the Roman provinces of Emerita, Cesaraugusta, Asturica and Corduba. By the fifth century, though it had been occupied and lightly fortified by the Visigoths, the desolate village on the high Castilian plateau that was to become Madrid began to fade from history. A century later, whatever urban life had existed was lost and the poorly defended settlement reverted ‌to a small agricultural community.

Who had occupied this site before the arrival of the Visigoth tribes remains a much-disputed historical enigma. In 1596, an image resembling a dragon was discovered carved into Puerta Cerrada, one of the city’s ancient walls. This inspired some historians to assert that Madrid had once been a Hellenic settlement, for the dragon was used by the ancient Greeks to adorn their cities’ coats of arms. Other scholars claimed that the dragon was in fact a snake, proving that the city had been founded by the Phoenicians. Those who defended the Roman-origin theory contended that the symbol was actually an ‌image of the god Jupiter.

What is known with certainty is that by the sixth century, many of its inhabitants began to migrate south to the bustling and prosperous town of Toledo, which in consequence grew to become the epicentre of Visigoth Spain.

Muhammad I looked northwards and set his sights on this abandoned settlement, less than a two-day march short of the strategic Guadarrama mountain range. This is where the Christian crusaders would have to be stopped, he thought. Here on this featureless plateau, 2,100 feet above sea level, was the perfect position from which to engage an advancing army. The untrustworthiness of Toledo, moreover, added a sense of urgency to the task of building another line of defence against the Christian forces. The emir dispatched his military engineers and troops, who marched to this desolate spot, the site of modern Madrid, where in the late ninth century they erected a small fortification, or alcázar, enclosed by a crenellated, 12-foot-thick wall. The fort occupied a central position in a line of lookout towers erected at 25-mile intervals along ‌a roughly west–east axis.

It is relatively easy to locate where these towers stood. The Spanish word for tower is torre, and this became the prefix for lookouts – Torrelaguna, Torrepedrera, ‌Torrecilla, Torrelavega and so on.

If one drives north from Madrid along the A-6 motorway, one can see a particularly striking tower, thanks to heavy restoration, rising on a promontory at the approach to Torrelodones, 18 miles from the capital. It barely attracts the notice of the thousands of Spanish motorists speeding to and from the insipid dormitory towns that have sprung up alongside the road.

Muhammad I sent his troops to build a fortress on the plains, giving it the name of Maŷrīt (pronounced Mahereet), which translates as ‘waterways’, perhaps inspired by the several small rivers and streams that flowed nearby. In Visigoth days the village, if indeed it had ever attained that status, was ‌called Matrice, or ‘mother stream’.

The Arabic name stuck for the two centuries the Moors held the citadel in the face of sporadic attacks from the north, until 1083 when it was overrun by a Christian army under Alfonso VI of León and Castilla. When the king’s troops approached the walls, they discovered that what in the eighth century had been a vulnerable Visigoth fort, 300 years later had been transformed into a formidable redoubt, garrisoned by some of the emir’s most fearsome soldiers.

The Reconquista was above all a religious crusade, so it was only appropriate that the hand of Divine Providence should intervene on behalf of the Christians. As the column of horsemen and infantry marched on the fortress, brandishing their swords and beating their drums, there appeared before them a vision of the Virgin Mary, who implored the king to allow her to lead his men against the Moorish defences. Suddenly the walls began to crumble before the onrushing host, revealing to their astonished eyes an icon that had been secreted four centuries earlier by the Visigoths when they had come under siege by the Muslim invaders. It was Nuestra Señora de la Almudena (Our Lady of the Almudena), from the Arabic term ‘al-mudayna’ (‘the citadel’). Guided by her image, the army stormed the gap to drive out the Moorish soldiers. Or so the story goes. Once wrested from Muslim hands, the citadel acquired the Mozarabic name of Matrit, and so preserved the same meaning as that it had been given by its former Visigoth and Arab rulers. Today it is known as Madrid, whose patron saint, quite naturally, is Nuestra Señora de la Almudena.

The 800-year Reconquista of Spain was not a perpetual military campaign in which Christian forces would drive the Muslims out of a stronghold and then push on southwards and lay siege to their next objective. It was the longest war in history, but there were extended periods of peace and truces in the fighting, and fortresses and towns were sometimes retaken by Muslim armies, who then had to be expelled a second or third time. It was quite common for rival factions of Christian as well as Muslim rulers to engage in minor civil wars and, in some of these confrontations, mercenaries would be drafted in across faith lines. At times, these conflicts were cast in religious terms, but that does not mean they were fought because of religious differences. The kaleidoscope of coalitions could be dizzying. In the middle of the eleventh century, for instance, the Muslim ruler of Toledo signed a treaty with the Christian prince of Navarra for help against the Muslim city of Guadalajara. The price was steep and included a large payment of gold. In turn, the Navarra Christians were given the right to harvest a portion of the agricultural crop of Guadalajara, if the city was captured. In response, the Muslim elites of Guadalajara concluded a treaty with the Christian king of León and Castilla, whose soldiers then sacked Toledo. The Muslims of Toledo responded by sending emissaries of their own to the king of