A Barcelona Heiress Page 10

  In the waiting rooms were throngs of overwrought mothers cradling wailing infants to whom nature seemed to have been especially heartless. The doctor explained the cases to me: tuberculosis and ringworm, blindness and deafness, scrofula and rickets—evils that afflict a fragile humanity, striking such defenseless little creatures with particular mercilessness. Unfortunate souls, victims of penury and unwanted pregnancies. In the corridor a couple stood silently, hand in hand, as tears ran down their cheeks, while another woman broke down, crying hysterically over the loss of her child. In a chair, yet another woman covered her listless, crippled son with a diaper made from a rag.

  On the mezzanine level right above the ground floor was an X-ray room, and another room for chemical analyses. The lower level and first floor, designated for use as a children’s hospital, housed more than fifty beds. On the second floor there was an operating room with a skylight, and a photo gallery presenting images of surgical treatments.

  “Children,” the doctor continued, “are not protected in our society. The legal working age is ten. They can send young ones of that tender age off to work; until recently ten- to fifteen-hour shifts were legal, and in many places they are still the order of the day. Doesn’t that seem barbaric to you?”

  On our way out the doctor invited us to write something in a guest book for friends of the hospital. Inside were messages such as: “Philanthropy cannot be studied. One is born with it. It is a supernatural faculty which Nature grants to the most fortunate, to give life and succor to those ill-fated souls beset by hunger and disease. Praise to you, Dr. Vidal Solares, priest presiding at the altar of charity!” And: “In this refuge from the saddest kind of pain you will experience compassion and interest in those innocent victims who suffer, and you will embrace its founder, saying to him, as I did: Vidal Solares, you are a redeemer!”

  What more could be said? I scribbled down my simple signature and walked out alongside Isabel Enrich into Barcelona’s Ensanche district, breathing in the fresh air.

  “You’re full of surprises. Why didn’t you ever tell me about all this?” I asked in a chiding tone.

  “‘But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.’ Isn’t that the golden rule of charity?”

  “Then why show me now?”

  “Because I need some professional counsel from you. The truth is that I am giving considerable sums of money to this and other charitable causes. For now I want of nothing. My inheritance, thank God, was large, and the plantations in Puerto Rico are well run and continue to yield handsome profits. But if I carry on spending at the rate I am now, in a few years I could be seriously strapped. The thing is that a few weeks ago …”

  And Isabel Enrich began to tell me the story of her aunt, the Marchioness of Sensat, and her problematic inheritance: a fortune which could end up distributed among a dozen different relatives, or land in the hands of Isabel, who did indeed require some sound legal advice.

  8

  In order to carry out the charge María Nilo had given me I had to resort to pulling some questionable strings and enlisting the assistance of some of my former clients. Even Basilio, my assistant and clerk, was forced to pay visits he would have preferred to avoid, to dark taverns in the Gracia district with walls lined with rotting casks, and inexplicably dismal dives in the Atarazanas quarter where fabulous card games were held.

  With roots as deeply Galician as those of Lucinda, Basilio’s father was a postal worker who had brought his family to Barcelona in the hopes that they would enjoy more opportunities there. But he died young, leaving his widow and children to fend for themselves. Basilio had ended up at my practice when I opened it, three years prior. At that time he was eighteen, and he fast proved himself a bright and efficient employee, whether sorting out bewildering paperwork or tracking down individuals whose testimony we needed. He was also quite the athlete, frequenting the Barcelona Swim Club and not hesitating to dive into the chilly waters of the port on Christmas Day in order to take part in the organization’s traditional competition. And every Sunday morning in the winter he would take the train to Puigcerdá to go skiing at the slopes in La Molina.

  Basilio and I combed the city in search of contacts who might be able to shed some light on Ángel Lacalle’s whereabouts. Several of our sources agreed that, if anyone knew something, it would be José García Torres, but he, in turn, though not entirely missing, lived in a quasi-clandestine state, and it was no small task to find him.

  García Torres was “the other” leader in the arena of union anarchism in Barcelona. Like Lacalle, he had come to the city in his adolescence, in his case from a small town in Zaragoza, and for years had worked as a waiter in bars and taverns by the port, until he was offered a job in a luxury restaurant in the Ensanche district. Apparently he had been unable to abide the customers’ attitudes, the derision he suffered from his bosses and some fellow waiters, and being immersed in that whole world of luxury, such a cruel contrast with daily life in the neighborhoods he had until then inhabited. The experience ultimately served to solidify his most militant anarchist convictions.

  According to our informants, García Torres was Lacalle’s main rival in the organization, and the two had voiced clashing positions at various conventions and even public acts. Lacalle behaved as a union leader demonstrating a certain practical sense, and with relative prudence, not refusing to negotiate with business organizations and authorities. García Torres, on the other hand, believed that the revolution should be launched without delay, and that any means were valid—especially if they employed violence—to do away once and for all with society’s loathsome capitalist class. These ideas and their ensuing application, in the form of continuous attacks and assaults by groups he had inspired, made García Torres a regular fixture at a number of different Spanish jails, as he was behind nearly all these crimes in one way or another, whether giving them his blessing or directly participating in them. His fierce attitude, meanwhile, had won him great prestige among his peers, especially the most furious and radical, who dismissed Lacalle as a sellout, a dealmaker whose capacity for dialogue was only evidence of his submissiveness.

  Through a tangled web of intermediaries we managed to track down the whereabouts of García Torres, and I was given an address near the top of Muntaner Street. I headed there at the specified time and, much to my surprise, saw that our meeting place was a laundry. The place was spacious, with a swarm of old ladies, a few middle-aged women, and a handful of adolescents and girls busy leaving white sheets just so with irons they filled with boiling water. The air was oppressively humid, and my face was soon dripping with sweat and my shirt stuck to my chest. Seated in chairs in the corners were a couple of men, advanced in years, watching over the process. I approached one of them, telling him that I had an appointment. He led me to a large back room where a couple of bodyguards at first blocked the entrance. There the union leader was waiting for me, comfortably seated behind a wooden desk at which he was working. He neither got up to receive me nor did he offer me his hand.

  García Torres made a contradictory impression. Physically he was ogre-like: with a hulking frame, he was one of those men you realize in a moment could really hurt you with his bare hands and, as result, he possessed a natural confidence denied more fragile individuals. He was ugly, and it was striking how he dressed like a sober bureaucrat burdened with responsibilities, in a double-breasted striped blazer, shirt, and tie. On a chair rested a typically bourgeois hat rather than the cap prevalent among workers. I instantly understood that his attire was all part of a calculated image.

  Ten years before, I was eighteen and working as the editorial secretary of the magazine Acción, which was published by Las Juventudes Monárquicas, and which we managed to put out, despite our limited funds, thanks to the work of volunteers and the efforts of José María Rocabert, José María Milá, Eugenio Nadal, and a couple of other datistas—early-day supporters of Eduardo Dato. During that time I met a private de
tective who specialized in preventing assassinations and protecting politicians facing threats, tasks which he had successfully completed on at least two occasions. I asked him to write an article for us about his work and he sent me a piece of writing, which he chose not to sign with his real name, in which he sought to teach everyday people to detect terrorists. He began by stating that they were never dressed in an extravagant or eye-catching manner. Rather, in order not to stir up any suspicion they strove to adopt a common and drab appearance. An anarchist about to throw a bomb is normally well-dressed, and feigns calmness. The article also explained that when a crowd gathers around a monarch or statesman, the men protecting him ought to mistrust, above all, those approaching individuals with the most innocent of appearances, especially those dressed in priestly garb, for the cassock is a garment which the violent often employ in order to conceal their intentions.

  Such was the case with García Torres, dressed like a respectable member of the gentry in order to veil the danger he posed and, possibly, the interior rage gnawing at him (or was it a profound hopelessness?). Compared to the contemplative and magnetic Lacalle, García Torres was like a fighting bull raring to charge.

  “I have chosen to see you only out of curiosity,” he announced. “You should know that I deplore your right-wing paper and your work in the courts serving the moneyed classes.”

  “You must not be aware that, as a public defender, above all I represent people of very humble means. As a lawyer I have saved many workers and debtors from jail, and as a journalist I have denounced numerous social injustices which your organization also supposedly condemns.”

  “The justice system is a farce, an instrument of repression serving the powerful, and the bourgeois press a factory of lies and ideological justifications for the social order. They tell me that you’re looking for Lacalle.”

  “I am.”

  “Lacalle is an associate who is often too tepid, in my view almost a reformer. At times I would even call him a traitor, so it would hardly be shocking if someone went after him. I don’t know where he’s gone, but these days it’s not strange for people to disappear. All the leaders of the organization are taking shelter as the repression escalates. With a nod from Catalonia’s bosses, General López Ballesteros and his henchman Beastegui have moved to crush us, while that murderer who calls himself Danton bumps off workers left and right with impunity. Even I’m keeping a low profile. If I’ve agreed to receive you here it’s not because I trust you, because I don’t, but because we’ve already decided to quit this hideout, which was provided to us by some allies with the launderer’s union. We’re not going to use it anymore.”

  “Can you direct me to anyone who might know where he is?”

  “Between us, no. Lacalle changed his address often and, because he’s unmarried, he didn’t have to explain his comings and goings to anyone. But, if I were you, I’d ask your friends at the Civil Government, the Captaincy General, or at police headquarters. If there’s anybody interested in seeing Lacalle disappear you’ll find him there, not among us.”

  The man’s tone was so brash that I could not help but respond, “But, from what I’ve heard, you’re not exactly an opponent of sudden disappearances.”

  He flashed me a scowl.

  “Look, from a young age I learned that, if you submit, you can live in peace, but if you refuse to, you’ve got to fight. When the proletariat takes over it might have to employ violent, dictatorial and bloody means against the classes it’s overturned, and I’ve no qualms about that. But right now we’re only paving the way for that moment. If you’re asking me if I’ve ordered the executions of enemies of the people, the answer is yes, of course I have. How could I not have? If you’re asking me if I’ve participated in direct attacks, the answer is also yes. I couldn’t have given others work that I wouldn’t do myself. That said, I believe that our actions shouldn’t be suicidal, but intelligent and well-planned. That’s why we assign great importance to preparations that enable the operatives participating in them to get away. We’re not willing to provide the reactionaries with cannon fodder. And now you’ll have to forgive me, but I have urgent business to attend to.”

  There was nothing further to be said after such a definitive dismissal. After my brief conversation with García Torres I walked back through the laundry room and out into the street. I slid the carnation I’m in the habit of wearing back into my jacket’s lapel (I had placed it in my pocket before meeting with the anarchist, as I didn’t want him to view me as utterly frivolous) and began my descent down Muntaner Street under the pleasant morning sun, weaving in between the beautiful plane trees and quietly whistling “La Adelita.” It was not long before I realized that someone was following me a few yards behind, and I quickened my pace. I was thinking about taking off running (at that time one could not be too cautious) when the individual shouted out my last name:

  “Hey, Vilar! Wait! I need to talk to you!”

  It was one of the older men who ran the establishment where García Torres had received me. He was very slender and his face very dark, he had silvery hair combed straight back, and he exuded great vitality. He reached out to shake my hand.

  “My name is Floreal Gambús. Why don’t we go talk somewhere?”

  He took me to a nearby tavern, where I ordered wine and he asked for an apple. I thought that the waiter would be taken aback, but instead he brought him one right away, as if already familiar with his habits.

  “I know that you’re looking for Lacalle. I’d like to help you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know if you’re familiar with our world. I suspect you’re not. You see, in Catalonian anarchism there are two great divisions: one which is concerned with politics, in which men like Lacalle and García Torres are active, with all their considerable differences of opinion. These anarchists believe that society can be improved only through political action, whether revolutionary or through advances won by union organizations.

  “And then there are those of us who believe in the individual improvement of human beings. We embrace anarchism because we believe that over the centuries the government, armies, and churches have patently demonstrated their inability to produce anything resembling social justice. We believe that human society will be redeemed only when each one of us recovers that natural goodness which is our essence and innate birthright, and applies it to our relationships with our fellow humans. To do this we need to shed all that’s superfluous and seek to ennoble the spirit. That’s why among our ranks there are naturists, spiritualists, pantheists, theorists of freedom, and all kinds of esoteric thinkers.”

  “My!” I exclaimed. “And what does that have to do with Lacalle?”

  “It’s easy to understand. Although we humanist anarchists are not interested in politics, we consider ourselves members of the great anarchist community, and there are some figures we’d like to see represent the cause more than others. García Torres is coarse and violent. He lacks subtlety and doesn’t understand our spiritual inclinations. Lacalle is another story. It’s easy to establish rapport with him. And he’s practically a theosophist, sharing many of our sensibilities.”

  Founded by Madame Blavatsky in the last third of the nineteenth century, the theosophist doctrine presented itself as a kind of encapsulated synthesis of the finest aspects of all religions: Christian ethics, Buddhist illumination, Islamic asceticism … It had become quite influential in intellectual circles in Paris and London. I was rather surprised to hear that Lacalle subscribed to theosophy, and this piece of information revealed a latent mystical side to him which he did not transmit in his everyday dealings.

  “So then?”

  “I will take you to a place where they just might know something about our friend.”

  * * *

  A streetcar carried us to the neighborhood of San Martín de Provensals, and dropped us off at the beginning of an unpaved road shaded by towering alder trees. We walked down the road until we reache
d an area of sprawling orchards. We crossed them on a narrow path eventually arriving at a masía, which, at first sight, looked like any other typical country house. The surrounding stables gave onto a large threshing area full of people moving about, diligently engaged in the most varied tasks.

  What I saw reminded me of Tolstoy’s writings and his ideas for the farm at Yásnaia Poliana. There were old men with long hair and beards clad in overalls repairing wicker chairs and mending fishing nets while small children ran about happily amid hens, geese, and rabbits. An old witch-like woman was reading the fortunes of a circle of boys, a gathering of girls was busy embroidering at a large table in the shade of a poplar tree, and another group of women filled a set of egg cups.

  On one side a muscular, middle-aged man led some boys in exercises. Under a sturdy elm tree an older yet robust bespectacled woman energetically scrawled mysterious words on a chalkboard before a tiny contingent of six students. “Saluton, Tie, Dankon, Bonvulu, Pacon …”

  “What is that strange tongue?” I asked my guide.

  “That? Esperanto. The universal language. It was created by a Polish ophthalmologist, Dr. Zamenhof, in order to foster harmony and understanding across the whole human race. Its structure is very simple, making it much easier to learn than any of the languages which have come down through history and which today divide humanity. Some call it the workers’ Latin, for it is, above all, the working classes who are using it in order to be able to communicate with each other, transcending nationalities and borders.