A Barcelona Heiress Read online

  * * *

  So it was Vilches who had sent María Nilo to me and, given the actor’s reputation as a Don Juan, it was not difficult to surmise the tie that bound them. Evidently this reputation spurred the young showgirl to quickly insist, “Don’t get the wrong idea. There’s nothing between us. Don Ernesto has been like a father to me. He’s from Tarragona, like me, and when I came to Barcelona I asked him to open some doors for me in the entertainment business, and he did. He took me to see his friend the singer Marta Oliver at the Gran Peña on San Pablo Street. She saved me from living hand-to-mouth and got me up onstage, where I sang, scantily clad, for seven pesetas a day. I was doing well. I landed contracts in Seville and Madrid, and a few months ago I returned to the Alcázar Español as the main act.”

  * * *

  The Alcázar Español on Unión Street functioned as the center of what was then called sicalipsis—venues featuring raunchy songs, light music (which small, slapdash bands struggled to play as best they could), and generous amounts of female flesh onstage in silk fishnet stockings while an audience of revelers shouted obscenities through thick clouds of smoke.

  There was flamenco during the intermissions, manzanilla sherry and mojama salt-cured tuna to satiate the crowd’s hunger, and aguardiente to top it all off. Rumor had it that the place’s waitresses offered complementary services to those patrons who could afford them. Although it was a working-class joint, it was frequented by more than a few members of my city’s bourgeoisie—people with sordid weaknesses who, far from keeping a lid on them, flaunted their nostalgie de la boue.

  I, of course, neither frequented the Alcázar Español nor ever commented in my articles on any of its shows, if one could even call them that. I found it strange, however, that a performer who had learned the ropes in such a sleazy and sordid atmosphere would be naive enough to go around Barcelona in the company of three strangers and, even worse, to allow herself to end up alone with the three of them in a hotel room, and I told María Nilo as much.

  “You’d be surprised,” she replied, “at how softhearted us performers are. Take a look at me: I barely knew my mother. I was raised, if you can call it that, by relatives who hated me, and at age twelve had me working as a maid. I made my way up, fighting tooth and nail, with my talent for singing and dancing, using my body, and thanks to the help of a few decent souls like Vilches. So when someone comes up to you and has a few nice words, treats you well, escorts you around without making a pass the first chance he gets, gives you gifts … you let your guard down. Who doesn’t like a little pampering? Anyway, experience has taught me that maybe the ones who don’t make a pass are precisely those you can’t trust.”

  “You never suspected at any point that those men could be dangerous?”

  “Like I told you, of the three men it was the Frenchman who took the lead. He seemed to really open up to me. When we went out he talked to me a lot about his childhood, telling me how he was the illegitimate son of an industrial magnate who barely took care of him and had always scorned him. It was like he was consumed by in an inner rage. He was always putting on airs, swearing that one day he would be as famous and important as the man who had fathered him. The other two followed along, like an entourage. Maybe I suspected something the day we took a cruise in the boat through the port. I saw them look at each other in a way that was a bit strange, and they were whispering. But that was the end of it.”

  “Did you have relations with your assailants? I mean—and forgive me for asking, but did you know them, in the biblical sense?”

  She took a deep breath before answering in an emphatic and very sincere tone: “Never.”

  “And what do you think I can do for you, Miss Nilo?”

  “In the first place, find out exactly what happened that night. Secondly, keep the cops away from me. Even though they saved me, they treat cabaret singers as if we were hookers—and I say that with all due respect for hookers, who are most of the time better people than cops. Finally, I’d like you to throw those sons of bitches who did this to me in jail. Someone has to pay for what they put me through.”

  Did I believe María Nilo then? Only to a certain point. Though she was a smooth and tireless talker, her account did have some holes in it, and I still could not fathom how she had been so trusting of those shady characters. But various things motivated me to take her case. I have always admired those who manage to rise from humble origins and make something of themselves, as long as it’s not by stepping on others, and in this sense she had clearly shown grit. In addition, María, though a bit loud and melodramatic, was a beautiful woman, a spirited dark-haired bombshell that could leave no man indifferent. Offstage she continued to exude the magnetism that she must have learned while performing. Finally, I have a weakness (strictly platonic, mind you) for actresses. In her I saw a woman in need who, at the same time, possessed an irresistible inner strength, and I could not help but feel a certain empathy and tenderness toward her. I accepted the case.

  * * *

  That very morning I headed for Barcelona’s Police Headquarters on Paseo de Isabel II, near the Civil Government building, and asked for the chief of police, General Miguel Beastegui. He received me a few minutes later. With his head of elegant silvery hair and ice-blue eyes, that able and feared commanding officer of the Guardia Civil who I had met at a few social functions, greeted me with the detached cordiality that was typical of him.

  “Your singer’s attackers are in a safe place,” he announced brusquely. “And we know everything about them.”

  The jewels. The whole drama had its origins in the jewelry that María Nilo de Togores sought, collected, and received as gifts, as self-made women often do. These gems shone as a testament to her rise from a Tarragona slum without electricity or running water to the spotlights and flower bouquets of Barcelona’s stages; heavy and showy jewelry that hung from her ears, her neck, her wrists, her fingers, and even her ankles; jewels displayed in the city’s shop windows such as the Joyería Cabot jewelry store in Plaza de Cataluña where María had been so imprudent as to visit with the accused men, who the jewelers at the fine establishment still remembered due to the conspicuous interest they had shown in the prices of the pieces on display.

  “The men under arrest, Misan and Zaccar,” Beastegui explained ceremoniously, “are part of this cosmopolitanism of delinquency that characterizes the times we’re living in. They have left a trail through various countries and we don’t know exactly how they ended up in our country, but both are wanted for swindling a local company, Eusebio Miquel, out of five thousand pesetas, with which they were able to live in a most dissolute and licentious manner for a time. When they met Sebastiana Togores at the Alcázar Español they realized that she had the habit of wearing rather expensive jewelry. Misan and Zaccar introduced María to our third man.”

  “Albert Blum?”

  “His real name is Cándido Fagés, and he is originally from Tarrasa. He maintains that he changed his given name and surname to distance himself from his father, who he hates. He has been associated with the Greeks for months. When the three individuals squandered all the money from their fraud, they were thrown out of the hotel where they had been staying, and had to start pawning their clothing and personal effects in order to satisfy their most immediate needs. It was then that they concocted their plot to con Sebastiana, kill her, and make off with her jewels. Their plan was to escape abroad using passports they had prepared, disguised with fake mustaches and monocles.”

  “Fake mustaches?” It sounded comical.

  “Indeed. They had initially planned to throw her into the sea, hence their inviting her on a pleasure cruise. On that trip Abraham carried a revolver, and Fagés, a knife. It seems clear that they lost the nerve to carry out their criminal plan, and the singer never realized the true intentions of her companions, who treated her with the utmost kindness, nor did she give any importance to the fact that at times they talked among themselves in a foreign language.

 
; “The criminals then hatched a new plan, and in order to carry it out they installed themselves as guests in room 2 of the Hotel París. David Misan invited Sebastiana to dinner at the Alcázar Español, asking her to first accompany him to his hotel, where Zaccar and Fagés were waiting, supposedly in order to give her a dress they had bought for her. An unsuspecting Sebastiana followed him, wearing jewelry worth 5,400 pesetas, according to our expert’s estimation.”

  “You already arranged that?”

  “We caught them red-handed,” Beastegui replied curtly. “When Sebastiana reached the room, she was the victim of the assault you already know about. The arrested individuals, however, were unable to carry off their plan because the singer managed to remove her gag and started shouting, at the same time upsetting the washbasin, which made quite a racket. The hotel’s manager and a waiter heard the ruckus, and proceeded to pound repeatedly on the door, to no avail, at which point they called the authorities. During this time, Fagés dragged Sebastiana under one of the beds in an attempt to hide her, while Zaccar made an attempt to escape via the balcony.

  “My officers broke down the door, and the three men were arrested. Sebastiana was found under the bed, unconscious, with her clothing pulled up over her face, and with bruises and scratches to her face and neck, particularly on her left side; an extensive abrasion in her left groin area; another, even larger one, on her thigh on the same side; and yet another on her right shoulder, some inflicted by her attacker’s fingernails during the struggle and others incurred as a result of being held down by force. As you already know, the victim required hospitalization in order to recover.”

  “What have you found out about the assailants?”

  “My men searched the room and the luggage, and found the cotton the three used to gag the victim, bullets for a Browning pistol and a revolver, a sheath for a knife, which was found hidden among the sheets from one of the beds, two holsters, the mustaches and monocles I mentioned, a rubber flask, and three passports bearing the names of the three detainees.

  “During questioning, Fagés, alias Albert Blum, a traveling salesman by trade, confessed to being incarcerated for robbery in Berlin in 1918. He was also arrested three times on robbery charges: in 1917 in Bad Nauheim, Germany, in March 1919 in Paris, and again in June, not far from here in Olot. Like his accomplices, he is a seasoned lawbreaker; a criminal who has exploited Europe’s porous borders to wander from one country to the next. He portrays himself as a victim, stating that he suffered abuse during his childhood, though I don’t think this argument will do him much good in court.”

  “Congratulations, General. But, tell me, have you entirely ruled out the possibility that it was an attempted rape?”

  “The confession Fagés made is quite conclusive. We’ve had some problems with the other two, given their limited command of our language. What’s more, they may later alter their testimony and claim that they spoke under duress which, sadly, occurs all too often. But don’t worry. You’ll get a strong sentence for attempted theft, and perhaps even attempted homicide.”

  “I sincerely appreciate the information you have given me.”

  He placed his hand on my shoulder. “It is easy for honorable men to understand one another. You are a man of some influence at El Noticiero Universal, one of the city’s few trustworthy and respected papers. See to it, if you can, that your publication provides a fair account of the Barcelona police force’s actions.”

  I responded with a noncommittal nod. I neither desired nor was I at liberty to entangle the paper I worked for in a matter involving my legal practice. Conservative and monarchical, concordant with my own political inclinations, El Noticiero Universal was at that time indeed one of the ruling class’s favorite institutions.

  Beastegui, whose office was located on the third floor, took me by the arm and insisted on accompanying me down to the station’s entrance. As we descended the spiral staircase we passed two officers escorting a man who was in an awful state: two black eyes, a broken nose, and his mouth was bloody as if he’d had a few teeth chipped or broken.

  “There’s the main culprit,” Beastegui told me. “That’s Fagés.”

  A muffled sound came from the mouth of the ecce homo.

  “How did he get that way?” I asked. Back then, I still feigned naïveté.

  “To make an omelet you’ve got to break some eggs, my friend. We now have the testimony we needed to establish the facts, and that’s the important thing.”

  I should have spoken out then, but I didn’t. After all these years, my silence still haunts me.

  * * *

  I had arranged to meet María Nilo at the downtown café La Puñalada, where I was to apprise her of my progress at the police station. When I arrived she was already seated outside on the terrace on Paseo de Gracia, having chosen a prime table right next to the entrance where it was impossible not to spot her. She was in the company of a tall and well-built young man with a dignified face and a penetrating look, dressed in fine yet well-worn clothes. At first I didn’t recognize him.

  “Pablo,” she said. “I must introduce you to my friend Ángel Lacalle. He was out of town when I was attacked, and when he found out about the incident he rushed to the hotel to see if he could help me. When I told him we had arranged to meet he didn’t want to come, but I insisted.”

  I arched my eyebrows. This was certainly a surprise.

  “Mr. Lacalle,” I said, without reaching out to shake his hand. “I would have you know that my ideological convictions could not be more diametrically opposed to everything you stand for. It is only out of respect for my client that I don’t leave this very minute. Men like you and the organization you represent are driving this city and Spain to the brink of ruin.”

  María Nilo blushed as she mumbled an excuse.

  Her friend let out a hearty and, much to my annoyance, friendly laugh. I noticed that the women at a nearby table were staring at him, and rather overtly.

  “And I’m glad to meet a lawyer, because the way things are going they’re going to ban us someday soon. I’ll have to go into hiding, and it’s possible that we’ll cross paths in court, which I hope won’t be acrimonious. I believe we’re headed for a terrible confrontation. But you, as a man of the law, must still believe in dialogue, right?”

  A serious and at times dogmatic character back then, I found myself compelled to correct the man’s comment, and in a somewhat doctrinaire tone.

  “The terrible confrontation,” I replied, “is that which your comrades have been plotting for years, as they continue to kill innocent victims, threaten businessmen, and defy our laws, manipulating the common people—decent people who only strive for prosperity, without nihilisms and distortions.”

  “When you refer to businessmen, do you mean those individuals who have workers toiling ten hours a day for slave wages, among them women and children—children who should be at school instead of seeing their health ruined in dismal and insalubrious factories? Men who refuse to grant rights which they wouldn’t hesitate for one moment to demand for themselves and their own families?”

  “It is clear that I said nothing of the sort.”

  “And when you speak of those ‘common people,’ are you referring to those unfortunate souls who bow to the social divisions of our day and, instead of rebelling against a society in which some have so much while so many have so little, genuflect before the powerful and even go to church every Sunday to give thanks for their pathetic fate?”

  I began to understand the reasons behind his charisma. Lacalle linked his phrases together with precision, and articulated them in such a way that they produced an enthralling crescendo which was positively mesmerizing.

  “Don’t twist my words!” I countered.

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  My burning desire to respond to his provocations inspired me to take a seat, and for a good while we continued to exchange points of view in the tense tones which could only be expected of a legendary trade
unionist on the far left and a conservative monarchist who, despite his youth, already had a very clear set of opinions on anarchism.

  Embarrassed, María Nilo had disappeared to the powder room and while Lacalle and I were talking I became aware of two individuals striding toward our table, with their eyes fixed on my companion. Although barely able to register their features, something in their bearing struck me as unnatural, and I saw one of them, without taking his eyes off us, make an unsettling movement toward his pocket.

  I had a sudden intuition of what was about to happen and threw myself to the floor, dragging Lacalle with me. We fell, knocking over the table and the bottle and glasses on it just as the sinister figures opened fire in our direction. People scattered and fled. In a flash the terrace was empty as customers and waiters took off down Paseo de Gracia in search of cover, and Lacalle and I crawled toward the door. There were whistles and shouting: “Stop! Police!” The men had disappeared.

  Then there was a deathly silence followed by several minutes of confusion until those who had hit the floor, pale with fear, gradually got up and dusted themselves off, patting themselves in a way that I found ridiculous at the time. A woman of about sixty with a prominent nose was still lying on the floor, motionless, and a crowd soon huddled around her. One of the waiters brought over a bottle of cognac, poured a little on a handkerchief, and placed it under her nose. The woman opened her eyes. A group of customers lifted her up and helped her inside. A few dozen yards away two uniformed maids, each pushing a baby carriage, were still paralyzed by the shots, and just stood there open-mouthed as the babies cried hysterically. A man was holding on to his bleeding arm as he staggered away, escorted by two officers. My right pant leg was torn, my knee was bruised and embedded with shards of glass, and my heart was pounding.