A Barcelona Heiress Page 4

  Thus, from a young age she found herself having made so many commitments and engaged in so many activities that she declined to accompany her parents on a brief trip to Puerto Rico, which, for reasons related to her father’s work, included a stopover in New York, the city from which they returned, via London, in March 1916. Although it is never advisable to travel in wartime, the countries waging the Great War had agreed that they would refrain from attacking passenger vessels. The British steamship Sussex, however, with the Enrichs onboard, was torpedoed in the English Channel by a German submarine which apparently mistook it for a minelayer. Isabel’s parents drowned, along with the celebrated Spanish musician Enrique Granados, who was returning to Spain from a series of concerts in the United States, and died attempting to save his wife.

  Following the tragedy, Isabel, at the tender age of twenty-two, found herself in possession of a considerable fortune. Since then she lived as she pleased at the family residence in Sarriá, where she was cared for by an extensive and affectionate staff and took her place in Barcelona society by joining any and every altruistic and cultural committee for ladies that she could find. The Red Cross Committee was one of the organizations in which she was active.

  I had met her several years before the death of her parents on an organized horseback ride to the Marquess of Llobregat’s Badalona estate. It was one of those full-day excursions during which the city’s privileged youth practiced their riding skills, socialized, and picnicked. Isabel was a bright and thoughtful young woman with her own cultural and political ideas. We got along well right from the start. Though we had never become close friends, over the years we had seen each other with some regularity, interrupted by my long stays in Madrid. In any case, she preferred to preserve a certain aura of mystery about her, concealing some aspects which, I suspect, she revealed to no one. Whenever I got too close, she discreetly but firmly pulled away. As an orphan having inherited a considerable fortune, she learned to negotiate the Barcelona social scene with a freedom not shared by other young women of her class who were instead condemned to the eternal company of their mothers or chaperones. She took care, or so it seemed, to never transgress the limits of what was commonly acceptable. But behind the wheel of a four-door Ford sedan, one of her vehicles, she was pure dynamite: the most beautiful young woman in Catalonia’s high society.

  When I finally declared my feelings, she graciously spurned me. A few weeks later, on a warm summer’s night during the celebrations of San Juan, in a shady bower amid the pungent fragrance of jasmine, I backed her against a wooden column and managed to steal a kiss that lasted longer than I ever thought it would. The Count of Sarriera’s estate was etched on my heart by this encounter: the intense memory of her moist lips that tasted of champagne, the subtle rustle of her elegant dress, the beating of her heart against my chest until she gently pushed me away. But Isabel would disappear from my life in the following weeks. When we saw each other again, she asked me to desist in my advances.

  “I find you very charming, I think highly of you, and I like you, but I wish to preserve my independence. What happened on San Juan’s eve won’t ever happen again.”

  We continued to see each other from time to time. At first she was very much on guard and kept her distance from me. I decided to back off for a time. I didn’t wish to smother her, and I wanted her to see that I accepted her rebuff like a gentleman, and would not insist—a proposition which would require that I muster all of my resolve for several months.

  * * *

  Once she had cited some fifty names, I cut in.

  “Listen, shall we change roles? You write and I’ll dedicate myself to greeting people and raising funds for the Red Cross or the little orphans …”

  “Impossible. The little orphans would starve.”

  While the hotel sextet played a few pieces, we proceeded into the dining room, where the tables were impeccably adorned with white roses. Joining us at the table to which Isabel and I were assigned were a general’s widow, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the chairman of the Postal Service, their respective wives, and a stern-looking character from the Industrial Institute. Also present was my old friend José María Rocabert, who greeted me with his usual vivacity. Just after our teenage years the two of us had launched the magazine Acción together. It was a small but rather influential instrument of propaganda that espoused the ideals of Barcelona’s young conservatives. We had sat in the same classrooms at the old Law School, and we proselytized through towns in Catalonia and Mallorca. Perhaps via contacts made through his father, a wealthy industrialist who was very well-connected in Madrid and who had held several government positions, my friend had ascended faster than I and was in good graces with the most powerful of the powerful. He was barely twenty-five when His Majesty named him gentleman-in-waiting, the honor he wielded in order to promote, reward, and keep close to him trusted men without the need to make nobles of them. Rocabert, in addition, held an important post in Catalonia’s employers’ association.

  “Lovely party, isn’t it? Were there no other reasons to defend the monarchy, we would always have the aesthetics,” he remarked.

  “There is room for improvement in that regard. For now we are in a hotel, not a palace.”

  “The day will come in Barcelona when His Majesty and his family receive their guests in their own royal halls. Make no mistake about that.”

  “I shall reserve my finest bow for when that moment arrives. And just who shall pay for these royal quarters?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s already in the works. The Count of Güell has offered some land beyond Diagonal to build a palace for Alfonso XIII, and we are beginning to raise funds. We shall soon be asking for your assistance too. But tell me, do you think that the situation in Barcelona is going to calm down? The patrons I’ve enlisted are nervous. There’s gunfire in the streets again.”

  I distractedly read the menu, printed on a card leaning against my cups and glasses: “Ox-tail soupe aux perles. Lobster Cardinal Tenderloin with Périgueux sauce. Potatoes and carrots. Forest artichokes. Poulardes du Mans. Celery salad. Pastries and sweets. Fruit. Coffee. Wines: Amontillado Polo, Haut Sauternes, Vinicola Especial 1900, Paul Barra Dry 1910. Mineral waters. Liqueurs.” I slid the card into my tailcoat pocket to later cite the menu in my article. Then I gave Rocabert an account of the incident at La Puñalada with Ángel Lacalle.

  “They attempted to shoot him from just yards away, and they missed? What a bungling pair of assassins!” he exclaimed. “You don’t think it might have been just a warning? In any case, these are the kind of scares you get for getting yourself mixed up with those people. A lawyer should really be more careful about the company he keeps.”

  As we chatted, dish after dish was brought out, and when the time had come for coffee, a representative of their Royal Highnesses approached and asked me to follow him to an adjoining room. The infante wished to have a few words with me.

  Don Carlos Tancredo de Borbón de las Dos Sicilias had donned his frock coat reserved for special galas, with epaulets, a gold sash, and pants with a maroon stripe down the leg. His chest gleamed with all manner of medals, the Great Cross of the Royal Military Order of Saint Hermenegild most prominent among them. He invited me to sit (I noted a slight Italian influence in his accent—though born in Gries, Austria, he had been educated in Italy), and watched as I drew out my notebook and my Waterman and prepared to take notes. According to protocol, when dealing with a Royal Highness one may not formulate direct questions, but rather only respond or comment. The infante took full advantage of this prerogative.

  “I am interested in you publishing, in your esteemed newspaper, that the infanta and I, after having most gladly accepted the honor of representing His Majesty the King in the acts to be held here, have felt a most profound satisfaction, as this trip to Barcelona was one we were longing to make, especially as the infanta, my wife, had never been here and was most curious and interested in seeing at close quarters this metropolis,
which today stands, on its own merits, among the very finest in Europe.”

  This was how I usually expressed in my articles the paradox of the journalist who cannot completely fulfill his obligation:

  “ … ?”

  “We come to commend the laudable efforts carried out by the women of the Red Cross, who deserve all of our praise, and we shall never forget the warm reception we have been given here. The infanta is thrilled. I may say that, after years of not having returned to Barcelona, I find it visibly vitalized. The bustle, the life of the city and its people—full of light and cheer, and who constantly prosper, intensifying their work and expanding their efforts to improve traffic conditions and the city’s streets and avenues—fill the visitor with hope in every aspect. I am convinced that this great city is destined to become one of the world’s finest.”

  The infante paused and asked for a glass of water. He deserved it.

  “And now, my friend, do not write this down. I am going to share with you something which I would like you to transmit discreetly in journalistic circles. As you know, the endemic problem in Barcelona in recent years has been public order. Much blood has been spilled, and a succession of civil and military governors has been unable to solve the problem. His Majesty is concerned regarding the effects of the Russian Revolution on other European countries, such as Germany, where in the end the army had to step in, even occupying Munich in order to prevent the Sovietization of Bavaria, hitherto a fervently Catholic stronghold. We cannot allow things to reach this point in Catalonia. Thus, the government of the monarchy has sent a brave and upstanding authority here to bring order, for if Barcelona falls, all of Spain shall tremble. My friend, let me introduce you to General López Ballesteros, the new civil governor of Barcelona.”

  A powerful presence silently emerged from a shadow by the wall, stepping forward to stand in the very center of the room where we were talking.

  3

  Ángel Lacalle had written me a most earnest note: “You saved my life and I shall give you a story. Meet me at 12 San Antonio Street.”

  I struggled with whether to accept the invitation. Surviving gunshots is certainly a circumstance which draws two people together, but that influential anarchist was a figure who continued to kindle all of my anxieties. In the end, my curiosity and journalistic tendencies prevailed.

  The address Lacalle had called me to belonged to the Masons’ Union, already incorporated into the General Union which the anarchist leader had utilized as an instrument to bring together Barcelona’s entire working class. At the back of a small room, my acquaintance was conversing with a man standing in a line that slowly inched forward, issuing advice and dishing out justice as if he were a cross between a biblical judge and some kind of selfless, charity-dispensing nun.

  “You fell from the scaffolding and the contractor didn’t let you back on the job?” he asked a man with a limp. “Our lawyers will pay him a visit and seek an amicable solution. If he refuses to take you back, we’ll have to look for other ways of convincing him.”

  “They fired you because you fight for the union?” he asked another individual who had not shaved in days. “Take five pesetas from the workers’ fund and come back each week, but when you find work you’ll have to return the money.”

  “Your wife’s been bedridden for days in intense pain?” he asked a third. “Go and visit Dr. Galcerán. He’s one of our own. I’ll write down his address for you.”

  The anarchist treated the throng with deliberate affability and they, in turn, addressed him with devotion. When the last man in line had been heard, Lacalle turned to me.

  “I apologize for the wait, but I trust that it was instructive for you to see how we operate.”

  “With all due respect, Lacalle, I would prefer you to get straight to the point. You and I are neither friends nor traveling companions. The only ties linking us are our respective relationships to María Nilo and the shooting from which we both emerged unscathed. Why have you summoned me here?”

  “I’d like you to accompany me somewhere.”

  We went out onto the street, where a luxurious Elizalde was parked, and got in. Lacalle pointed at the driver who, clad in a thick coat, occupied the open-air front seat.

  “This is Julián, a fellow member of the union. At times he lends the cause a hand on the sly by providing us with his vehicle and his services for a few hours—a small revolutionary tax, as it were.”

  The individual in question, a most intimidating character, acknowledged me with a nod. He fired up the car and in no time it was shooting along the old Port Highway winding up the mountain of Montjuïc.

  Barcelona’s great overlook, Montjuïc is a rocky massif towering over the sea, affording views over the port on one side and the Llobregat delta on the other, and stretching out toward Tarragona. It is a mountain steeped in legend. The first has to do with the foundation of the city: of the nine ships Hercules deployed to aid the Trojans, one of them, the barca nona, or ninth ship, was lost at sea and driven by a storm far from Greece, all the way to our coasts. The story goes that it washed up at the base of Montjuïc, and there its crew founded a town, named after the vessel in question.

  There are also some who say that the mountain was the site of Laie, the primitive Iberian settlement which would give rise to the Romans’ Barcino. In any case, its rich quarries supplied stone for Barcelona’s main buildings almost since the era of imperial domination, while at the same time serving as a site for shrines and hermitages. One of these shrines, dedicated to Jupiter, could have been the source of the mountain’s name: Mons Jovis, Monte de Júpiter, Montjuïc. Another, more prevalent opinion, however, is that the name came from the Jewish necropolis established there in the tenth century: Montjuïc, monte de los judíos, the mountain of the Jews.

  Crowned by a fortification built four centuries ago and which has undergone successive refurbishments and seen various military uses, Montjuïc is also a mysterious place crossed by winding paths and covered with almost impenetrable forests.

  Our car pulled up on what was called the Morrot Highway in an area full of thickets through which wandered a group of cadaverous figures. Lacalle, who had grabbed a carbide lamp, began to make his way up a dusty path which wound around and around up the slope until we found ourselves some twenty yards above the place from which we had started. The trail skirted one of the sheerest escarpments in the area, and it was there where Lacalle, after lighting the lamp, slid through a cleft in the rock; a mineshaft entrance leading into a murky and foul-smelling grotto.

  “And now, my friend, remember that we are in the twentieth century, and not in the Pleistocene.”

  As we walked in, I could not believe what I was seeing by the weak and flickering light. Inside the Barcelona mountain was a labyrinth of passageways and corridors carved out of the rock, God knows when—perhaps in medieval times or perhaps more recently, by the miners. With an array of refuse and rubbish, boards and barrels, drums and sheets of metal, amid worms, reptiles, rats, and bats, I realized with astonishment that there below in the darkness dwelled a whole horde of destitute souls: old men wrapped in rags and clutching bottles, women with deformed faces and, most disturbing of all, a group of half-clothed children moving about in the shadows between the torches. As we passed by them, some of them clutched our legs and begged.

  “Money, money … ,” they pleaded.

  Although the air was pestilent, there was a draft and one could breathe without difficulty, which led me to believe that there must be an opening to allow for ventilation. Being in that place filled me with the most profound distress.

  “But … what is this?” I asked.

  “The Powder Keg caves. Inside this mountain there are other caverns that are more difficult to access, such those at La Escala. In all of them reside everyday people; poor immigrants who come to the city and have no work or place to live, cripples …”

  “They look scared.”

  “These people are very wary. You will onl
y see them if they want you to. When strangers approach they take off running, as they’re afraid of the police. Keep in mind that there are other caves too, higher up, such as at L’Argenter, where all sorts of criminals live: thieves, counterfeiters, smugglers. Here they are safe from bourgeois law. And now I am going to introduce you to a good friend: El Capitán.”

  A one-eyed, almost toothless man approached us out of the darkness. Lacalle introduced me ceremoniously.

  “El Capitán is the guardian of Montjuïc’s caves. Nobody comes or goes without him getting wind of it. I brought my friend Pablo here so that he could see what this place was like. I would like him to help secure some decent places for all of you to live.”

  “Better not rock the boat, Don Ángel, better not rock the boat. They’ll take what little we have.”

  With grim faces we returned in silence to the car, where the driver was waiting for us.

  * * *

  “Now you’ve seen it, my good lawyer and journalist,” Lacalle said to me a while later as we sat on the terrace of a bar on Paralelo Avenue where Julián had dropped us after resuming his driving duties. “I haven’t yet taken you to some of the many insalubrious settlements on the outskirts of the city, casting a shadow over its optimism. I’ve shown you something worse: the troglodytes of District II who, believe it or not, also inhabit this city of electric lighting, pioneering railway systems, Modernist architecture, and tennis and polo clubs. In our most modern Barcelona there is a place where life is even more dismal than in the worst shanty towns for miners, than in the caves of the Albaicín in Granada, or the slate shacks of the Pyrenees. All of those modes of construction are more sophisticated and, I would dare say, more sanitary and hygienic than those these troglodytes have used to create their makeshift dwellings.”