A Barcelona Heiress Read online

  López Ballesteros cleared his throat and continued. “But I have also met with representatives of the General Union’s rival organization, the Free Union. Are you aware that, upon taking charge of this city’s governance I received more than seven thousand letters from workers denouncing the persecutions to which they were subjected and demanding justice? Well then, while the Free Union is certainly every bit the workers’ organization, with its own list of insistent demands, due to the social roots and the Carlist and traditional convictions of many of its members, it possesses a much more constructive spirit than the General Union and its revolutionaries. I have already given the men at the Free Union a very simple bit of advice: defend yourselves. Meet violence with violence. Fair defense and fair retaliation.”

  I was appalled.

  “But General, you are a representative of the law and, as I understand it, a Catholic. And the principle you are proposing is neither legal nor Christian! Rather, it is ‘an eye for an eye’ at its purest.”

  He rested his hand upon my shoulder.

  “Is what happened in Russia legal? Was it legal how the soviets put the imperial family to death? What about the slaughters which followed the Revolution in October 1917? Are the anarchists’ endless demands, day after day, for the abolition of all law; the expulsion or extermination of all religious communities; the dissolution of the Judiciary, the Army, and the Navy; the commandeering of the railways; the expropriation of the credit banks; and the arrest of all the men, both civil and military, who have ever governed in Spain, and their immediate incarceration until they are exonerated or executed … is any of this legal or Christian? No, I believe that they represent a series of schemes carefully calculated to lay waste to Spain.

  “Make no mistake about it, my friend: we are engaged in a full-blown war, not the class war which Marx prophesied, but a cultural one—that of chaos versus order, anarchy versus work, nihilism versus faith, the disintegration of customs versus our civilizing principles, the tyranny and despotism of union councils versus the freedom of a constitutional monarchy’s citizens. It is a war, and if we do not fight it tooth and nail, street by street, man by man, negotiation by negotiation, all we have known and held dear, the entire world in which we were born and reared will disappear and be mercilessly wiped from the face of the earth, as occurred in Russia. Is this what we want for Spain? Because you can be sure of one thing: if Barcelona falls, the Spanish monarchy will follow. Thus, we have to win this struggle in which we are engaged here, respecting the law insofar as is possible, but without being shackled by the fine print. And then we must initiate social efforts to shore up our work.”

  I was shocked. Eloquence is not always a virtue exhibited by military men, but López Ballesteros stood as an apparent exception.

  “I must dissent, General. You are telling me, as an authority, that you refuse to limit yourself to impartially performing your functions, but mean to take an active role in the social conflict. What you propose means nothing less than waging a covert war. As a man of the law, under no circumstances can I endorse such a thing.”

  “I propose waging a just war, which does exist. Haven’t you read St. Thomas Aquinas? In any case, believe me: my methods are mild compared to those of my subordinate, General Beastegui. Now there is a determined man. So much so that he must be reined in at times. But anyway, I have not brought you here to lecture you. I’d like you to see this.”

  He reached his brawny arm into the mountain of jumbled documents on his desk and in no time pulled out a dossier and handed it to me.

  “Open it.”

  The folder contained a series of statements, affidavits, and police reports in relation to an individual who had become a major figure in recent weeks.

  “All of this material is confidential, but I am going to give it to you because I would like you to write an article, one as influential as that which you published on Montjuïc and the troglodytes. You have everything there, or almost everything, that we know about the character who calls himself Danton—the French Revolution’s most radical vigilante.”

  “Not exactly,” I corrected him. “It is true that Danton voted in favor of Louis XVI’s execution, and presided over the revolutionary tribunal, but he also opposed Robespierre when he believed that the Terror was going too far, which ended up costing him his life … Perhaps he was a moderate, in his own way. Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Please do,” he said, gesturing for me to sit in an armchair near his desk and offering me a cigar.

  The killing of the barmaid Rosa Mestres had been his first crime. He had shot her down in front of her building and left a note next to the body which read: “Justice, which the courts refused to do, has been done. Danton.” A few neighbors had heard the shots, and when they arrived on the scene they spotted a man wearing a worker’s cap and a long, gray trench coat running away.

  In the following weeks the attacks continued. The union activist Manuel Vilallonga, released after having been tried for killing the furniture magnate Marcos Prats, was shot near a National Workers’ Confederation office on Olmo Street. Bernat Marfull and Braulio Ros, accused of having placed the bomb that killed business leader Delmiro Bengoechea, also released from custody, suffered the same fate. The killer was always able to escape after leaving a slip of paper on his victim’s body. Some additional witnesses recognized the same telltale trench coat and cap. Nobody knew who he was.

  “And what is it, General, that you wish me to do with all this?”

  “Look, Vilar, I’ll level with you. I don’t like this business one bit. With all the problems we are facing, the last thing Barcelona needs is a mysterious gunman. That said, as I told you before, the fact is we are at war. And this Danton character may be useful to psychologically intimidate our enemies and make them think twice about carrying out their criminal actions.”

  I swallowed before responding. “All that, General, presupposes that this gunman is not someone from the very men you lead, from the rank and file of your own police force, who often don’t have any qualms about switching sides.”

  López Ballesteros flashed a disapproving grimace which gave his face a menacing air, as if he were about to swallow me. His expression, however, soon softened and he responded to me in a diplomatic tone.

  “This is not coming from our side. I would know; General Beastegui would have told me. No, this is a loose cannon who is acting on his own, and at his own peril. What I would like to ask you to do is to write an article based on the material I have given you, and help to flesh out the legend. You can limit yourself strictly to the truth, as the testimony you have there is truthful, but at the same time you will be serving our cause.”

  “When I work as a journalist, General, I strive to serve no other cause but my own conscience. The Danton story is interesting, that much is certain, and, unfortunately, very indicative of the times we are living in, but the fact is that his first crime came in the wake of a trial in which I served as a lawyer. As a result, I cannot become involved as a journalist. It would mean a conflict of interest.”

  “The victim, Rosa Mestres, was not your client, so you can deal with this issue with the utmost objectivity. And your legal knowledge and prestige as a lawyer would serve to give the information credibility. What do you say?”

  “I am afraid, General, that I must refuse. For now I would prefer not to write at the behest of the Civil Government.”

  I counted the seconds that followed in my head, awaiting a tirade that never came. That capable military man was proving to be a paragon of courtesy. Or perhaps he was simply exhibiting the patience of a fisherman convinced that the fish will eventually end up taking the bait.

  “As you wish,” he relented. “If you change your mind in the next few days, come and see me. We will hold this material for a while before disseminating it. Honestly, Vilar, I like your style. You are the ideal person to make this character known. Keep in mind that our mission is urgent and we need assistance from the cit
y’s finest—men like you. These days, you’re either with us or you’re against us.

  * * *

  Just days before the start of Lent, taking advantage of the exceptionally pleasant weather that March, a charity ball was held in the gardens of Turó Park on behalf of the Tuberculosis Committee. The venue had been illuminated with a profusion of lights and colorful lamps, and when I arrived a barrel organ was beginning to play. A stand selling churros and hazelnuts was the center of attention for the time being. Around the terrace a canopy had been erected for the midnight dinner. Inside there would be a dance accompanied by a sextet.

  And there, bustling about more energetically than anyone, weaving her way through the clusters of chatting guests, was Isabel Enrich, along with a few cloying suitors perpetually flitting about her, who she ably waved away after laughing perfunctorily at their attentions. But only for a while, for it would not be long before they came back, which she allowed them to, though with her blond hair, freckled face, and clean scent of Heno de Pravia, she was anything but the picture of a femme fatale. That evening she was wearing a petite robe, that kind of dress which, according to the Countess d’Armonville, was more discreet and less complicated than a sumptuous party dress, and even more appealing. A simple white garment with a crinkled texture and a pearl necklace were enough to make her the center of attention.

  “Very chic,” I said to her.

  “Really? Actually, I feel like I’m in a bit of a crisis.” She took me by the arm and dragged me over to one of the park’s small pools.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I shall tell you with the words of a South American poet: ‘When you are old, my girl (Ronsard already told you) / you shall recall the verses I recited / Your bosom shall be sad from nursing your children / the last vestiges of your empty life …’”1

  “My goodness! How did you know it?”

  “You spoke to me a few months ago of that poetic offprint a Chilean friend had sent you, and I wrote to an old friend who is now at the Spanish consulate in Santiago, asking him to find me a copy. It was difficult, for there weren’t many placed in circulation. It seems that the author is now going to include it in a book.”

  “So, you feel like your life is empty?”

  “Yes—no … I like to be active, to take part in charitable efforts, to do things, but everyone is urging me to marry: my friends, the ladies from the Committee … maybe I should listen to them.”

  “You’re cruel. How can you tell me this? Besides, you’ve always told me that what you have seen in others’ marriages dissuades you from the thought.”

  “Of course! Leaving the question of love aside, generally a girl of means marries in order to be freer, to escape from her parents’ control, and to be able to do as she wishes. Within months she has her first child, and that freedom dwindles. Then come more children. It may happen that her husband is a tyrant, which is all too common, in which case her loss of freedom is absolute, or that he is a drip, in which case she begins to dominate him and grows into a monster. I, however, do not face the initial problem, as a result of my parents’ ill-fated destiny. Their deaths have left me independent and accountable to no one. So why should I enslave myself?”

  “You forget what you said at the very beginning: ‘leaving the question of love aside.’ But how you can you leave it aside? What is life worth without love? In any case, should you decide to marry, you already know one person willing to accompany you to the altar.”

  “Yes … love,” Isabel Enrich sighed, gracefully sidestepping my offer. “A complicated affair.”

  Under the intense moonlight and the subtle sound of the band in the background, a magic moment arose—one of those when princesses kiss frogs and turn them into princes. Gazing at her fixedly, my face drew close to hers, and just then my old friend José María Rocabert appeared.

  “Isabel, Pablo … am I interrupting?”

  “No, of course not,” I stammered. “You always show up at just the right time.”

  “I wanted to congratulate you on your successes, such as that article on the troglodytes. It looks like you are reaping more benefits from your articles than your practice. It’s a shame it’s not more lucrative.”

  “I manage, José María, thank you. And my practice is doing just fine.”

  “Oh, I can tell, with criminal cases, most of them as a public defender. Let’s just say you’re hardly about to become a Rockefeller. Look, Pablo, I’ll say this in front of Isabel because we’re all close enough: you really ought to consider joining me at one of the organizations we are creating in order to improve public life in Barcelona. Both the employers’ and bankers’ associations need talent, and you’ve got it. When a strong authority is brought in—and make no mistake that this will happen because a society under siege like our own is crying out for it—our entities will serve as the core, the wellspring providing the region with leaders.”

  Isabel seemed to awaken from her musings. “Yes, something must be done. The people of Barcelona live amid injustice and chaos, and here we are dancing waltzes.”

  “Because we are reformers, my dear Isabel,” replied Rocabert, who in a few years would be the Count of Torredembarra. “Consider this party, for example. We are not here out of frivolity, but rather to support a noble cause: raising funds to fight tuberculosis. In any case, altruistic crusades aside, I am increasingly convinced that we, the well-to-do, perform a function as social pioneers. Thanks to us, luxury industries thrive, which provide so many with work. What would the perfumers, furriers, great wineries, and purveyors of fine clothing do without our patronage? Do you realize how many people they employ? What would happen to them if the revolution left them without a clientele?”

  “You’re a real cynic,” I interrupted.

  “Only in appearance. Let me continue: thanks to us, the rich, technology progresses, and its advances, although at first restricted to a certain few, before long will be enjoyed by all. Perhaps today only a few thousand of the most fortunate have telephones in their homes, hot water in their bathtubs, and cars at their doors, but do not doubt for one moment that within a few decades it shall be the masses who benefit from all these developments, courtesy of the original investments and expenditures made by a small number of us.”

  “You amuse me,” said Isabel, “with your capacity for the most convincing sophistry. I shall respond to you with an anecdote. An English aristocrat was visiting Barcelona, spending a few days at the home of the Barons of Satrústegui. While strolling with them through the garden, the flower he wore in his lapel fell to the ground. He knelt down to pick it up, but they would not let him, obliging him to take another flower, which their gardener cut for him right on the spot. A few days later the Englishman went to see the Marquess of Alfarrás at his small palace in Horta. They were in the middle of a chat when the guest dropped his cigar on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, but the marquess kicked it away, quickly drawing a fresh one from one of his boxes.

  “A few days later, in one of the halls of the estate, the baroness saw her guest bending down, with an expression of fear as if someone might see him, to pick up a beautiful, golden one-pound coin he had dropped on the carpet when removing his coat.

  “When the English consul and his wife heard this story from the baroness herself during a reception in Barcelona, she was so shocked and amused that she dropped her husband’s gold cigarette case, which she had been holding. The consul, with his perfect accent, proclaimed: ‘I do not know what the custom in Spain is, but I do know that I pick up my cigarette case, even if it is on the floor.’”

  “The moral of the story being … ? That the English guest was clumsy?” Rocabert asked.

  “Perhaps that our aristocracy is still a far cry from that of the British,” I suggested.

  “There is no moral,” Isabel answered. “But I can’t help thinking that perhaps the most truly noble lives are being led by those struggling, without ever having enjoyed the privileges we have, like that a
narchist who took Pablo to Montjuïc to show him where the troglodytes dwell, that …”

  Explosions interrupted the conversation, and the light from the lamps flickered and went out. Under the moonlight the marchionesses and countesses began to scramble around the parterres lifting the hems of their dresses to run while the military men, clad in their gala uniforms, drew their swords. Shots rang out followed by unmistakable shouts: “Long live anarchy! Down with the bourgeoisie!”

  I grabbed Isabel Enrich by the hand and we took off running as José María Rocabert stood there, mouth agape. There was shouting everywhere and the sound of people rushing away.

  * * *

  The disaster at the Turó Park gala, which came to a screeching halt amid widespread turmoil and disorder, was a clear signal that nobody was safe. The attack resulted in two injuries: fleeing the scene, the Count of Belloch slipped on a patch of gravel and gashed his head, and one of the waiters, a fifteen-year-old lad, was hospitalized after an awning fell upon him. But the fallout could have been far worse. After killing the lights and firing shots into the air, the subversives could have easily opened fire on that concentration of defenseless aristocrats, all dressed up in their finest. After calming her nerves by downing a couple of bottles of La Giralda orange blossom water, which her driver handed to her with a surly frown, the stout and irrepressible Marchioness of Moragas declared, “These people either have informants or are reading the society pages. How could they have known about this function?”

  The old lady was right, as every time I’ve been asked the basic question “Who are the people and families who stand at the center of Barcelona’s social scene?” I have always given them the same answer: those appearing in the society sections of La Vanguardia, El Noticiero, and a couple of other papers. And who determines what appears there and writes this material? A very good question, which I shall seek to answer at another time.