A Barcelona Heiress (23 page)

I had seen him a year before during a brief stay in Madrid when I seized the occasion to interview him for
El Noticiero Universal
. On that occasion Don Eduardo had lamented the rampant spread of the strikes and the tyrannical lockouts which placed so many workers on the same level as those who, in his opinion, were not even workers at all.

This man, a slave to his duty and a gentleman to all, had been slain in a despicable act, just as had other presidents of the Council of Ministers (Cánovas and Canalejas) and just as had so many men who, irrespective of their different vices and virtues, dedicated their hearts and minds to serving Spain.

The arrest a few days later of Pedro Mateu, one of the members of the homicidal trio, revealed that Catalonian anarchists had been behind the killing. Mateu was a member of Barcelona’s metallurgical union, in what he cynically described as its “direct action” section. When arrested, he declared, “I didn’t kill Dato; I killed the minister who authorized the fleeing suspect law.”

For me it was as if they had killed a second father of mine. How could that bloody act ever be justified? Seething with indignation, I decided, once and for all, to break off all my ties with any anarchist elements and abandon my search for Lacalle, as I was beginning to lose any hope that he would ever be found.

In the weeks following this deplorable act, the violence intensified and Barcelona regressed into the state of an Old West frontier town, like something out of a Zane Grey or James Oliver Curwood novel. Over twenty union agitators died in clashes with the police, along with eight somatenes and agents of the employers’ association. Salvador Barull, Sabadell’s leading textile businessman, was walking down Paseo de Gracia when he was approached and shot in the head, point blank. He perished right there on the sidewalk. During those days Danton continued to claim victims on both sides of the political spectrum: four anarchists and two bosses. A previous victim of his, the Marquess of Malet, ultimately survived, but had been rendered an invalid.

* * *

At the same time, however, for reasons I still cannot fathom, Barcelona remained a city of revelry where the entertainment never stopped. The cabarets continued with their tunes, the
opening nights and debuts kept on coming, and Barcelona’s elite continued to hold, unaltered, those functions which sustained it, month after month, year after year, as if nothing were awry. That world which was, in part, my own—or at least that which for a long time I aspired to form part of—proved almost impervious to the bloody turn events had taken. Its men, even the most cowardly, had become accustomed to going about armed, while its women, with the exception of my friend Isabel, lamented the reigning danger. But the social scene carried on.

* * *

I had spent the afternoon reading the adventures of Nick Carter. The thirty-cent booklets published by Sopesa really fueled my imagination. The New York he described, one of towering hotels and dark alleys crawling with criminals, depicted for me a more formidable version of the city in which I lived. I would have liked the adventures of the famous detective (in
Nick Carter and the Marixburg Affair, The Man from Nevada, Maguey, the Mexican, Bellini, the Black Hand, The Padlocked Mystery,
to name just a few examples) to serve as models for my own, but his Machiavellian delinquents were much more interesting than the poor, hapless killers I often defended, many of whom were partially or completely illiterate. The back cover of his adventures read: “The great criminals, those thoroughly perverse souls who too often, through some accident of nature, have been equipped with great talents, making them more refined than the crimes they commit … these contemptible characters are inevitably punished by the implacable, vengeful, and justice-dispensing arm of NICK CARTER.”

I straightened my starched collar, adjusted my bow tie, brushed off my tailcoat a little, checked the white carnation in my lapel, donned my top hat, and stepped out into the street
where a car was waiting to transport me to Isabel Enrich’s house. We had agreed that we would depart from there toward the Laberinto de Horta.

It was an important appointment for me. After her episode of voluptuous abandon—or calculated gratification—the day of the sacramental testament, and just as had occurred the first time we kissed, Isabel had become evasive once more, for days answering neither my calls nor the notes I had Basilio take to her. The same old story was repeating itself, though this time after a much greater degree of intimacy than ever before. Her slippery stratagems confounded me, and I had realized that the occasional outbursts of passion which she permitted herself came with a price: a state of suspense which was taking too high a toll on me. She ultimately called to invite me to the party which the Marquess of Alfarrás was holding at his legendary Barcelona estate.

When I reached her home, my friend was already awaiting me, ravishing in a scarlet chiffon dress. She got into the car and we took off down the road toward the Alfarrás palace.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to me?” I asked her. We were travelling isolated from the driver, Manolo, who sat up front in the open air, so we were able to talk undisturbed.

“No, what are you referring to?”

“I don’t know … perhaps the fact that you fell off the face of the earth after what happened between us. It seems you want to toy with me. What have been up to lately?”

“I am not toying with you, and I am offended by the mere supposition that I would wish to. You know that I see many people. For example, López Ballesteros invited me to dine with him.”

“López Ballesteros?!” I exclaimed. “Alone? Just the two of you?”

“Yes, why not? He’s a widower and I’m single. Moreover, he has the power to make decisions which affect many of the cultural and charitable causes in which I participate.”

“I thought you considered him a brute.” I could not avoid the comment, as I knew that it gave her an opportunity to change the subject.

“In reality he’s a man on a mission—one of those characters bursting with energy and who, when they set out to do something, do not rest until the task has been fully achieved.”

“At any price?”

“I couldn’t tell you about that. I know that there are many stories going around about his methods. He does seem to be a tough type, but I don’t think he would be needlessly cruel. And López Ballesteros lays his plans with the knowledge that he enjoys the absolute support of Barcelona’s powerful, who would pay any price to be free of the anarchism and political violence the city suffers.”

“Even if they disapprove of his methods.”

“Given the situation, many believe that the end justifies the means, and if someone is solving problems, they prefer to look the other way rather than confront his supposedly irregular methods.”

“Well, well … you and López Ballesteros … Well, if you keep on accepting his invitations you’ll see how fast he asks for your hand.”

She looked at me disapprovingly. “Come on, Pablo, you know that it’s not like that.”

What did she mean by that? Was she encouraging me to make further advances? We had reached our destination and our car joined a line of vehicles down the long, tree-lined drive stretching toward the ample patio and fountain-filled pool in front of the house. Music was emanating from its glowing balconies.

The palace, one of those solid, block-like Catalonian structures rendered less severe by the Mozarabic designs gracing its main façade and the Boston ivy creeping up its sides,
welcomed several hundred guests. At the door the Marquess of Alfarrás and his wife, who was celebrating her birthday, were graciously receiving the invitees. After greeting them, Isabel drifted from my side, disappearing to plunge into the soiree’s swirling sea of people.

* * *

A substantial appetizer was served first, followed by dinner, which the guests served themselves from a series of long and well-provisioned buffet tables. At that point the crowd spontaneously split into clusters huddling around the tables placed on the entrance esplanade and in the interior halls. The hosts had designated one of these as an area for gentlemen, and I headed there to enjoy a cigar after dessert. All the city’s notables were there: the presidents and heads of the employers’ association, Fomento del Trabajo Nacional (the organization promoting business development), the Chamber of Commerce, the Chamber of Industry, the somatenes, the Unión Monárquica, and the Lliga Regionalista. Everyone was up in arms.

“Dato’s death is the last straw. Anarchism must be stamped out, at any cost,” one said.

“Provided that anarchism does not stamp us out first,” another replied.

“The only solution is its complete eradication, just as when a surgeon is dealing with a malignant entity—a complete extermination of the anarchists and the entire social milieu which allowed them to proliferate.”

“This is not a problem facing just Barcelona, but the entire State!”

“And you, what do you have to say?” José María Rocabert snapped at me. It had been some time since we had spoken, but our small triangle with Isabel Enrich had taken so many turns that I decided to be amiable with him.

“I think that the union forces have crossed the line, and there’s no going back now,” I answered. “The State cannot stand idly by. Those responsible for this atrocious attack must pay for their crime.”

“Now you’re talking! I see that you have finally come around to our side.”

I was about to answer him when the room fell silent. General López Ballesteros had entered. Various guests soon surrounded him, besieging the man with questions. As the strapping general gesticulated and shook his head, the medals on his chest jangled and shimmered. In the background General Beastegui, in civilian attire, complete with compulsory black tie, glared at us as if he were pondering to what extent we were to be trusted. Barcelona’s police chief hardly spoke a word, letting his superior lap up all the attention, a role to which he had become accustomed.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your interest!” López Ballesteros bellowed. “The violence between us has pushed our society to the brink, and the situation is unbearable. As you know, I have been in Cuba and the Philippines, and had I not been summoned to Barcelona, I would now be in Africa. But His Majesty’s government dispatched me here and, given the situation, I mean to proceed as if I were directing a war.”

He then took a couple of deep drags on his Cuban before taking me by the arm and drawing me aside.

“That said, Vilar, I am not the monster some have made me out to be. Before provoking a bloodbath I would prefer a pacted solution. How are things going?”

“No progress, General. The truth is that I have abandoned my search for Lacalle. After this business with Dato I want nothing to do with the anarchists.”

“Find him,” he ordered me. “It is now a question of life or death.”

I stepped out of the palace to get some fresh air. The guests had spread out into the nearby gardens, which were illuminated with torches, while an army of waiters circulated among them carrying trays loaded with coffee and liqueurs. There, amid the camellias and linden trees, I ran into the Count of Güell, this time accompanied by a Teutonic beauty.

“Pablo let me introduce you to Dorotea. She is a specialist in Wagnerian opera who is in the city for a few days to study our performances.”

I greeted the lady.

“You couldn’t have selected a finer host. The count is every bit a Parsifal, but I hope that you are free to meet our Nibelungs as well. Count, I was happy to hear that you were unscathed by the shots.”

“It is what the Moors call
baraka.
When I was in Africa in 1912 it saved me on several occasions. Let me share an anecdote with you. You know that in those parts it is not always easy for one to practice proper hygiene. I was on a campaign in Lauzien. Our camp was under constant attack, with bodies that had gone unburied. We were so besieged by flies that when we drank water we had to cover the glass with our hand, even as we drew it to our lips, to keep them from falling in or entering our mouths. The heat was suffocating. Well, a fellow soldier and I discovered a place in a nearby river where a cliff protected us from the Moors’ gunfire while we were in the water, and we went to bathe there several days in a row. When we got out, of course we had to scamper and scurry as fast as we could, dodging their shots, and many of the troops told us that we were risking our lives just to take a dip. Now, listen to this: a few days ago an officer comes up to me and tells me that he has just returned from Morocco where he was operating in the region of Ben Karrich, where he came across a place along the River Bucejar
which in the army they call ‘Güell’s bath.’ The man wanted to know the origin of this most original name.”

The Teuton and I laughed. More people had drifted into the conversation, among them the Baron of Arenys de Mar, Faustino de Dalmases, a charming old man who, just like Güell, was habitually surrounded by beauties who, rather than doubling his age, tripled it, some of them looking a bit dubious. The lady escorting him that evening was a spectacular brunette with a saucy look who downed one cognac after the next. Amused, Güell took a jab at Dalmases.

“Always so well escorted, Faustino! Tell me, tell me, what do you give them?”

“Me? Money and nausea, money and nausea.”

Without leaving the conversation, I saw out of the corner of my eye that there were guests departing, some of whom were of particular interest to me. Isabel Enrich was straying off, in the company of a man, toward the labyrinth for which the estate is named.

The Alfarrás property is distinguished by two enormous gardens that are somewhat secluded from the palace; one neoclassic and the other romantic. The family had ordered them built and expanded over the course of successive generations, and today they stand among Barcelona’s little-known gems. On the lower terrace of the neoclassic esplanade lies the labyrinth, where a set of pruned cypresses forms a maze of paths, some of them leading to dead ends, and others coming out on the other side of the rectangular space. Next to the marble figures of Ariadne and Theseus that greet visitors is a plaque reading: