A Barcelona Heiress (26 page)

“Where am I?” I asked, my throat parched.

“The Hospital Clínico in Barcelona. They brought you here after the shooting. You were at death’s door for five weeks. You can count your lucky stars that you’re going to live.”

“What about Manolo?”

“He was not so fortunate.”

I gasped.

“All right, that’s enough for now. I’ll come back this afternoon.”

That same day Lucinda and Basilio came by too. Between the two of them they managed to provide me with a fragmented and complicated version of what had happened during the days following the attack. They knew nothing about Isabel Enrich. It was Rocabert, during his return visit in the afternoon, who reconstructed the puzzle of recent events and how they had fit together. I shall strive to reproduce below his condensed but illuminating account.

“I imagine that the first thing you are wondering is why they shot you two. I regret having to hurt your vanity, but it was not you they were after. Obviously, the man the terrorists were gunning for was Lacalle. They had orders to off him, and when they saw you sitting next to the driver they mistook you for him. That’s why they opened fire.

“But that was only one of the more than thirty shootings that day. Thirty! Everyone was terrified. On a corner of Paseo de Gracia they found the body of the famous Danton, with a note on his chest reading: ‘The avenger is avenged.’

“We found out later that police headquarters had ordered a massive purge of leading union figures and suspicious elements. But the operation ran into trouble: in a house on Córcega Street lived a certain Luis López, the leader of the metal union. A group of gunmen came in search of him, but he managed to escape. As his neighbor was Radical Party representative Jesús Ulled, he sought refuge in his house. Ulled then summoned the chief prosecutor of the High Court, Diego Medina, to whom they explained the situation, and he decided to take action.

“Medina himself called the president of the Council of Ministers, Sánchez Guerra, in Madrid and informed him of what was happening. Sánchez Guerra immediately called López Ballesteros to admonish him for the massacre being orchestrated by Beastegui. The general, however, took his subordinate’s side and tendered his resignation right there, supposing that Sánchez Guerra wouldn’t accept it, but he was wrong.”

“López Ballesteros is no longer the civil governor of Barcelona?”

“No, he is not. He’s left the city. But before he departed our business and civic organizations honored him with four or five tributes, complete with banquets and speeches. We even presented him with an engraved sword and silver platters etched with the most effusive praise. Your absence was felt on this occasion. Of course, at these events only the warmest
words were spoken for the man, commended as a peacemaker, a protector of labor, a defender of workers’ freedom, etc. Several papers, yours included, published editorials accusing the government of inconsistency in its decision to let such a pillar of order go precisely when his tactics had begun to restore law and order to Barcelona. In reality, however, more than one of them believed that López Ballesteros had indeed overstepped his authority in the most intolerable way.”

“But, you were the ones who asked him to do so! Or don’t you realize that for a police officer to act in any way that violates the strictest compliance with the law is an overstepping of authority?”

“Yes, of course, in a perfect world that’s the way it ought to be, but we live here on earth, where reality is tough and complicated. In short, the general was hurt and resented how the government let him fall. Apparently he didn’t know that in Madrid, after being repeatedly denounced by leftist organizations, for months his situation had been considered untenable. He was also galled by the rumors that the attempt to assassinate him was staged.”

“Was it?”

“Of course. Everything began when Beastegui hatched a plan to create a singular hero, fighting on behalf of order. He looked for a hapless, common delinquent, one Cándido Fagés, aka Albert Blum, implicated in the assault of María Nilo, who you defended. Fagés agreed to serve him and, in exchange, Beastegui had him sprung from jail. The trial was never even held, and his cohorts must still be in preventive custody at this time. And so, supplying him with a disguise and two Astra pistols, the general sent the criminal out to wreak havoc among the union forces. It’s not very clear to what extent López Ballesteros was privy to his deputy’s maneuver. I believe that he either didn’t know or looked the other way, at least until a certain point in time.
At first the stratagem worked, and Danton did prove quite an effective weapon of psychological warfare. His mysterious actions had the top brass at the unions shaking in their boots. And you, my friend,” he explained as his mustache traced an ear-to-ear grin, “were expediently manipulated into publicizing the figure through your paper.”

Pained by the thought of it, I let out a groan as I lay there.

“That’s what happened and there’s no use beating yourself up about it. You also rendered a valuable service to the city, which needed the wave of violence to be stopped, at any cost. What happened is that this Fagés—who was really not very stable to begin with and harbored delusions of grandeur—at some point went completely mad, actually identified with his alter ego, and began to eliminate people on the other side.

“That was when Beastegui decided to take him out. But first he wanted to use him one last time. He had been flirting with the idea of organizing a definitive solution to the violent union unrest. What better excuse could he cite than an attempt to assassinate the civil governor himself? Beastegui, to whom Danton remained blindly loyal, gave him a couple of pistols, this time loaded with blanks, and instructed him to shoot López Ballesteros who, he explained, was corrupt and had changed sides. The vigilante carried out the staged assassination, and Beastegui’s men, delinquents recruited from among the city’s dregs, went to work and began to detain and, in certain cases, kill a series of designated individuals. What ensued were forty-eight hours of criminal impunity until Madrid moved to put an end to it, I suppose due to fears of a new government inquiry, like that spearheaded months before by the socialist leader Pablo Iglesias into the issue of the fleeing suspects law.”

Rocabert paused to light a cigarette. He offered me one but, frankly, I didn’t yet feel like I was in any condition to be smoking.

“As I was saying, López Ballesteros, somewhat bitter, abandoned the city of Barcelona. He was convinced, in his rigid way, that he had completed his mission: pacifying a territory that was at war. At one of our tributes to him he took me aside and said, ‘I thank you for your courteous farewell, but I was surprised that you, the employers, did not register the most vigorous protest with the president of the government in response to the underhanded fashion in which I was removed. After all, you were the ones who demanded determination and a vigorous approach.’

“‘That is so, General,’ I replied. ‘But one must observe certain protocols. Barcelona is not the jungle.’

“‘Rocabert, you can give me that line when the anarchists head for your house to kill you. Then I won’t be there to defend you. You people, the ruling class of Catalonia, your hypocrisy knows no bounds. You demand stringency from the nation’s government, but you don’t want to pay the price or be liable for it, and when we finally crack down you want to wash your hands of it all.’ Frankly I didn’t know what to say to him. Then he added enigmatically, ‘In any case, you can be sure that my star has not fallen here. Far from it!’ What could he have been referring to?”

I smiled to myself.

“Now, Pablo,” Rocabert continued, “a new era begins. General Primo de Rivera, now heading the Captaincy General of Catalonia, has the will and the resources to infuse the region with optimism. The king will visit Barcelona next month, which will spur our elegant gentlemen and beautiful ladies to honor him with a lavish welcome. It’s time to seriously ponder how to spread a love for the crown among the people. The subversive elements are either dead or locked up. López Ballesteros and Beastegui fulfilled their missions in that regard, one must concede that. We need to be positive and bolster the role of Catalonian industry in Spain today. This is
why I must once again implore you: join our forces. You have a bright political future ahead of you.”

“I’ll think about it, José Maria. Thank you.”

“One last bit of news, and this on a personal note. I am engaged to Maite Malet, the marquess’s eldest daughter. Between you and me, she does not have that somewhat wild allure of Isabel Enrich, nor is she to inherit a comparable fortune, but she’s a great girl and she adores me. She’s a train I can’t afford to miss, my friend!”

“Or a streetcar, as it were, given the company her father controls. Congratulations, José María. Congratulations.”

* * *

At the end of that first day of my recovery I received a bouquet of lilacs. There was a card on the table. I opened it. “It shall be difficult to ever forget how much you have done for us. Get well soon. Libertad.”

* * *

I was still at the hospital when Isabel Enrich came to see me one day.

“I have been wicked, leaving you alone these past weeks. But I was very depressed and had to get out of the city for a change of scenery. First I stayed here, keeping vigil over you. I swear that I didn’t leave your side until they told me you were out of danger. Then I went to Paris, to forget about everything. But not before asking Rocabert to look after you and keep me
informed, which he has dutifully done. I think he’s forgiven me for jilting him. He is, moreover, an intelligent man, and I have agreed to invest in some business deals he has presented me with.”

“Tell me why you were depressed.”

“Simple. My driver Manolo’s death was a terrible blow. The poor man was killed carrying out an assignment which I had given him. I also suffered thinking about you.”

“What happened with Lacalle?”

She wavered for a moment. “I … realized that our relationship would never be the same the moment Libertad, that languid-looking anarchist, showed up at Dr. Vidal Solares’s hospital. She took over control of the situation in no time. He only had eyes for her, and it was soon clear that our relationship, which already seemed destined to be an ephemeral episode, was already a thing of the past. I was forced to beat a dignified retreat, which was not easy. As you can understand, I’m not accustomed to being rejected. And even less for such an apparently harmless little schemer.”

“You’re very wrong about her. She’s neither languid nor a schemer.”

Her eyes were wide as saucers. “You know her?”

“Yes, I spent a brief time with her. She’s an extraordinary woman. There are many things you could learn from her. In any case, as Rocabert says, it’s time for us to be positive. How about we begin with a good dinner for two at Maison Dorée?”

* * *

In the months that followed I continued to see Isabel Enrich, though after the episode with Lacalle it wouldn’t be honest to say that the tone of our relationship hadn’t changed. In some
way that sense of affinity and deep understanding that had always been between us, and which drew us together with an instant spark every time we saw each other, had vanished. And the sweet spell of intimacy we enjoyed after the success of the sacramental testament ceremony was never to repeat itself. Over time, I even began to question whether it had ever really happened at all.

As for the anarchist who had come between us, he simply fell off the face of the earth. I went to the Community of the Sun one day, but they told me that Libertad had also disappeared. Ever steadfast, Floreal Gambús explained to me that, although Isabel Enrich had agreed to continue financing the project, once Lacalle and his friend had vanished the anarchist cooperative began to lose its way. It needed direction, and he feared that the project would end up disintegrating.

* * *

State visits to Catalonia increased during the following months, just as Rocabert had announced they would. One day I received an invitation from Emilio María de Torres, Marquess of Torre de Mendoza and King Alfonso XIII’s personal secretary, to come to Madrid for a special audience which the king of Spain wished to concede me, without me ever requesting it. For a few weeks I eagerly counted the days until I would take the train for Spain’s capital.

I went to the palace, where the monarch received me. He was tall and slender with sparkling eyes, a pronounced jawbone, and a rather small forehead below his hair, parted on the left and combed straight back. From a seat in his office armchair he offered me a long cigarette with the royal crest printed on it, and subjected me to a friendly interrogation about Barcelona.
He had called me, he explained, above all as a result of the interest he had taken in the troglodytes, the vigilante Danton, and the attack I had suffered.

He was affable from the very first moment, and exhibited a certain ironic tone at many points; we hit it off and enjoyed a long conversation in which, breaking protocol, he allowed me to ask him something. He told me that he had read several of my articles and that, although some were “very strongly worded” and he could not officially endorse them, off the record and in his heart he actually agreed with me. He went on to explain that, through my writings, he had come to feel that he knew me, and that in recognition of them he desired to appoint me a royal gentleman-in-waiting, making me part of that body to which Rocabert already belonged and which then constituted a kind of advisory council (though seldom consulted). The position was as honorific as it was envied, as it stood just one step below the nobility.

The monarch underscored the fact that this honor was to be bestowed in exclusive recognition of the excellence of my writings, and was totally independent of any political, heraldic, or social associations. Springing up, he stepped over to a small chest and withdrew a finely bound journal in which, as explained to me, he recorded his most private reflections. He had me read a passage from it, dated 1902, the year of his coronation, and written in his own hand: