On the adjacent plot of land a dozen workers, men and women, toiled away in the tomato bushes, hoes in hand. A strapping young man pushed a diverse load of goods in a wheelbarrow. In the distance a figure in a beret and carrying a crook guided a herd of sheep. Amid all this bustle my guide moved as nimbly as a mountain goat, more spry than one would ever expect from a man of his age.
“We are in the Community of the Sun,” my guide announced. “Here men, women, and children live in freedom, caring for and living off the land and nature’s bounty. It’s made up of more than one hundred people, among whom family ties have dissolved: all the adults care for all the elders and all the children, who are taught pacifism and healthy living. We educate them without any competitiveness or hierarchies. We farm the land and sell our beans and vegetables. We do repair work for factories and small outfits outside the city, but also for fellow workers who support the cause, such as the fishermen of Pueblo Nuevo. The profits are distributed among all of us. Here, try this.”
Floreal then handed me something that I placed in my mouth to taste. The flavor was intense. I spit it out in an instant. “You gave me raw garlic?!”
“You really should eat some several times a day. It cleanses the body and helps keep you well. So says Dr. Capo, an international authority. Garlic is the most important plant to purify the body. It is a microbicide, a counterirritant, a vesicant, and a revitalizer; it fights off worms, rheumatism, and gout. You should have garlic every day—and lemon too, which is a detoxifier; fends off scurvy, and prevents typhus, scarlet fever, erysipelas, smallpox, and beriberi. Come on, follow me.”
Just a few miles from industrious Barcelona, Catalonia’s Manchester skirting the beaches of Pueblo Nuevo, only minutes from the bomb-beset city which seemed to awaken each day to another series of killings, between tipuana trees and cypresses, this anarchist Arcadia that Floreal was showing me seemed an impossible mirage. Its borders were indicated by a rickety fence painted in yellow; behind it, far off in the distance, stood a magnificent manor house.
“Tell me something: who puts up the money for this? How is it maintained?”
“Well now! We do earn some money, but we also receive funds from our friends around the world, who see in us a model of harmonious living that requires their support. We’re not alone. There are others underway in the United States, created by followers of Ferrer Guardia, our leader and martyr, as well as in Scotland and Finland.
Francisco Ferrer Guardia, a radical pedagogue, was the founder of the Escuela Moderna de Barcelona, and a man whose theories and practices had won large numbers of disciples among Barcelona’s working classes. But his political passions had spurred him to head down dangerous paths. One of his trusted men, Mateu Morral, was behind the deadly bombing in Madrid on the day of Alfonso XIII’s wedding, from which the monarch and his ill-fated young bride miraculously emerged unscathed. Ferrer Guardia, who had been linked through a series of suspicious ties to his associate, narrowly escaped being convicted on that occasion. But when just a few years later la Semana Trágica befell Barcelona, in which insurgents paralyzed and vandalized the city, the educator was arrested on charges that he had instigated the events. He was placed on trial, sentenced to death, and executed. International anarchism and Masonry perpetrated a vicious anti-Spanish campaign which would end up toppling the conservative government of Antonio Maura, who had sanctioned the sentence. I have always believed that the death penalty is the very last resort which the justice system ought to employ (my mentor Eduardo Dato, on the different occasions when he served as the president of the Council of Ministers, did not hesitate to beseech Alfonso XIII again and again to commute capital sentences, exclaiming, “I shall not shoot! I do not shoot!”). In this case the pedagogue had against him that he was judged by a military court which, as everyone knows, is to justice what military marches are to music.
“Hello there!” my guide said to one of the men. “Have you seen Libertad anywhere?”
“She’s in the solarium,” the other man answered.
Gambús motioned for me to follow him. We walked around the main building until we reached a back area where we found a large fence with a sign on it reading: “Remove your clothing here.”
“You can read,” my escort said to me. “Once here you’ve got to take off your clothes. If you don’t the men and women on the other side will never accept you.”
I could feel my face turning a brighter red than the carnation on my lapel.
“Are you serious? You want me to remove my clothing in front of a group of men I do not know? And women too?!”
Gambús gave me a condescending smile, as if he were dealing with a sheltered child.
“Shake off your prejudices, my man. You’re all grown up now. We all came into this world naked. The human body thrives on direct sunlight, which gives us energy. In your case this is an ideal opportunity to discover a way of life you are not familiar with.”
“You may undress if you like. I’ll wait for you here. And I don’t want any of your garlic either!”
In the blink of an eye Floreal Gambús shed his clothing, dropped it on the ground and, with his scrawny frame laid bare, opened the fence door and disappeared inside. I couldn’t resist taking a peek from behind the door, which was open a crack. On a cement patio some twenty people—men, women, and children of all ages—were lying on blankets sunbathing. The sight of all that tanned skin and pubic hair so disturbed me that I had to look away. I had never seen such a sight, even in the barracks when I completed my military service.
A few minutes later Floreal returned with a woman close by his side. He introduced her to me as Libertad, who was wrapped up in a blanket which was far from covering her. My lanky companion then introduced me to her as well.
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.
“I am looking for Ángel Lacalle.”
“On whose behalf?”
“His own sister asked me to find him.”
“Yes, much could be said about that sister of his who’s resurfaced after so many years, and earns her living showing off her body at the city’s least reputable bars. Listen, Vilar, do you know why Gambús brought you to see me? Because I was with Ángel for a long time. But we’ve broken up now, there is nothing between us, and I can’t help you. I don’t know where he is.”
“And, as far as you know, he didn’t tell anyone where he would be?”
“No. Ángel is an independent type. Sometimes he doesn’t provide many explanations. And stop looking over my head to keep from seeing my body, for crying out loud. I’m not going to drop the blanket, and it wouldn’t kill you if you saw a naked woman, either!”
I felt myself blushing again. It was true that throughout our conversation I had made an effort to maintain the strictest decorum, but I found it unfair that she would accuse me of prudishness when I was only making an effort to be discreet.
“Listen, young lady,” I objected. “Though modern and an anarchist you may be, I do not see how you can be so calm when your former boyfriend disappears without a trace, with things as violent as they are today, and he being the prominent figure he is. Now you may scorn María Nilo if you so desire, though I think you have no right to, for she’s only acting out of a sincere concern for her brother. If I were you I think the best thing you could do would be to cooperate with us.”
Now it was her face that seemed to redden.
“Let me get dressed. We can keep talking.”
She returned right away, fully clothed, and led me to a nearby bench. I soon realized that I was dealing with a frank, intelligent, and attractive young woman.
“You may confide in me. I am a lawyer, and when I work as one I keep what I am told confidential,” I assured her.
“First of all, you must understand that Ángel was the love of my life—the love of my life!” she insisted, clutching my arm. “But we are anarchists through and through, in our hearts and minds. My parents were anarchists before me. That is why my name is Libe
rtad. Ángel was my first love, and from the very beginning he told me that he believed in free love, and that fidelity was a bourgeois value.”
“And he wasn’t faithful to you …”
“No. He flirted with others in the movement, with women he met on his travels, with girls who came and went … until one day I stood my ground and told him, ‘If you’re not faithful, I won’t be either.’”
“And what did you do?”
“I took up with a handsome activist from Marseilles who was passing through Barcelona. He was practically a kid—blond and boyish—and he fell madly in love with me.”
“And how did Ángel take that?”
“He flew into a rage and lectured me for ages. But then he was forced to recognize that I had not done anything but act in accordance with the principles he himself had espoused. After that we reconciled and got along again.”
“But …”
“But I recently became convinced that he was seeing someone else again. He was evasive and ambiguous, and would often disappear without saying a word. One day a few weeks ago, after several nasty fights, I made up my mind and told him that I didn’t want to be with him anymore. He left, and I never saw him again. Look, Ángel hangs his hat in many places. Sometimes he sleeps here with me, other times at a rooming house on Tapias Street. The owner there is a friend of the cause and always keeps a bed for him. And then there’s the little office he has at the Masons’ Union, which is where he does his work. I think they might know something at the rooming house or the office. As for me, if you give me your address I promise I’ll write you if he does get in contact.”
She paused before asking me in a worried tone, “Do you think he’s in danger?”
“It’s possible. There are several people who have good reasons to want him out of the way. So, it’s agreed: you and I shall trust each other; but you must explain to me what you have against María Nilo.”
She reflected for a moment, biting her pouty lips.
“She makes me nervous. She’s a hardened woman with only one thing on her mind: surviving and getting ahead. She’s frivolous, exploiting her body to manipulate men. People like her are bad for women. She is one of those types of people who cannot stand any competition. On those occasions when I’ve seen her she either completely ignored or exhibited her disdain for me. She yearns to be the center of attention at all times, like a peacock obsessed with fluffing up its feathers. She has no values, and I don’t like the influence she has on Ángel.”
“Tell me something, then: what values do you uphold?”
“Those of the human being: goodness, solidarity, aiding the needy, psychological development without censorship or dogmatism, liberty for women, redemptive love, and the free education of the our children.”
“I shall keep that very much in mind. Good day, Señorita Libertad.”
“Wait a moment. Now you tell me: what values do you believe in?”
For a second I did not know what to say.
“Those of the human being, and of Divine grace. Goodness and charity, the social order which makes progress possible, and the creation of wealth for all; the law. The culture that allows us to live deeper lives, the values that inspired Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, those that make us more humble and less presumptuous. I would also like to practice forgiveness and understanding, but I fear I am not always capable of this.”
“Be careful with forgiveness and understanding. ‘Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner,’ said a French thinker, and he was right. Beware of forgiveness. It cannot be offered to everyone, for there are wicked people who exploit others, and deserve to be punished, or at least receive a good reprimand.”
I left the fervent anarchist, now dressed but who minutes before had been sunbathing in the nude and had emerged from the dust of the farm’s arena as voluptuous as a Botticelli, immersed in a beatific dream of harmonious coexistence from which the shots echoing through the city were bound to give her a very rude awakening. But this made her faith and enthusiasm no less irresistible, in the same way that her physical presence, so solid and carnal, marked out a gravitational center in that unique proletarian paradise on the periphery of Barcelona.
9
I like the Barcelona Cathedral, whose every corner is a setting for a series of quaint scenes shifting over time: the railings old men lean on in the winter because the sun has warmed the metal; the cloister, invaded by children tossing bread crumbs to the geese in the pool, or looking for cherries that have fallen near the fountain.
I have always been fascinated by those small electric lights with green shades which aid the clergy and incumbents to read their prayer books, and which have rendered obsolete the candles formerly used, which left wax stains when lit.
I am mesmerized by the chapels lining the central nave. Whenever I go there I stop for a few minutes before the one dedicated to Santo Cristo de Lepanto. Carved from wood, this venerated Barcelona icon depicting a Christ with closed eyes and an ample mane of hair, presiding over a space perpetually lit by oil lamps and votive candles, is the city’s most hallowed religious image, shrouded in a mystique of miracles. According to tradition, it was transported in a special hold of the Spanish Armada’s leading galley at the Battle of Lepanto, on October 7, 1571, on orders issued by Don Juan of Austria, who cherished the object and held it to be holy. When the fighting began, Don Juan ordered the image to be raised, and when an artillery shell came hurtling toward the Holy Christ, it twisted out of the way, evading the projectile and providing the most fortuitous omen imaginable of the impending victory. This is why its torso is conspicuously twisted to the right, and its left foot is awkwardly pulled away from the cross.
A second part of the legend, which appears in congregation books, asserts that after the battle a crewless galley with the Holy Christ on its bow cruised into Barcelona’s harbor, where the cathedral’s clergy received, gathered, and carried it in a procession to its current location.
That said, the legends, though fascinating and worthy of respect, are not necessarily true. It is clear that at the Battle of Lepanto against the Ottomans, images of Christ were prominently exhibited, such as those held by Juan of Austria and his lieutenant Lluís de Requesens when they reviewed the fleet for the last time. No document of the time, however, provides evidence that the Barcelona sculpture was present in the fighting, nor is there any reference to it during the half century following the celebrated conflict. As for the figure’s contortion, it is a phenomenon also observable in the Christ figures found at cathedrals in Salamanca and Espluga de Francolí, without any suggestions that these sculptures ever evaded any projectiles.
Nobody really knows how the image called the Christ of Lepanto ended up in the Cathedral of Barcelona. In any case, since the mid-seventeenth century the sculpture has boasted an association of venerators, led by the penitential priest and to which eight officials belong, including a number of different ecclesiastical charges, treasurers, and sacristans of the Cathedral, as well as its own holiday (September 21); while the people of the city also believe in its miraculous powers, and thousands turn out to pray before it.
As is usually the case, the legend is once again, in this case, more suggestive and imaginative than the history, and more inspiring.
I always stop before the Santo Cristo de Lepanto because its miraculous and military aura interests and even fascinates me. It does not, however, touch or move me. Thus, I quickly leave a considerable crowd of worshippers gathered before it, make my way along the small chapels, and go in search of another Christ: that dedicated to the Virgen de la Alegría. Hand in hand, my mother used to take me at least once each month in order to pray for our small family; for the soul of my sister, taken from us at a young age; for the city we had come to call home; and for our future.
It was to this chapel that I headed after leaving my offering at the entrance to that holy place. Kneeling before the image of the virgin, I prayed and reflected for a good while. Amid the cool darkness inside
the cathedral, under the refuge of God’s infinite mercy, I analyzed the situation in which I found myself. I was searching for an anarchist, a man whose ideological convictions were diametrically opposed to my own, at the request of his sister, a woman who during our first meeting had not been truthful with me about her situation. The former lover of the man I was looking for seemed concerned but far from obsessed with his whereabouts, for the two hardly seemed to keep each other on a short leash, having what was apparently a permissive relationship. Why had I accepted this task at such a politically and socially charged time? For María Nilo, or for Lacalle himself? Had he managed to convince me that he was a “good anarchist”? What was so beguiling about those two siblings? Or perhaps I ought to say supposed siblings, for I was beginning to have my doubts about all the information they had given me.
“What would you do, ever-benevolent mother? Would you aid a man whose ideology you condemn? Would you approve of my helping him?” I whispered.
There came no response, but I did feel the echo of a warm affection from long ago, and could almost hear steps taken then across the cathedral’s centuries-old stones, slabs covering ancient tombs. I was flooded with memories of bygone moments spent alongside the woman who brought me into the world and raised me with equal doses of love and firmness as she showed me how to walk the path of life.
Women. I thought of Isabel Enrich, who I could not get out of my mind. Was I now closer to or further from Barcelona’s most attractive young lady? Was she toying with me, using me as a chevalier servant ever at her beck and call? What did she see in me? Did I have any possibility of a real future with her? What secrets did she have? Should I persevere or withdraw my attentions once and for all?
“Farewell, mother,” I whispered, lighting a candle which I left on the iron structure next to the gate of the chapel of Nuestra Señora de la Alegría. And, as was my custom, I added, “Goodbye, Mother and Father. Bless me and protect me from your place of eternal rest.”
A Barcelona Heiress Page 11