A Barcelona Heiress

  13

  “Pablo, I think it’s about time we were honest with each other about some things,” Isabel Enrich said to me under the silvery light suffusing that gala evening in Barcelona. She took me by the arm and, after making our way out of the labyrinth, we began to walk between the holm oaks and the eucalyptus, their intense aroma filling the air.

  “I’ve always been very honest with you,” I replied.

  “You are accommodating. You look for a way to connect with others by showing them only the traits you share with them, and you hide everything else. You tend to avoid confrontation.”

  I was furious.

  “Now listen, how can you say such a thing to me? I spend my days dealing with churlish judges, cunning prosecutors, and dishonest clients.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a criticism. On the contrary—for a lawyer, being accommodating is a virtue. But you’re not a confrontational person; rather, you’re the kind who looks for consensus. I mean, you practically abandoned politics precisely for that reason, because it’s a field rife with personal attacks.”

  Nodding, I interrupted her.

  “Why don’t we talk about us?”

  “‘We’ are only a small part of what is happening. And I, like you, am not exactly what I seem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It has been five years now since my parents died and I came into a considerable fortune. As you know, I have dedicated a good portion of it to charitable causes, such as the work performed by Dr. Vidal Solares, to which you were witness.”

  “Yes, and that’s truly admirable. The parable of the three talents, from the Gospels, reminds us that in this life we don’t receive gifts just to possess them, but to do something with them.”

  “That’s what I was getting at. In Barcelona today, in Spain—and I was almost going to say in the entire world—it seems that one can only pursue the good and progress by supporting one side or faction. Those of us on the side of order are expected to channel all of our good intentions through the institutions of the Church, applaud the Army, enthusiastically celebrate the monarchy’s every act … It is as if this legacy of loyalties and traditions formed a kind of package which one must accept as an indivisible whole, and whoever dares to analyze or assess its different components one by one, accepting some but not embracing the entire set, is considered impudent or disloyal, if not accused of much worse, and is banished from the social circle.”

  We walked past one of the gazebos flanking the entrance to the garden.

  “Well, now!” I replied. “There’s no need to exaggerate. Remember Chesterton said that one takes his hat off when entering a church, but not his head. We can sympathize with an ideology without entirely subscribing to it, and without sacrificing our own reasoning.”

  “The thing is,” she interrupted impatiently, “that those of our class seldom make any effort to ask ourselves if there’s anything good at all about the other side, as we consider the union people and the workers’ organizations which are not under ecclesiastical control to be our enemies.”

  “I’m more and more confused about where you’re headed with this.”

  “You understand me very well. When through my charity work I began to deal with people from every corner of our society, I realized that we cannot claim a monopoly on good works and social action. Quite the opposite: we must value efforts undertaken by those who are, in theory, our adversaries.”

  “Those who kill our leaders with bombs and burn churches, often with priests inside?”

  “This happens when things get out of control, when their mistrust and resentment, which is surely unfair and misguided, boils over. But this is precisely why we ought to be the first ones to douse those flames, not fan them. Those of us who are wealthy, who were born amid privilege, have a greater obligation to advance social harmony than those who were born with nothing and have everything against them.”

  “I agree with what you’re saying, though I have never had a fortune. Had I inherited one, perhaps I wouldn’t be toiling in the courts as I do.”

  “Had you inherited one, Pablo, you wouldn’t have been so concerned with receiving the approval of those at the top, the civil governors, counts, and marquesses, and perhaps, precisely because of your dealings with delinquents and victims you would have lost respect for what our patricians represent.”

  “This is incredible. You’re once again tremendously unjust! How easy it is to make such statements and to sermonize when you have more than you’ll ever need.”

  “Let’s go the car, Pablo. I have to show you something.”

  We circled the staircases, with their impressive balustrades, and returned to the party just when it was reaching its moment of maximum splendor, with fireworks filling the sky. When this spectacle came to an end, the dancing began inside a spacious pavilion. We wound our way through the guests. It was the year in which traditional long, flowing skirts were competing with short, low-waisted ones and boyish hairstyles: Barcelona’s most elegant ladies each tried to outdo each other, sporting dresses in audacious Egyptian and Cubist patterns in meteor gray and jasper green.

  Inside the palace the merriment continued, and the great tables in the two main halls offered up a generous buffet of cold cuts and champagne for those who needed a pick-me-up. We searched in vain for our hosts in order to thank them for the evening, after which Isabel practically pushed me to the car.

  Our ride through the streets and avenues of Horta was dreamlike, and soon I realized we were heading down San Martín de Provensals Road. As we left the streetlamps behind and turned onto a dusty path, the scenery became more and more familiar to me. When I spotted an iron gate with a sign reading “Community of the Sun,” my doubts were dispelled. We drove through, and a mile on the driver got out to open another gate, its metal shimmering in the headlights. As we cruised down a drive lined with poplars, I watched as the silhouette of the elegant manor house I had seen months before, on the day Libertad and Floreal Gambús gave me the grand tour of their anarchist commune, came into view.

  “There are many mysteries here,” I said. “What is this house, anyway? Do you know that it sits next to an anarchist cooperative?”

  “Of course I do. The land that the Community of the Sun is built on belongs to me. And I provide much of the financing for its projects too.”

  “You’re backing an anarchist experiment? Why didn’t you tell me anything before?”

  “Given your right-leaning political convictions I wasn’t sure how you would react. These are affairs which I handle in secret. I don’t tell just anyone that I am helping Dr. Vidal Solares either. Without agreeing entirely with him, I do believe, like Tolstoy, that certain anarchist principles are quite consonant with the purest form of Christianity: pacifism, harmony with nature, raising children in a noncompetitive way … My only caveat was that they severed all ties with the violent union activists, which they did.”

  “And their belligerence toward the Church? Aren’t you quite the darling of the upper echelons of the Catholic church in this city?”

  “The people I protect don’t attack the Church. Obviously they’re not believers, but they’re not clamoring for any lynchings either.”

  “I don’t understand you. How can you fund these people and at the same time join the ranks of the strikebreakers by driving a streetcar during the general strike?”

  Isabel laughed. “Ah, that. I can’t abide the with-us-or-against-us attitude and general strikes, I disapprove when a minority seeks to paralyze the city. I also need to be in good graces with those in power, as it’s the only way I can pursue my ends without being harassed. Do you remember the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

  “I do. And I presume that’s why you fraternize with López Ballesteros and that sadist Beastegui.”

  “No. That I did for another reason, which I shall soon reveal to you.”

  * * *

  Isabel’s house was characterized by the sturdy austerity and understated refinement typical
of Catalonia’s country homes: stone walls, tile floors, and spartan, rustic wooden furniture. There were chairs with walnut armrests as well as solid mahogany chests, and the bedrooms were bound to be centered around cast-iron beds. A member of the staff escorted us to a hall dominated by an immense, two-part china-filled cabinet. On the walls hung faded nineteenth-century portraits and a series of breastplates, spears, and swords.

  A few minutes later the servant returned in the company of another man. My jaw dropped. “Lacalle!” I shouted, almost at the top of my lungs. “What are you doing here? Half the city is looking for you. I had given you up for dead.”

  The good anarchist gave one of those disarming smiles of his that could have saved St. Ignatius of Antioch from the lions. “Yes, I know. But I had to make myself scarce. The situation was getting too dangerous for me. After the frustrated attack at La Puñalada, I had Beastegui’s thugs, Danton, and even García Torres’s men, who were supposed to be on my side, sending signs that they were eager to see me six feet under. In a space of weeks I survived two attempts on my life by anonymous agents whose shots missed their mark. It was getting so dicey that I decided to go underground.”

  “But, how could you? What about Libertad? Why didn’t you tell her anything? You’ve been less than a mile from her this whole time, letting her suffer?”

  I noted an uneasy exchange of looks between Lacalle and Isabel.

  “I couldn’t tell her where I was. The whole Community of the Sun would have ended up finding out. And even though it’s really not any of your business, I can inform you that my relationship with Libertad had come to an end when I decided to go into hiding.”

  “Well, then the question is: how did you get here?”

  The two looked at each other again before Lacalle spoke.

  “For a few years I secretly served as an intermediary between the countess and the Community of the Sun, facilitating her generous contributions. Only a select few know the source of the money we receive.”

  “It was after you explained to me the conversations you had had with Ángel that I took an interest in him,” Isabel interjected, “and at one of our meetings I asked him to tell me about his situation and his plans.”

  “And when I explained to her the problem I was facing, she graciously agreed to take me in,” added the anarchist.

  “To her own home.”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “What was I going to do? Let them cut him down on some street corner, hunted like an animal? My only condition was absolute secrecy.”

  “And that’s the way it’s been,” Lacalle declared. “During this time I have been the happiest of prisoners. Given the nature of the relationship which arose between myself and the owner of this house,” he added, blushing, “I also didn’t think it was a good time to provide Libertad with any explanations. But now it’s time get back to work.”

  “Why are you two telling me about all of this?” I asked, hot under the collar.

  “I want you to explain to him the pact López Ballesteros proposes,” Isabel said.

  “Well, you can go and talk with the general yourselves. You know each other well enough already.”

  “Come on, Pablo, the future of the city is at stake. Be generous and don’t let your personal bitterness get the better of you.”

  “You have cornered me here. I must go.”

  “Pablo …”

  In the end I reluctantly agreed to share with Lacalle the proposal the civil governor had instructed me to convey to him, outlining the official’s plan to get the heads of all the clashing factions to sit down together. I also told him about the tip-off I had received regarding Danton’s identity.

  “His proposal: do you think it might be a trap?” he inquired.

  “I’ll go with you. The general has assured me that you’ll be safe. If you agree, come to my office tomorrow morning.”

  We shook hands. Lacalle announced that he would be returning to his quarters, and left us alone.

  “It’s some curious situation you have gotten yourself into,” I said to Isabel, attempting to sound poised. “Shall we return to Barcelona?”

  Isabel wavered.

  “Actually, Pablo, my driver will take you home. I’ll stay here for the night. I have quite a bit of paperwork to attend to. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, giving me a kiss on the cheek that felt like a dagger through my heart. I realized that Ángel Lacalle was silently waiting in the hallway.

  “You’re a heartless woman and a manipulator,” I snapped at her. “We’ll speak when this is all over.”

  She looked into my eyes with a gaze that was tender yet firm.

  “Don’t take what you have just seen so hard. This doesn’t change my feelings for you,” she declared as her farewell.

  On my way back to Barcelona I struggled to control the feelings of disgust, loss, and emptiness which had overcome me.

  * * *

  It takes barely ten minutes to walk at a leisurely pace from the apartment where I live and work to the Barcelona Civil Government building, and my plan was to accompany Ángel Lacalle there on foot. But at nine thirty in the morning, when I had been reviewing some documents for a short while, my assistant Basilio burst into the office. He was all worked up.

  “Boss, all hell’s broken loose!”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “There was another attack last night. López Ballesteros just barely avoided being shot on his way back to the Civil Government building after the Marquess of Alfarrás’s party in Horta. The police have initiated a hunt and capture of all the city’s most disruptive elements, and it seems that there have already been several deaths.”

  “Then Lacalle had better not show up around here.”

  I called Isabel Enrich’s house. The countess had not yet returned. They told me that there was no way for me to reach her at her masía in San Martín de Provensals because there was no telephone there. After hanging up, I received a call. It was Beastegui.

  “Have you heard about what happened?”

  “Basilio was just telling me. How is the general?”

  “Recovering from the scare. Fortunately it was too dark for the gunmen to find their target, and he only has a few scratches, but they could have pulled it off, and now we must employ every means at our disposal to keep this from ever happening again. As a precautionary measure we are going to detain every possible suspect. Have you managed to track down Lacalle?”

  It was clear that Beastegui intended to arrest him as part of the indiscriminate manhunt he was undertaking. I was tempted to take revenge. What if I turned him in?

  “Do you hear me, Vilar?” the impatient police chief boomed through the receiver.

  “That man, Beastegui, is not a suspect.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I have good reasons. He represents the nonviolent wing of anarchism.”

  “Lacalle is most certainly a suspect, and it would be unwise of you to protect him. Your obligation as a citizen is to inform me if you know of his whereabouts. Good day,” he barked at me.

  “Good day, General.” I hung up and turned to my assistant.

  “Basilio, let’s go.”

  To reach my house from either the center or uptown there are two direct roads: Vía Layetana or La Rambla. Coming from San Martín de Provensals, the logical route for Isabel and Lacalle’s car to take would be down the former. I placed Basilio at the intersection of this avenue and that of the port, while I stationed myself at Plaza de Medinaceli. To my surprise, two police officers soon appeared not far from where I was standing.

  Almost an hour had passed when I saw my friend’s vehicle approaching. They had come down La Rambla. When the car slowed in front of me I spotted Lacalle in front next to the driver. I hurried up to the vehicle and shouted at them, “Don’t stop! Get out of here! Lacalle is in danger!”

  The driver hit the gas and the car took off full speed toward Ciudadela Park. At that point the two officers, fuming, came ru
nning toward me.

  * * *

  When they released me from the police station I feared that my office was no longer a safe place to go. What could I do? I was torn by mixed emotions. Swallowing my bitterness, I flagged a taxi and made haste for Isabel Enrich’s mansion; the scent of the orange trees hit me as I got out. My friend was very agitated.

  “What happened?” she asked as we sat down on the chaise longue.

  I was succinct: “López Ballesteros and Beastegui are carrying out a sweep of the whole city, just as they had threatened to. The alleged attempt on the general’s life has given them the excuse they needed. The arrests are now indiscriminate, and I do hope I’m wrong, but I’m afraid this is going to lead to a few summary executions. Do you know where Lacalle is?”

  “The driver called. Ángel realized they were coming for him and he’s gone into hiding. Will you help me to save him?”

  “I’ve done too much already. Now it’s up to you and your lover to do something,” I spat, seizing the opportunity to make her pay for her duplicity.

  At that moment I thought I saw tears welling up in her eyes. Her face had turned a burning crimson.

  “My ‘lover.’ That’s going too far, Pablo. You know that I don’t like to belong to anyone. Such ties distress me. I can’t deny that I was captivated by Lacalle. The truth is that he’s irresistible, so upstanding and willful, yet so gentle at the same time. And with his romantic ideas about justice and the improvement of humanity …”

  I grimaced.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, changing her tone. “I’ll spare you from singing his praises. There was a strong mutual attraction. But he’s a leader, a soldier of his cause, and not the person destined to make me happy. My lifestyle and fortune, in addition, make him uncomfortable. These past weeks living with such luxuries only disquieted him. Sometimes I think that we came together only because we both knew that a future as a couple was an impossibility. Do you remember Flaubert’s words in Sentimental Education? ‘There are people who are like bridges. One crosses them and keeps going.’ I’m afraid that it’s my destiny to be little more than that for him.”