A Barcelona Heiress (21 page)

Why had Pons Lecrerc not apprised Isabel of this option? The most probable answer is that he didn’t remember it. Catalonian sacramental testament was not well regarded by my colleagues. Many considered it an utterly obsolete remnant of a folk tradition. It was one of the last surviving vestiges of the Visigothic laws in our legislation, and Catalonian civil law specialists had been squabbling over the issue for decades. Legal scholar Durán y Bas argued that it should be repealed, due to both the decline in society’s religious sensibility and the way in
which it had allowed parties to express their testaments before priests, inside the country and before vice consuls overseas, without any need for a notary wherever one was not on hand. More traditional scholars, on the other hand, such as Juan Maluquer y Viladot, opposed any alterations to old Catalonian civil law, at least until reform was carried out and a commission of Catalonia’s legal authorities were able to draft a Code for the Principality, which years following the era I describe would ultimately come to pass.

Perhaps Pons Lecrerc, a freethinking Republican who had been a close friend of Isabel’s father’s, rankled at requirements such as that the witnesses could take their oath only at the Altar of San Félix; this caveat was so sacrosanct that the very Supreme Court had ratified it in a verdict issued on June 26, 1877, in which it nullified the validity of testimony provided by a witness who had been unable to reach the church due to illness. I didn’t share my colleague’s capricious aversions, and counseled Isabel Enrich to avail herself of the historic legislation and persuade her aunt’s companions to take an oath swearing as to what they had heard. Antiquated or not, the practice established by Louis the Pious, when applied correctly, remained valid.

Although sacramental testament clearly granted preference to male witnesses, in this case there were none. The Baroness de Alp, as radiant as a Pyrenees meadow, and the maid Fermina Muguruza, who had accompanied the Marchioness of Sensat on her journey, were sworn in and then questioned by members of the court. The two concurred in that, fearing she would die and fully cognizant of what was happening, the marchioness had told them, in her velvety London room, that her fortune was to be inherited by Isabel Enrich.

A number of family members present also exercised their right to speak, as the convention of sacramental testament entitles those who consider themselves affected to put questions to the witnesses, and insisted that the lady’s last wishes also benefitted them. The
friend and maid, however, stood their ground, even though things took an ugly turn with more than one of them. In the end the judge declared the act concluded and the people dispersed. We who had been in attendance once again trod the church’s floor, made up of the timeworn tombstones and ossuaries of the parish’s patrons and members of the city’s different guilds (“Mariano Casanovas, cloth seller,” “Bruno Llobet, merchant,” “Macia Feliu, fisherman”) before stepping out into Plaza de San Justo. Isabel and I stopped before the Gothic fountain erected in front of the historic palace of the Moixó family. Spouting freshwater from Moncada, the fountain was built two years before the Black Death devastated medieval Catalonia.

“I believe you are now Barcelona’s richest woman,” I told my friend, who seemed troubled.

“Yes, and that’s going to come with great responsibility,” she said. “By the way, you seem to be glowing lately. Has something happened to you that I don’t know about?”

And she was right. I felt revitalized and exuberant, as if my brief but intense liaison with Libertad had freed me of tensions and emotional fetters, especially with respect to Isabel herself.

“It’s true, I am feeling well,” was my crisp reply.

“Would you like to come to lunch?” she asked me. “I owe you, at the very least, a banquet and a toast of thanks—in addition to your fees, of course,” she quickly added, blushing.

* * *

Isabel lived in Sarriá, at the end of Paseo de Santa Eulalia. Her home was an imposing fourteenth-century
masía
, a traditional Catalonian country house that had been converted into a stately mansion in the neo-Gothic style, its enclosing walls draped with ivy. In front of the
building a wide walkway stretched all the way across a spacious garden graced by two statues of feminine figures, replicas of Roman sculptures which gave the setting an almost dreamlike air.

The servants brought us a light lunch, which I barely touched, and an excellent Bordeaux, of which I did partake, and then they made themselves scarce.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

“I’m flustered. When you invite me and allow me into your inner sanctum, I never know how far I’ll be allowed to go.”

She smiled. “You’re the man of the hour. Savor it.”

“What about all those pursuing you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re surrounded by suitors, aren’t you?”

“Just to whom are you referring?”

“Have you already said yes to Rocabert, or are you waiting for someone more interesting to come along?”

Isabel laughed.

“So, Rocabert told you … Well, I shouldn’t be surprised … He took me a couple of times to some beautiful beaches in the Maresma. He’s quite irresistible, as you know, very handsome and with that permanent smile of his which gives him an air of candor. First he tested the waters, as if a romantic relationship could be undertaken with a contractual approach to things, and then he put all his cards on the table, declaring his intention to seek my hand in marriage.”

“And?”

“I told him that I liked him and so forth, but that I found his proposal hasty and ill-timed, at least ten years too early, for I have no intention of marrying, if I ever do, before age forty.”

Now it was I who was perplexed.

“You never told me that.”

“No? Well, that’s my intention. And, frankly, if I were to marry, before choosing a social climber like Rocabert, I would opt for someone more altruistic, human, refined, and intelligent. But I have no desire to marry. Come on, let’s have a coffee.”

The cups had been set out in a cozy sitting room where we threw ourselves into her favorite art deco chaise longue, under the magnificent portrait in cream tones which Ramón Casas had painted of her during her teen years. In the painting a defiant character could already be glimpsed amid her beauty, a trait which the Catalonian master had managed to capture with a flair worthy of Singer Sargent himself.

“Sit next to me, here,” she said, taking my hand. “I am indebted to you. Acquiring this inheritance will allow me to do a great many things, to support altruistic causes which will help people. I owe you, and I want to thank you. Now… ,” she said, placing my hand upon her chest.

“Wait, you’re mixing things up,” I stammered, even as I struggled to keep from quivering. “I don’t want you to compensate me for my services, but to act in accord with your sentiments.”

“Don’t be absurd. Kiss me,” she sighed, drawing her lips near mine. “I only ask you not demand of me more than I can give,” she whispered, gently covering my mouth with hers.

* * *

López Ballesteros’s augury came to pass. A gunman lay in wait outside the Count of Güell’s home in Pedralbes, and opened fire when the count’s Rolls Royce passed through the gate. Fortunately his driver had the presence of mind to step on the gas while my friend dove for cover under his cushions. They emerged from the incident rattled but unscathed, with only a few bullet holes in the body of the vehicle remaining as a testament to what had happened.

The Marquess of Malet was not so lucky. A few hours after the attack on Güell, the president of the Barcelona Streetcar Company was shot. Two masked individuals on a motorcycle, one of them wearing a long, gray trench coat, shot him as he got out of his car to enter his company’s offices. Seriously wounded, he fought for his life in a Barcelona hospital. Before making their getaway the culprits had left a slip of paper which read: “Danton continues to dispense justice.” Another identical note had turned up near one of the entrances to Güell’s home.

These two attacks in just one day were truly extraordinary, not only because the vigilante had shifted from attacking union leaders to members of the elite, but also due to the targets he had selected. For decades violence against Barcelona’s governing class had either been blind, directed at emblematic sites (such as the historic bomb at the Liceo) or had singled out figures who clearly represented what the anarchists viewed as embodiments of repressive power: civil governors, industrialists with a reputation for exploitation, police chiefs, or leaders of the Free Union squaring off against the General Union. Never before, however, had they gone after leading figures of the city’s social elite prominent for nothing else than their privileged positions.

Güell held no political office, nor had he been implicated in any act of repression. He was basically a very typical figure of Barcelona’s high society who, when engaging in political affairs, did so discreetly and always in a diplomatic fashion. An attempt on his life could only
represent a warning that it was open season on Barcelona’s best families, who had sought to observe the social struggle from afar, remaining above the fray while delegating the thorniest tasks to men they could trust. After the scare at the soiree in Turó Park, this was the second shot over the bow, and this one was even louder.

* * *

Two days after these violent events the city enjoyed a festive morning. The celebration of a series of acts, which had been scheduled for a long time, fostered a spirit of patriotic reaffirmation and order which was only heightened by the trauma which the most recent attacks had inflicted. On Sunday at eleven o’clock in the morning, the somaténes of Barcelona’s District II were to march through the city. Over 1,400
somatenistas
had mustered on Paseo de la Industria, toting their rifles, flags, and pennants, under the command of José Rovira. The new Captain General of Catalonia, Miguel Primo de Rivera y Orbaneja, presided over the act. Present were the civil governor, the chief magistrate of the High Court, a contingent of councilmen, a priest on behalf of the diocese, a number of other dignitaries, and a few of the city’s prominent gentlewomen. The captain general and his staff reviewed the somatenes, after which there was an open-air mass at an altar that had been erected in front of the Museo Martorell featuring an image of the Virgen de Montserrat surrounded with flowers. At the two far sides flew a Spanish and a Catalonian flag. After the mass a Jaen infantry regiment’s military band played a few pieces.

The next day the Círculo de Cazadores club was the dinner venue for the Unión Monárquica Nacional, the body bringing together Catalonian society’s most strident defenders of
King Alfonso. As we savored the Duchesse consommé, Windsor soup, turbot with hollandaise sauce and the
Carré d’Agneau Maintenon,
which was very good (that surprised me for, as one knows, it’s difficult to eat well at a dinner for many people), I stared at the decorations on the tables: a centerpiece made of broom and carnations evoking the Spanish crest. There were two presidential tables: at one sat López Ballesteros, as the city’s civil governor, and the other was headed up by Alfonso Sala, the president of the Unión Monárquica and a Parliamentary representative. The first speech was delivered by the latter.

After commenting on and condemning the most recent violence, Sala dedicated the banquet to López Ballesteros, not only because his application and personal qualities merited such a tribute, “but because he represents the Army, the hope of our country.” He described his handling of affairs as “true and genuine heroism,” which almost brought tears to the general’s eyes, and also defined the ideals of the Unión Monárquica Nacional, declaring that it was the mission of all Catalonian citizens “to feel, before all and above all, love for the Spanish nation.” López Ballesteros then rose to speak about commitment, reminding those gathered that it is always darkest before dawn and assuring them that the end of violence and crime in Barcelona was drawing ever closer.

I spotted Rocabert at a nearby table, and avoided the cynic who had proven to be no friend at all.

When they brought out the liqueurs, López Ballesteros’s assistant came to my table to give me a message. The general wished to speak to me. I dutifully followed him.

“Congratulations, General. This is a great homage to your leadership.”

But our civil governor was not beating around the bush. “Have you heard about the attacks? Do you remember what I told you about Danton? He is no assassin of ours, but an unpredictable killer. I suppose you believe me now.”

“General, you have always provided me with the best information on this strange character, just as I have done with you when I believed that lives were in danger.”

“And of that you can be proud. Now I would like to ask you for another act of service.”

That word had me wary. “I hope that it’s within my powers to assist you, General. I can help, but not serve you; as Quixote said, weapons and letters ought to be joined, but not melded.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” he replied. “After you mentioned Lacalle’s disappearance to me, I looked into a few things. I have confirmed that he indeed may be in grave danger—not from our men, though, but from his own, as there’s a conspiracy brewing within the General Union to purge it of its most moderate elements. That’s why I must ask you, should you find Lacalle before we do, to put me in contact with him. We’re interested in protecting him, as his position, less belligerent than that of his counterparts, represents for us a ray of light in our efforts to bring peace back to the city.”

“But I don’t know if I’ll find him and, if I do, neither can I guarantee that he’ll wish to see you.”

“I’ll tell you my motives,” he continued, all but ignoring my reply. “I think I have a formula for a definitive solution to all the shootings in Barcelona. To this end I want to sit down behind closed doors, as long as it takes, with the mayor; someone who can represent the bosses, like your friend Rocabert; the chief magistrate of the High Court, as an unbiased mediator; and at least three union leaders, Lacalle among them. Nobody will get up from this meeting until we
reach a solid agreement for social peace. As you see, the ends I pursue could not be more noble. But the right people must be convened.”