A Barcelona Heiress (24 page)

Enter and you shall

emerge unscathed

The labyrinth is not difficult at all

you shall not need the ball,

which Ariadne gave

to Theseus the brave.

At the center of the maze is a sculpture of the god Eros.

The area of the labyrinth lies at the end of a path on an upward slope which begins at what is called the Patio of the Lions, toward which I followed Isabel and her companion.

The place was not well-lit, and as the sunlight faded I felt more and more like a spy. Entering the maze and following the twists and turns, I could then make out voices emanating from behind the cypresses, fragments of conversation referring to recent events. At one point I sensed that, if they retraced their steps they would run into me. I had to stick close to the plant wall so that they would not see me.

The two finally separated. Isabel remained inside the labyrinth while the man looked for the way out. I hid behind a bush, and when I saw him exit, I recognized who it was: General Beastegui.

I headed back toward the centre. Leaning against the statue of Eros, even in the moonlight it was clear that Isabel Enrich was troubled. I had seldom seen her so nervous.

“Did you follow me or get lost?” she mustered the good humor to ask me.

“You dine with the civil governor, have romantic nocturnal conversations with Beastegui, who not long ago you considered a torturer … I see that you have decided to strengthen your ties to the authorities.”

Isabel Enrich arched her eyebrows in what was one of her characteristic faces and, taking my comments in stride, said to me, “Pablo, I think it’s about time we were honest with each other about some things.”

“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.”