A Barcelona Heiress (3 page)

“Albert Blum?”

“His real name is Cándido Fagés, and he is originally from Tarrasa. He maintains that he changed his given name and surname to distance himself from his father, who he hates. He has been associated with the Greeks for months. When the three individuals squandered all the money from their fraud, they were thrown out of the hotel where they had been staying, and had to start pawning their clothing and personal effects in order to satisfy their most immediate needs. It was then that they concocted their plot to con Sebastiana, kill her, and make off with her jewels. Their plan was to escape abroad using passports they had prepared, disguised with fake mustaches and monocles.”

“Fake mustaches?” It sounded comical.

“Indeed. They had initially planned to throw her into the sea, hence their inviting her on a pleasure cruise. On that trip Abraham carried a revolver, and Fagés, a knife. It seems clear that
they lost the nerve to carry out their criminal plan, and the singer never realized the true intentions of her companions, who treated her with the utmost kindness, nor did she give any importance to the fact that at times they talked among themselves in a foreign language.

“The criminals then hatched a new plan, and in order to carry it out they installed themselves as guests in room 2 of the Hotel París. David Misan invited Sebastiana to dinner at the Alcázar Español, asking her to first accompany him to his hotel, where Zaccar and Fagés were waiting, supposedly in order to give her a dress they had bought for her. An unsuspecting Sebastiana followed him, wearing jewelry worth 5,400 pesetas, according to our expert’s estimation.”

“You already arranged that?”

“We caught them red-handed,” Beastegui replied curtly. “When Sebastiana reached the room, she was the victim of the assault you already know about. The arrested individuals, however, were unable to carry off their plan because the singer managed to remove her gag and started shouting, at the same time upsetting the washbasin, which made quite a racket. The hotel’s manager and a waiter heard the ruckus, and proceeded to pound repeatedly on the door, to no avail, at which point they called the authorities. During this time, Fagés dragged Sebastiana under one of the beds in an attempt to hide her, while Zaccar made an attempt to escape via the balcony.

“My officers broke down the door, and the three men were arrested. Sebastiana was found under the bed, unconscious, with her clothing pulled up over her face, and with bruises and scratches to her face and neck, particularly on her left side; an extensive abrasion in her left groin area; another, even larger one, on her thigh on the same side; and yet another on her right shoulder, some inflicted by her attacker’s fingernails during the struggle and others incurred as a
result of being held down by force. As you already know, the victim required hospitalization in order to recover.”

“What have you found out about the assailants?”

“My men searched the room and the luggage, and found the cotton the three used to gag the victim, bullets for a Browning pistol and a revolver, a sheath for a knife, which was found hidden among the sheets from one of the beds, two holsters, the mustaches and monocles I mentioned, a rubber flask, and three passports bearing the names of the three detainees.

“During questioning, Fagés, alias Albert Blum, a traveling salesman by trade, confessed to being incarcerated for robbery in Berlin in 1918. He was also arrested three times on robbery charges: in 1917 in Bad Nauheim, Germany, in March 1919 in Paris, and again in June, not far from here in Olot. Like his accomplices, he is a seasoned lawbreaker; a criminal who has exploited Europe’s porous borders to wander from one country to the next. He portrays himself as a victim, stating that he suffered abuse during his childhood, though I don’t think this argument will do him much good in court.”

“Congratulations, General. But, tell me, have you entirely ruled out the possibility that it was an attempted rape?”

“The confession Fagés made is quite conclusive. We’ve had some problems with the other two, given their limited command of our language. What’s more, they may later alter their testimony and claim that they spoke under duress which, sadly, occurs all too often. But don’t worry. You’ll get a strong sentence for attempted theft, and perhaps even attempted homicide.”

“I sincerely appreciate the information you have given me.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. “It is easy for honorable men to understand one another. You are a man of some influence at
El Noticiero Universal
, one of the city’s few
trustworthy and respected papers. See to it, if you can, that your publication provides a fair account of the Barcelona police force’s actions.”

I responded with a noncommittal nod. I neither desired nor was I at liberty to entangle the paper I worked for in a matter involving my legal practice. Conservative and monarchical, concordant with my own political inclinations,
El Noticiero Universal
was at that time indeed one of the ruling class’s favorite institutions.

Beastegui, whose office was located on the third floor, took me by the arm and insisted on accompanying me down to the station’s entrance. As we descended the spiral staircase we passed two officers escorting a man who was in an awful state: two black eyes, a broken nose, and his mouth was bloody as if he’d had a few teeth chipped or broken.

“There’s the main culprit,” Beastegui told me. “That’s Fagés.”

A muffled sound came from the mouth of the
ecce homo
.

“How did he get that way?” I asked. Back then, I still feigned naïveté.

“To make an omelet you’ve got to break some eggs, my friend. We now have the testimony we needed to establish the facts, and that’s the important thing.”

I should have spoken out then, but I didn’t. After all these years, my silence still haunts me.

* * *

I had arranged to meet María Nilo at the downtown café La Puñalada, where I was to apprise her of my progress at the police station. When I arrived she was already seated outside on the terrace on Paseo de Gracia, having chosen a prime table right next to the entrance where it was
impossible not to spot her. She was in the company of a tall and well-built young man with a dignified face and a penetrating look, dressed in fine yet well-worn clothes. At first I didn’t recognize him.

“Pablo,” she said. “I must introduce you to my friend Ángel Lacalle. He was out of town when I was attacked, and when he found out about the incident he rushed to the hotel to see if he could help me. When I told him we had arranged to meet he didn’t want to come, but I insisted.”

I arched my eyebrows. This was certainly a surprise.

“Mr. Lacalle,” I said, without reaching out to shake his hand. “I would have you know that my ideological convictions could not be more diametrically opposed to everything you stand for. It is only out of respect for my client that I don’t leave this very minute. Men like you and the organization you represent are driving this city and Spain to the brink of ruin.”

María Nilo blushed as she mumbled an excuse.

Her friend let out a hearty and, much to my annoyance, friendly laugh. I noticed that the women at a nearby table were staring at him, and rather overtly.

“And I’m glad to meet a lawyer, because the way things are going they’re going to ban us someday soon. I’ll have to go into hiding, and it’s possible that we’ll cross paths in court, which I hope won’t be acrimonious. I believe we’re headed for a terrible confrontation. But you, as a man of the law, must still believe in dialogue, right?”

A serious and at times dogmatic character back then, I found myself compelled to correct the man’s comment, and in a somewhat doctrinaire tone.

“The terrible confrontation,” I replied, “is that which your comrades have been plotting for years, as they continue to kill innocent victims, threaten businessmen, and defy our laws,
manipulating the common people—decent people who only strive for prosperity, without nihilisms and distortions.”

“When you refer to businessmen, do you mean those individuals who have workers toiling ten hours a day for slave wages, among them women and children—children who should be at school instead of seeing their health ruined in dismal and insalubrious factories? Men who refuse to grant rights which they wouldn’t hesitate for one moment to demand for themselves and their own families?”

“It is clear that I said nothing of the sort.”

“And when you speak of those ‘common people,’ are you referring to those unfortunate souls who bow to the social divisions of our day and, instead of rebelling against a society in which some have so much while so many have so little, genuflect before the powerful and even go to church every Sunday to give thanks for their pathetic fate?”

I began to understand the reasons behind his charisma. Lacalle linked his phrases together with precision, and articulated them in such a way that they produced an enthralling crescendo which was positively mesmerizing.

“Don’t twist my words!” I countered.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

My burning desire to respond to his provocations inspired me to take a seat, and for a good while we continued to exchange points of view in the tense tones which could only be expected of a legendary trade unionist on the far left and a conservative monarchist who, despite his youth, already had a very clear set of opinions on anarchism.

Embarrassed, María Nilo had disappeared to the powder room and while Lacalle and I were talking I became aware of two individuals striding toward our table, with their eyes fixed
on my companion. Although barely able to register their features, something in their bearing struck me as unnatural, and I saw one of them, without taking his eyes off us, make an unsettling movement toward his pocket.

I had a sudden intuition of what was about to happen and threw myself to the floor, dragging Lacalle with me. We fell, knocking over the table and the bottle and glasses on it just as the sinister figures opened fire in our direction. People scattered and fled. In a flash the terrace was empty as customers and waiters took off down Paseo de Gracia in search of cover, and Lacalle and I crawled toward the door. There were whistles and shouting: “Stop! Police!” The men had disappeared.

Then there was a deathly silence followed by several minutes of confusion until those who had hit the floor, pale with fear, gradually got up and dusted themselves off, patting themselves in a way that I found ridiculous at the time. A woman of about sixty with a prominent nose was still lying on the floor, motionless, and a crowd soon huddled around her. One of the waiters brought over a bottle of cognac, poured a little on a handkerchief, and placed it under her nose. The woman opened her eyes. A group of customers lifted her up and helped her inside. A few dozen yards away two uniformed maids, each pushing a baby carriage, were still paralyzed by the shots, and just stood there open-mouthed as the babies cried hysterically. A man was holding on to his bleeding arm as he staggered away, escorted by two officers. My right pant leg was torn, my knee was bruised and embedded with shards of glass, and my heart was pounding.

“I was wrong about the confrontation coming … it’s already here,” the anarchist whispered. Though he was dabbing sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, he seemed reasonably calm.

“How did you know they were going to shoot?”

“I’m a lawyer. I spend my days at trials, and I know how killers work,” I responded curtly. The truth was I had reacted instinctively when I sensed that the two men were about to do something dangerous.

My arms were trembling. I grabbed the bottle of cognac from the waiter and took a long swig. It tasted awful.

As I made my way through the teeming halls of The Ritz at the party that had attracted Barcelona’s crème de la crème and was held in honor of two
infantes—
a Spanish prince and princess, I sensed that I would see her soon. She somehow managed to emanate a special light which bathed everything around her, one that radiated from inside rather than merely reflecting like the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling that evening. This and her vivacious laugh, which enveloped the conversation around her with all the subtlety of an earthquake, made her hard to miss. And there she was.

* * *

Barcelona: a violent and seductive city, a city of passions stained with blood … Although born in the south, in the silver city of Cádiz, that Andalusian Venice surrounded by water, I was brought to Barcelona at a tender age because my father, a captain in the Merchant Navy and an officer with the passenger ocean line Compañía Transatlántica, had been named the supervisor of the city’s important Mediterranean port. I have always loved this industrious capital, brimming with vestiges of a glorious medieval past, and considered it my own. On the occasion of the 1888 World’s Fair, Barcelona had succeeded, like no other city in Spain, in harnessing the energy of
the nineteenth century to modernize and endow itself with a series of urban designs and services on a par with those of the most advanced European metropolises, marking the dawn of an era of economic splendor for Catalonia.

The thriving Barcelona I knew in my childhood, adolescence, and youth, however, was plagued by a scourge so recurrent that it would come to form part of daily urban life for the city’s people: social and political violence. From the first explosive in 1886 at the Fomento del Trabajo Nacional building, which housed the organization promoting business development; to
la Semana Trágica
of 1909, with a death toll of more than one hundred and in which more than eighty buildings burned; to the bomb placed in the Gran Teatro del Liceo in 1893, with another twenty casualties; to the chaos unleashed by the First World War, from 1914 to 1918, no other European city was more beleaguered by anarchistic violence than Barcelona, and the successive authorities appointed by the nation’s government proved, one after the other, powerless to halt its spread.

The rapid and uncontrolled industrial development of the day brought wealth and created jobs, but along with that came job insecurity and untenable work conditions. The industrialists didn’t know how to use dialogue and social policies to appease the workers’ demands, which were at times fair, though often vented through incendiary rhetoric denouncing the fatherland, order, and religion. At the tensest of times this would result in the burning of a church or convent as, among all their supposed class enemies, the revolutionaries attacked those offering the least resistance, and didn’t dare attack barracks or police stations. The prudent and moderate
movimiento catalanista
, which called for Catalan autonomy, had emerged through its early political activity at the close of the nineteenth century as the sensible voice of an active and triumphant bourgeoisie committed to progress within Spain, a country which at that time found
itself in a state of moral and social deterioration, demoralized by its historical decadence. Not even this movement, however, could stem the spread of violence perpetrated by the groups of trade unionists and, in order to keep these factions from frustrating many of their initiatives, they were, in fact, reduced to constantly pleading for aid and solutions from the very authorities in Madrid who they simultaneously railed against.