A Barcelona Heiress (18 page)

A short distance away in the port’s main commercial warehouses, those buildings with thick walls of brick reminiscent of the docks in the great English port cities, I was bound for an appointment to which I had been summoned by a note left in the mailbox at my office—an imperative entreaty which I could not disregard.

Cautiously approaching the corner where I had been instructed to appear, I stopped under the faint light of a streetlamp. I tilted my hat, lit a cigarette, and stood there waiting for over twenty minutes.

I suddenly felt something pressing against my back.

“Don’t move, that’s a gun you feel,” came a husky, masculine voice.

I tried to keep calm.

“Are you Danton?”

“Who else?”

“May I turn around? I prefer to talk to people face to face.”

“Well, I hate it. Stay like you are.” He shoved the pistol, or whatever it was, into my back again, and I winced.

“There’s no need to hurt me! What do you want?”

“Danton would like you to make an announcement.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“Wasn’t it you who made me famous with your article in
El Noticiero Universal
?”

“Go ahead, talk.”

“I would like you to announce that Danton will continue to dispense justice, and that it is false that he is an avenger for the bourgeoisie, as has been propagated. Precisely because he believes in revolutionary impartiality, Danton desires to punish those crimes which the system fails to punish, with no favor shown to the right or left. In order to demonstrate this, his next act of justice will target a boss who has broken the law but who has escaped with impunity.”

“You want me to publish that? You want me to be the messenger of a threat? Forget about it. I’m not willing to do it, and my paper would never agree.”

I realized that my voice was shaky.

“I have informed you,” he said coolly. “You’ll know what to do with the information I give you.”

“Listen, Danton.” I struggled to steady myself. “Do you realize you have undertaken an absurd mission? One individual cannot change the system by shooting people. You’re only adding to the profusion of violence we are already suffering. The best thing you could do is desist from your vengeful campaign and disappear, before it’s too late. The situation in Barcelona is so muddled that nobody will look for you. But if you continue with your actions, you can be sure that you will end up killed, whether by an ambush or a firing squad.”

“I see that you don’t appreciate the nobility of my actions or the need for them. It’s cowards like you who allow everything to remain the same! No matter. I’ve begun to clean up the city and I will not stop. And now,” he said, pushing the weapon into my back again, “start walking, without turning around, and count to a hundred, without turning around even an inch.”

I walked for a long time, never once tempted to turn around, and didn’t stop until I reached La Puerta de la Paz. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I tried to vomit against a tree, but only a little bit of bile came up. I sat down on the sidewalk, like a drunk thrown out of a cabaret bar, until I managed to pull myself together.

Imagining that my editor would still be at
El
Noticiero
at that hour, I headed for the offices on Lauria Street. As I suspected, there he was, supervising a set of articles. Pérez Carrasco had been hired after the paper’s owner, Francisco Peris Mencheta, had read an article of his in another paper about the river Ebro overflowing in Tortosa. After recognizing that it was better than the one that
El Ciero
had published, Peris Mencheta offered Pérez Carrasco the editor-in-chief post, which he held for a long time. And for good reason: he exhibited both
human insight, which inspired confidence among those working for him, and a moderately authoritarian manner that allowed him to maximize the productivity of the hours he worked.

The editor agreed with me that we could not publish the vigilante’s announcement, both because it constituted a threat, and because it was inconceivable that the government censors would allow it to be printed. What were we to do, then? Hold our tongues, or notify the police? We concurred that, because a man’s life was at stake, we had to report it.

“Go see the civil governor. He should have this information,” my editor suggested.

* * *

It was three in the morning when I took my leave of the editor-in-chief at
El Noticiero.
Just five hours later, after a sleepless night, I found myself in the Civil Government building asking for an urgent appointment with López Ballesteros. He received me just minutes later. The table that during my previous visit was loaded with papers and dismantled bombs was now covered by a sheet, and on one of the corners teetered a washbasin and a bowl full of soap. The general was seated in an armchair, his face was covered with lather, and he wore a white bib across his broad chest. Behind him a barber brandished a straight razor.

“Please excuse the situation, but it was time for my shave.”

“On the contrary, thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

I explained the reason for my visit. The general arched his prominent eyebrows.

“This is all very strange. To date Danton has killed over fifteen union activists. It should be said that there was solid evidence that all of them had indeed been involved in terrorist acts. But, in any case, he’s an outlaw and I personally would like to get my hands on him. If he has
now decided to come after law-abiding citizens, our incentives to catch him shall rapidly multiply.

The general lit up a Cuban and offered me another, which I declined, as the barber collected his implements and cleared off the overloaded desk.

“I’ll discuss the issue with Beastegui,” he added. “I appreciate your collaboration—you can be sure that it will be duly noted—and, above all, your discretion. There is no need to spread even more fears of attacks among respectable citizens.”

“As you can see, General, the prudence with which my editor and I have proceeded is such that we have even put aside our journalistic instincts, though I do not know if future generations shall thank us for it. But if there are publishable developments, please notify me. My paper, thanks to your mediation, had the scoop on Danton, and we would like to continue offering the best information on him.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured me as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You shall be the first to know what’s happening.”

“Thank you, General. And, as you have been so kind as to receive me, there is another issue I would like to mention to you.”

I took the opportunity to quickly bring him up to date on the disappearance of Ángel Lacalle, and to ask him if he knew anything.

“So they can’t find him? Well, I don’t know a thing about the man.”

“I’m sorry, General, but they are saying that you haven’t forgiven him for denouncing abuses committed on Civil Government premises.”

López Ballesteros let out a loud cackle.

“And you believe that? With everything they say about us, if we had to single out each of our critics for persecution we wouldn’t have time for the most important things, like assuring that the city can function properly.”

After a pause he brusquely changed the subject, asking me, “Tell me, when you are tired and worried, how do you relax?”

For a moment I didn’t know what to say. “Normally I go for a walk, and stay out for a good while until my mind clears.”

“Well, I like looking at paintings. Whenever I’m in a city, I visit its museums. But I also like contemporary pieces. I love the Valencian School, Sorolla, of course, but also other painters considered less important, such as Ignacio Pinazo, who has that great Mediterranean chromatic sensibility, which he captures better than anyone. Do you know something curious? If one spends years of his life in public positions, he finds lots of paintings in the buildings where he works, and some of them are not half bad. In this very building, for example—do you know what this former palace used by the Barcelona Customs Service contains?”

“Here? Are you referring to the murals?”

“Yes, the paintings by Pedro Pablo Montaña.”

“I have noticed them in a waiting area or two, but I didn’t really pay much attention …”

“Montaña was the director of the Barcelona School of Fine Arts when this building was built in the late eighteenth century. Most of the paintings he did were works celebrating the rule of Carlos III, father of the monarch then reigning, such as the mural which hangs in this chamber,” he explained, pointing to a large historical piece on the wall. “As you can see, it depicts the king signing a peace treaty with Tunisian representatives. But it is something else which interests me. Follow me.”

The general led me through the different areas of the stately floor where his office was located and to the wing housing his private accommodations. Although I was drained and my nerves were still rattled by the events of the night before, I obediently followed him. We passed through several sumptuously carpeted chambers furnished with armchairs and sofas upholstered in green, and crossed a billiards room before entering a rectangular dining room with views onto Plaza Palacio and the Civil Government’s parade ground.

On the walls, adorned with elegant frames of elaborate woodwork, were six unmistakable images in which ocher tones prevailed.

“Yes, they are illustrations from
Don Quixote
, and they are also by Montaña,” López Ballesteros observed. “But there is something unique about them.”

“I suppose you’re referring,” I replied, “to the fact that in them Don Quixote and Sancho are physically average, without the stark, even exaggerated contrast between a spindly master and his portly squire popularized by Gustavo Doré.”

“That’s one, but there’s another which is more important for us, as it illustrates the chapter set in Barcelona.”

One of the mural paintings caught my eye in which a group of musicians made way for a man on horseback, who seemed bewildered by all the people. On the left stood a set of walls, in the background was the outline of a city, and in the small patch of sky a few black birds appeared. At the bottom the painter had added a caption: “To the sound of hornpipes and kettledrums they entered the city, the boys giving bunches of gorse to Rucio and Rocinante. Feeling the new spurs, the poor animals bucked and pranced, throwing their riders to the ground.”

“You see? It is Quixote and Sancho’s entrance into Barcelona. The text is an abridged version of the original. Barcelona,” the general stated, “is a city central to Cervantes’s great work. Do you know why?”

“Because it is the site of his last adventure.”

“Yes, and because it is the only recognizable Spanish city extensively described in the novel. The episodes set in Barcelona, however, are among the least known—perhaps because they appear at the end, and not many readers have been able to make their way through the thousand pages preceding them.

“Important things happen to Quixote in Barcelona,” continued the officer. “He ponders the sea, enters a printing house, lives the adventure of the brazen head—the bronze bust found in the house of Antonio Moreno, which responds to the questions posed to it about the future. Look, here is the scene.” He pointed to a vertical mural among the four arranged in tandem sets in the corner of the chamber.

Don Quixote, all decked out in the finest garb, wearing a small hat adorned with a feather, asked a sculpted head in a room of towering columns: “Was what happened to me in the Cave of Montesinos real or but a dream? Will the blows delivered by Sancho, my squire, have an effect? Shall Dulcinea be disenchanted?”

“Now look at this other one.” The general pointed to another of the vertical paintings.

A man in armor and wearing a helmet had his foot on the chest of another knight who, lying on the floor, was resting his weight upon a shield. I read the caption at the bottom of the frame: “Don Quixote’s adventures come to an end on the beach of Barcelona. Vanquished by the Knight of the White Moon, he is forced to surrender his arms.”

In the space of hours I had reported for a nighttime rendezvous with a killer and then engaged in an erudite discussion with a military officer famed for his iron fist. I was overwhelmed by a profound sensation of unreality.

“In Barcelona,” López Ballesteros continued, “Don Quixote suffers the defeat which marks the end of his dream. It is in this city where reality prevails over his knightly idealism and, as a punishment for his failure, he is forced to embark upon his journey back home.”

“A true lesson for life.”

“Indeed. That’s why Cervantes is so ambivalent toward this city. Do you recall his most famous phrase with regard to it?”

“All the people of Barcelona, whether natives or immigrants, know the quote. Can I remember it now? Yes: ‘I went on straight to Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of strangers, asylum of the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the wronged, and a place where close friendships are forged, unrivalled in its setting and beauty.’”

“Well, add to this his other description, when he leaves it behind him.” Pointing to the end of the quote which accompanied the image of the fallen figure, he spoke: “Here was Troy. Here my ill fate, and not my cowardice, effaced my glories. Here my good fortune came to an end, never again to return.”

López Ballesteros stood there staring at the images, as if spellbound. I fought off a yawn.

“I suspect, General, that you are beginning to identify with Don Quixote, in terms of your shared ambivalence toward the city.”

The general smiled and the tips of his mustache twitched upward.

“You are very perceptive, my friend. Though I’m not an idealist like Don Quixote, neither do I consider myself an entirely practical man, like Sancho. I am, to be sure, still not
convinced that the city shall be any capital of courtesy toward me. Although there has been no dearth of welcoming overtures, I am already aware of a few cunning adversaries who would be glad to see me six feet under. Still, I feel committed to this mission and will stop at nothing, lest I ever have to say ‘here my good fortune ended.’ Well then, you must have many things to do. I shall see you out.”