A Barcelona Heiress (20 page)

“Whenever I find myself entangled in the debate over Catalonia and Spain, I feel like a child whose parents will never get along well. In this affair, both sides tend to be very irritating,” he once said to me.

Güell was an expert in the very particular field of Spanish polychromatic sculpture, especially its virgins, and when he surfaced at social functions he usually arrived in the company of one of the great beauties of the day. He was driven around in an impressive Rolls Royce full of cushions upon which he would recline in order to meditate, and when traveling along the dusty Spanish highways of the period he had the habit of picking up lone wayfarers and
accompanying them to their destinations. “I advise my friends to do the same. It is a way, at times, of doing someone a great service with just a small effort.”

On one occasion, returning along the road to Sitges, which he often plied, he picked up a man who had come on foot from Valencia, bound for Barcelona in search of work. He sat the man next to him and discreetly opened the window (the poor man reeked, as it was almost summer and he had been walking for days). He had no money and no food, and had not even thought about stealing any fruit, out of fear of the Guardia Civil. In all those days nobody had stopped, offered to give him a ride, or made any part of his journey more bearable. The traveler, however, did not bemoan his fate nor did he rebel.

“I was struck by the man’s submission to fate. Half starved, at no point had he thought of lashing out and taking something from all those who had passed him along the road wrapped in luxury. So I asked him, ‘Do you believe in God and the afterlife?’ He paused a few seconds and, after a weak cough, responded, ‘There must be something.’ And then he added, ‘I never had any schooling, so I don’t know anything at all … but I figure … that there must be something.’ ‘There must be something!’ How about that, Pablo?” he said to me. “A man who had nothing at all. Sometimes I think I really understand those who put Marie Antoinette to the guillotine.”

Güell was an avid traveler, with impressive contacts everywhere. His Barcelona home inevitably welcomed all the era’s leading figures in Catalonian and Spanish society. At age seventeen his father had taken him to Bavaria, to Munich, to visit Queen Isabel in the Palace of Nymphenburg, where she lived in exile. That was his first visit to a royal palace.

“I was fascinated,” he told me, “by the immense, solitary corridors, the successions of chambers, the servants and footmen, frozen like statues, the solemn, distant voices announcing the king’s arrival. And in that same building, under the same roof of gray slate, was a set of small
doors. Disguised as damask panels, they opened onto some narrow corridors in which one could hear the rustle of silk from elusive skirts. That continuous mix of the private and the public, of the heart and all the marble, is what makes these royal palaces irresistible.”

He had met Prince Yusupoff, Rasputin’s killer; in Tetuán he was warmly received by the city’s dignitaries, such as Muhammad Ziuziu; and when he went to Rome his hosts were the Archduchess Margaret and Princess Nieves Massimo. Juan Antonio knew everyone everywhere, and wherever he went he moved with the finesse and the naturalness of one who believes that works of charity and art are the only ones that make life worth living.

That morning, wearing a silk robe that barely covered his corpulent physique, he led me to his terrace, where a couple of servants in tails and white gloves served us coffee. Stretching out before us lay the great city and, off in the distance, we could make out white sails against the blue horizon. Under the shade cast by the great mulberry and chestnut trees in the mansion’s garden it felt like no ill could ever befall anyone in such a haven.

“The world was created for life, and life for pleasure. Don’t you think so, Pablo?”

“I am not a hedonist like you and you know it, my dear Count. Original sin has sealed our lives with a tragic dimension, however we struggle to forget it. That said, your garden is a delight, and the morning, wonderful.”

“You paint me as an unbeliever, which I’m not. On the contrary, I think religious passion is, along with that for the monarchy, the only root of our social and political structure that is actually embraced by the people.”

“Now that sounds quite cynical.”

“Lopez Ballesteros asked to see me. He believes that I’m in danger. He told me that you had informed him that Danton is going to target important figures among Barcelona’s elite.”

I was puzzled. “That’s true, but I thought he was referring more to prominent business leaders. You’re not in the crosshairs right now.”

The count smiled.

“And long may it be so. It seems, however, that after talking to you, Lopez Ballesteros obtained additional information on the vigilante’s targets, and I’m one of them, although I don’t quite understand why. Because of my position, Pablo, I am often called upon to mediate between opposing parties. As a result, I have become an expert in the quintessentially Catalonian tradition of
el pasteleo
.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“No, I’m completely serious.
El pasteleo
refers to arbitrating between two parties, based on the premise that neither is completely in the right. But in this business with the vigilante, there is little room for reconciliation. I must confess that, although I have barely engaged in any, I do find mysterious activities alluring. Who do you believe this strange figure is?”

“I think he’s someone who is very bitter about something we don’t know. And that he has been of great service to Beastegui and General López Ballesteros’s pacification campaign. Danton is a symbol many people can identify with.”

“That López Ballesteros …” Güell hesitated, “is really quite a character. You won’t find many officers who are better read.”

“He knows
Don Quixote
by heart, that’s for sure,” I answered.

“But, at the same time, he is doctrinaire and violently fanatical. I know he’s under a lot of pressure from His Majesty, the government, and some friends of ours to crack down on the situation in Barcelona. But listen to what he was going to do. One day he calls me to the Civil Government building, leads me to the red room, and says to me, ‘Look, Güell, Barcelona cannot
continue floundering like this. We must put an end to these outrages, restore peace to the city, and assure the security of the monarchy.’

‘But what can we do, General?’

‘Russian gold is buying off all of Barcelona’s bravest, and one day we are going to wake up and find ourselves ruled by a caricature of the Soviet regime, which it shall be difficult to overthrow. To deal with this situation it’s going to take guts, and I’ve got them. I’m going to show you a list of the people who must be shot or deported in forty-eight hours to make peace a reality. There are seventy or eighty of them, but what do a few victims matter—especially when they’re guilty—when the safety of a city and the security of a whole regime is at stake? Look here.’ And he showed me a list of names.”

“Who was on it?” I inquired.

“Union leaders and activist lawyers: Ángel Lacalle, Salvador Seguí, Luis Companys, Evelio Boal, Juan Casanovas, Francisco Layret … And the writer Eugenio d’Ors too. Aghast, I said to him, ‘General, what you propose is impossible. You won’t be able to do it, and even if you could, it wouldn’t do any good. Who told you to execute Eugenio d’Ors, who is nothing more than a rhetoric-spouting intellectual? As for the union leaders and activists, you can’t just have them killed without a trial. Do you remember what happened when the monarchy killed Ferrer Guardia after a kangaroo court? The international scandal was so severe that it marked President Maura’s political demise, despite the respect he commanded. If you perpetrate a St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Barcelona you will only succeed in sinking the Spanish monarchy. Until now Catalonian authorities have been able to maintain that they are opposed to both the terrorism practiced by the unions and certain business leaders alike. To hear it from you, however, it would seem that the government itself has decided to resort to terrorism.’

“I don’t know if I managed to convince him. He told me that everyone was demanding results, and that something would have to be done. He remained there, ruminating over his lists and plans, and I’m not certain he won’t go ahead with them. What can I do for you, Irina?”

A towering blond dressed in a foulard, flower-patterned dress had appeared on the terrace, smoking from a cigarette holder.

“Excuse me, Juan Antonio, dear, but what is a
baldachin
?”

“It’s a wooden construction, generally adorned with fine tapestries, which is installed over an altar or throne to provide it with greater solemnity.”

“And a
chassis
?”

“In a fireplace, the slab or iron plate placed at the back part to protect it.”

“Thanks, dear. I’ll keep reading.”

When she walked away Güell turned back to me.

“Irina is a White Russian duchess. I met her in Berlin. She was completely penniless, so I invited her to spend a few months here. She speaks several languages perfectly, and she’s helping me to write a book I’m working on, based on my notes and recollections. Right now we are on a chapter about my house in Comillas and, naturally, the vocabulary is a bit technical.”

“I have to go, Count. I have a lot of work today.”

“Of course, but promise me that you will keep me up to date on the situation with Danton.”

“You can be sure that I will.”

After leaving the Güell mansion I strolled to the Bonanova streetcar stop, savoring the cool serenity of that patrician quarter which blessed the city with more greenery than any other.

* * *

We were in Barcelona’s oldest church, built in the fourth century and later rebuilt several times. The priest, clad in a cassock covered by a surplice and stole, opened the Holy Gospels, laid his hand on their pages and solemnly posed the question: “Do you swear, in God’s name, that what you said you heard from the deceased’s lips, on her deathbed, and wishing to bequeath, is the truth?”

Under the altarpiece at Santa Cruz de Pere Nunyes, the first witness knelt down and placed her hand upon the sacred tome. “I do.”

The chief magistrate of the investigative tribunal, convened there on the spot, initiated the interrogation while seated at a table laid with a velvet cloth that had been provided for him. Isabel Enrich gave me a knowing look. She and I, along with the others in attendance, were on the other side of the bars enclosing the San Félix chapel, with the interrogator and witnesses inside.

I had gone to the Santos Justo y Pastor church as Isabel’s attorney and in response to her request after I had recommended that she avail herself of the instrument of sacramental testament.

Isabel’s wealthy maternal great-aunt, the Marchioness of Sensat, had recently passed away during a visit to London. After feeling under the weather, just hours later she expired in the company of her maid and a friend. Through different family lines the marchioness had accumulated a considerable fortune consisting of numerous buildings and pieces of land in the heart of the city, and large properties in San Félix de Llobregat, Tordera, Balaguer, and Camprodón.

The aristocrat had been very headstrong and, though in her seventies, considered herself very young and harbored a superstitious aversion to speaking of death or anything related to it. She had no children, though she did have several nieces, nephews, great-nieces, and great-nephews. She had been especially close to Isabel, who she received regularly and considered a kind of disciple, tutoring her in the art of managing as a woman in the upper echelons of Barcelona society. Back then, some close friends, and I myself, had advised Isabel to take an interest in the will of her venerable relative, as the marchioness had assured her on several occasions that she would be the one to inherit her fortune. Finding it in poor taste, Isabel always refused. When the lady passed away in the British capital, however, hordes of relatives emerged from out of the woodwork to claim a share of the inheritance.

I didn’t normally attend to Isabel’s legal issues, as she was represented by the firm of Pons Lecrerc, one of the city’s longest-standing and most prestigious. But her attorney’s advice did not prevent her from coming to me when she realized that the struggle involving all those who felt entitled to a part of the fortune threatened to have her entangled in the affair for years.

“And there is no document proving that she wished for you to be her heir, as she had repeatedly told you?” I inquired.

“No. There were only verbal statements made to me over the years, and others made to her companions at the hotel in London, when she understood that the end was imminent.”

“Did she tell them explicitly?”

“Yes, she made it perfectly clear. She told them that she wanted her possessions to pass into my hands, but Pons Lecrerc says that this verbal testimony won’t hold up in court if my cousins allege that they were told the same thing.”

“I think there is a solution,” I said.

* * *

According to a number of medieval accounts, when the Moors conquered Barcelona in the year 801, Charlemagne’s son, Louis the Pious, endowed the Altar of San Félix with the capacity to render legally binding last wishes expressed on certain occasions. This privilege was maintained during the various dynastic changes Catalonia saw, and was confirmed by the Catalonian-Aragonese monarch Pedro el Grande in his legislative document the
Recognoverut Proceres
which, in the verbose style typical of the law, stipulated the following:

“It is customary that if one leaves a testament and there are witnesses to his final will, whether on land or at sea, or in any other location, whether written or unwritten, though there be no notary present to vouch for the expression of said will, manifested verbally or in writing, to certify the last will or testament, so long as there are witnesses to that last will or testament who do concur in their accounts, and do within six months so swear in the San Justo church, at the Altar of San Félix Mártir, and there be a notary present to validate this testament, and other persons affirming that they too saw and heard the deceased express his last will, verbally expressed by the testator, this shall be considered a sacramental testament.”