Free A Barcelona Heiress by Sergio Vila-Sanjuán Page A

decided to keep the spacious apartment they had rented in this square. I refurbished half of it to use for my law practice and the other half for my residence. Basilio, a trustworthy clerk just slightly younger than myself, assisted me in my practice. In my home I retained the services of my mother’s maid, Señora Lucinda, a reserved and energetic Galician who had watched me grow up and would have laid down her life for me. She would hurry about the house dressed in a black satin maid’s dress, which my mother had ordered for her, complete with a high collar and golden filigree buttons, cooking and overseeing the daily cleaning with an iron fist. She had a young assistant who she treated in a motherly way. Señora Lucinda slept on the far side of the apartment, which had its own entrance from the stairs so that I did not bother her when I returned late, whether from burning the midnight oil at the office or the occasional party.
    After the trial against El Chimo, I met Basilio at a modest restaurant near the courthouse. We ate together and, after taking my leave of him, I made my way down on foot (for I most enjoy walking) to those quarters which I sometimes call my offices and sometimes my home. I did not go directly, but rather seized the opportunity to take a stroll, descending from the Salón de San Juan, leaving behind the monument to Mayor Rius y Taulet and the Palace of Fine Arts, with its garden and fountain dedicated to Hercules. I entered the extensive Ciudadela, the city’s ample park, and continued walking toward its southern end, where a large terrace offers views of the sea. For a good while I watched the waves break as I savored a Cuban cigar and meditated contentedly on the human and divine. It took me a while to shake off my drowsiness, recover my energy, and set off again, down Paseo de Isabel II toward home, passing by the coffee roastery filling the Plaza de Medinaceli with its unmistakable aroma unknown to those today who believe that a little dark powder mixed with water is anything close to real coffee.
    When I entered the office, a visibly shaken Basilio was waiting for me.
    “Here, read this. They just brought it,” he said, reaching out to hand me a note.
    It was from Rosa Mestres’s attorney, my colleague Mariano Sorogoyen.
    “Dear Pablo,” read the note. “My client was killed on her way home. Alongside the body was a note taking responsibility for the crime, which was signed ‘Danton.’ I need to see you at once.”

5
    The unrest plaguing Barcelona made it necessary for the authorities to resort to calling up the military over and over, led by men such as the captain general of Catalonia, Joaquín Milans del Bosch, and the region’s military governor, who wielded considerable power. This duo had been joined by a third general, Don Eugenio López Ballesteros, at the helm of the Civil Government. As for the security force that was attached to this institution, all the heads and officers had to proceed from either the Army reserves, or from the Guardia Civil, as was the case of Miguel Beastegui, the police chief, who took direct orders from Don Eugenio. What a paradox it was to have such a number of generals in charge of civilian affairs. It was fortunate that at least the city’s mayor had no military affiliation, though during that time when the exceptions were becoming the rules, anything at all could happen.
    Following the infantes’ appearance at The Ritz, General López Ballesteros summoned me to his office in the austere, square building constructed under Carlos IV to serve as the Barcelona Customs House, which was later converted into fine lodgings for illustrious visitors and, finally, the Civil Government headquarters.
    There I stood before that imposing and sturdy man, with his jug ears and cleft chin, and the vigor characteristic of many of his profession, in part due to his innate physical constitutionand in part because he had spent half his life outside and exercising.