A Barcelona Heiress by Sergio Vila-Sanjuán Read Free Book Online Page B

now, my friend, remember that we are in the twentieth century, and not in the Pleistocene.”
    As we walked in, I could not believe what I was seeing by the weak and flickering light. Inside the Barcelona mountain was a labyrinth of passageways and corridors carved out of the rock, God knows when—perhaps in medieval times or perhaps more recently, by the miners. With an array of refuse and rubbish, boards and barrels, drums and sheets of metal, amid worms, reptiles, rats, and bats, I realized with astonishment that there below in the darkness dwelled a whole horde of destitute souls: old men wrapped in rags and clutching bottles, women with deformed faces and, most disturbing of all, a group of half-clothed children moving about in the shadows between the torches. As we passed by them, some of them clutched our legs and begged.
    “Money, money … ,” they pleaded.
    Although the air was pestilent, there was a draft and one could breathe without difficulty, which led me to believe that there must be an opening to allow for ventilation. Being in that place filled me with the most profound distress.
    “But … what is this?” I asked.
    “The Powder Keg caves. Inside this mountain there are other caverns that are more difficult to access, such those at La Escala. In all of them reside everyday people; poor immigrants who come to the city and have no work or place to live, cripples …”
    “They look scared.”
    “These people are very wary. You will only see them if they want you to. When strangers approach they take off running, as they’re afraid of the police. Keep in mind that there are other caves too, higher up, such as at L’Argenter, where all sorts of criminals live: thieves,counterfeiters, smugglers. Here they are safe from bourgeois law. And now I am going to introduce you to a good friend: El Capitán.”
    A one-eyed, almost toothless man approached us out of the darkness. Lacalle introduced me ceremoniously.
    “El Capitán is the guardian of Montjuïc’s caves. Nobody comes or goes without him getting wind of it. I brought my friend Pablo here so that he could see what this place was like. I would like him to help secure some decent places for all of you to live.”
    “Better not rock the boat, Don Ángel, better not rock the boat. They’ll take what little we have.”
    With grim faces we returned in silence to the car, where the driver was waiting for us.
    * * *
    “Now you’ve seen it, my good lawyer and journalist,” Lacalle said to me a while later as we sat on the terrace of a bar on Paralelo Avenue where Julián had dropped us after resuming his driving duties. “I haven’t yet taken you to some of the many insalubrious settlements on the outskirts of the city, casting a shadow over its optimism. I’ve shown you something worse: the troglodytes of District II who, believe it or not, also inhabit this city of electric lighting, pioneering railway systems, Modernist architecture, and tennis and polo clubs. In our most modern Barcelona there is a place where life is even more dismal than in the worst shanty towns for miners, than in the caves of the Albaicín in Granada, or the slate shacks of the Pyrenees. All of those modes of construction are more sophisticated and, I would dare say, more sanitary and hygienic than those these troglodytes have used to create their makeshift dwellings.”
    “It’s an outrage!” I roared. “And, at the same time, very surprising. That network of caves occupied by outsiders and downright outlaws harks back to the era of bandits, and exudes a great sense of mystery.”
    “Are you embellishing a case of social degradation as though it were the basis for a novel?”
    I blushed. “No, I was just thinking aloud. Those places you showed me did not meet even the lowest acceptable standards of hygiene. The city ought to do something, without question. I will indeed write about this.”
    “I could tell that you weren’t an entirely lost cause. Though