A Barcelona Heiress Read Free Page A

of course, neither frequented the Alcázar Español nor ever commented in my articles on any of its shows, if one could even call them that. I found it strange, however, that a performer who had learned the ropes in such a sleazy and sordid atmosphere would be naive enough to go around Barcelona in the company of three strangers and, even worse, to allow herself to end up alone with the three of them in a hotel room, and I told María Nilo as much.
    “You’d be surprised,” she replied, “at how softhearted us performers are. Take a look at me: I barely knew my mother. I was raised, if you can call it that, by relatives who hated me, and at age twelve had me working as a maid. I made my way up, fighting tooth and nail, with my talent for singing and dancing, using my body, and thanks to the help of a few decent souls like Vilches. So when someone comes up to you and has a few nice words, treats you well, escorts you around without making a pass the first chance he gets, gives you gifts … you let your guarddown. Who doesn’t like a little pampering? Anyway, experience has taught me that maybe the ones who
don’t
make a pass are precisely those you can’t trust.”
    “You never suspected at any point that those men could be dangerous?”
    “Like I told you, of the three men it was the Frenchman who took the lead. He seemed to really open up to me. When we went out he talked to me a lot about his childhood, telling me how he was the illegitimate son of an industrial magnate who barely took care of him and had always scorned him. It was like he was consumed by in an inner rage. He was always putting on airs, swearing that one day he would be as famous and important as the man who had fathered him. The other two followed along, like an entourage. Maybe I suspected something the day we took a cruise in the boat through the port. I saw them look at each other in a way that was a bit strange, and they were whispering. But that was the end of it.”
    “Did you have relations with your assailants? I mean—and forgive me for asking, but did you know them, in the biblical sense?”
    She took a deep breath before answering in an emphatic and very sincere tone: “Never.”
    “And what do you think I can do for you, Miss Nilo?”
    “In the first place, find out exactly what happened that night. Secondly, keep the cops away from me. Even though they saved me, they treat cabaret singers as if we were hookers—and I say that with all due respect for hookers, who are most of the time better people than cops. Finally, I’d like you to throw those sons of bitches who did this to me in jail. Someone has to pay for what they put me through.”
    Did I believe María Nilo then? Only to a certain point. Though she was a smooth and tireless talker, her account did have some holes in it, and I still could not fathom how she had been so trusting of those shady characters. But various things motivated me to take her case. Ihave always admired those who manage to rise from humble origins and make something of themselves, as long as it’s not by stepping on others, and in this sense she had clearly shown grit. In addition, María, though a bit loud and melodramatic, was a beautiful woman, a spirited dark-haired bombshell that could leave no man indifferent. Offstage she continued to exude the magnetism that she must have learned while performing. Finally, I have a weakness (strictly platonic, mind you) for actresses. In her I saw a woman in need who, at the same time, possessed an irresistible inner strength, and I could not help but feel a certain empathy and tenderness toward her. I accepted the case.
    * * *
    That very morning I headed for Barcelona’s Police Headquarters on Paseo de Isabel II, near the Civil Government building, and asked for the chief of police, General Miguel Beastegui. He received me a few minutes later. With his head of elegant silvery hair and ice-blue eyes, that able and feared commanding officer of the Guardia