The day dawned sunny, quiet, as expected, marked on their calendar pages on May 31, back in 1906.
A bustling crowd, arrogant, eager for bread and circuses swirled with a roar at the outskirts of Madrid Los Jeronimos church, opposite the back wall of the Museo Nacional del Prado. Also, in many streets of Madrid, you could see, hear and feel the noise of the populace. I guess with these minor details, many of you will take charge of the event narrated, or I am about to narrate.
This day, May 31, 1906 - took place in the church before the link above double-and King, King Alfonso XIII and Victoria Eugenia of Battenberg, for some at the time the most beautiful princess of the moment -. The Puerta del Sol boiled faces smiling expectantly to see happen to a few meters from the coach humble bodies charged with the newlyweds. The Puerta del Sol, appeared totally deserted her canaries, and was called to trams, "because the police had shielded the city center and anything but exceptional happening inside, pushing the streets daily, there was no trams, or beggars, no disabled in the war in Cuba or the Philippines. Everything was gone in favor of security.
But as in all historical events that price, there is a face and a cross, as in one of these crowded places, there was another guy a little alien to the collective happiness. His arrival in the city, had not been easy, he thought Mateo Morral, "while riding the pipe bomb, sitting on a poor mattress located in its board room. When a few months earlier he had found his bones in the capital of Spain, nothing seemed encouraging, first the difficulty to get from Barcelona to Madrid, then the impossibility of finding a board room with a balcony or window to give some of the streets that the procession should happen, and if strong enough, that devilish and damned itching caused by a venereal infection. But some things were fixed over time, and a few days before the day of the link, Mateo Morral, succeeded in getting a room that would give the street of the capital, in particular, on the top floor of number 88.
already installed, otherwise greatly disturbed in the anarchist, was the suitcase, a suitcase which he hid under the bed pauperrrima, or rather, he cared about was inside the suitcase. There was the bomb, the bomb Orsini-a model similar to the one that exploded at the Liceo de Barcelona, \u200b\u200bwhich, even in the medium ride, disturbed him. Morral, going over and over again, mentally and mechanically each of the steps to complete the assembly grim, sweaty every time I took her in his hands, afraid that after a bad move, the engine exploded and it was all to hell. These were Morral
when glanced at the bouquet of flowers placed at her side, a bouquet of flowers, which that morning had bought from a florist in nearby Red de San Luis, after the last meeting with his confidants of capital. Meanwhile, remember his life prior to the trip to Germany, where he met anarchism, recalled his childhood surrounded by the Catalan textile bourgeoisie-which his family belonged, and I remembered all this trying to forget the damn itching of the illness that burning inside.
Meanwhile, the ceremony drew to a close Jeronimos, the procession back to the palace began. The royal carriage richly decorated and roll by beautiful white horses, wearing red plumes pompous, began their journey. Surrounded by royal guards on horseback, in full dress.
The royal entourage, barreled and Main Street, had left the place with the most populace, and therefore the most dangerous in the eyes of security, the Puerta del Sol. The procession paused before the candy The Mallorcan to greet some important people of Madrid society, who had interrupted their chat and coffee, to greet from the second floor. The atmosphere of the street was of great joy, waving their shields workers as if they were living at it, and women had their scarves holidays by watching the procession.
Mateo Morral, carefully placed the Orsini bomb inside the bouquet, with tact and quiet. The tranquility and feel that the situation and allowed nervousness. Clutter thought at times, which was a clear reference to the newlyweds were about the anarchist backpack, pulled his cap down over his eyebrows and went to the balcony.
The procession passed in front of the door of the Church of Sacramento, and again he stopped to say hello, just before the door of the pension, just before the number 88 on Main Street, just below the balcony where Mateo Morral, looming and with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Suddenly, a large bouquet of flowers was thrown at the couple, and a few seconds later a large explosion stunned the street. The residents of number 88, who were leaning from the balconies, were thrown into their houses, the horses of the royal carriage on the cobbles appeared gutted when the dark cloud caused by the explosion disappeared. Royal guard wounded, bodies bled anonymous citizens with amputated body parts and scattered on the floor. A huge number of people fleeing aimlessly, trying to escape from the tragedy, treading on each other.
The explosion was so strong that there was even in the Plaza de Oriente, where the attendees thought at first that some of the huge scaffolding neoclassical building the Almudena cathedral had collapsed.
The end of attack is known to all, the Kings remained safe at all times, but the blast killed 66 people and injured hundreds.
Today, the attack is remembered with a statue located at the doors of the Church of Sacramento, which replaces the original which was demolished during the government of the Second Republic, which called for a short time to the current Main Street as Calle de Mateo Morral. What is not and everyone knows or knows, is that right in front of this monument, on the top floor, the number 88 Main Street, where the balcony is seen closest to the corner of St. Nicholas. There remains in a sustainable manner throughout the year, a dry palm, in memory of the place from which the bomb was dropped, in memory of a Catalan anarchist, a hot day in 1906, served as a scapegoat, to goings-known politicians, as always not show their faces. So here you know, the next time you walk around the street of Madrid, do not stop looking up to the last balcony of number 88, the balcony of an anarchist.
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