Bartolomé Read online

  Bartolomé

  The Infanta’s Pet

  Little Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.

  Little Island gratefully received financial assistance from Bundesministerium für Unterricht, Kunst und Kultur, Vienna.

  The Publisher acknowledges the financial assistance of Ireland Literature Exchange (translation fund), Dublin, Ireland.

  [email protected]

  The publication of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut, which is funded by the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  About the author

  RACHEL VAN KOOIJ was born in the Dutch city of Wageningen in 1968. She moved to Austria at the age of 10, and later studied Special Needs Teaching at Vienna University. She now lives in Klosterneuburg near Vienna and works with handicapped people. She says of herself: ‘I write about the things I like to read about.’

  About the translator

  SIOBHÁN PARKINSON was born in Dublin in 1954. After graduating, she worked as a book editor. She is now one of Ireland’s most successful writers for children and was Ireland’s first Children’s Laureate. She has translated books by Renate Ahrens, Sabine Ludwig and Burkhard Spinnen from German into English. She lives in Dublin with her husband.

  Las Meninas by Velázquez

  This book is inspired by the painting Las Meninas, which was painted in 1656 by the famous Spanish artist Diego Velázquez. Velázquez was employed as court painter by King Philip IV, and he frequently painted the royal family, and especially the king’s little daughter, the Infanta.

  Las Meninas hangs in Spain’s national art musem, the Prado in Madrid, and you can see an image of it on the gallery’s website (www.museodelprado.es) or on Wikipedia.

  BARTOLOMÉ

  THE INFANTA’S PET

  by

  Rachel van Kooij

  Translated by

  Siobhán Parkinson

  BARTOLOMÉ: THE INFANTA’S PET

  Published 2012 by Little Island,

  7 Kenilworth Park,

  Dublin 6W, Ireland,

  www.littleisland.ie

  First published as Kein Hundeleben für Bartolomé by Jungbrunnen Verlag in Vienna in 2003

  Copyright © Verlag Jungbrunnen Wien 2003

  Translation copyright © Siobhán Parkinson 2012

  The author has asserted her moral rights.

  ISBN 978-1-908195-26-5

  All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Someday

  Typesetting by Kieran Nolan

  Printed in Poland by Drukarnia Skleniarz

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Part 1

  Bartolomé

  FROM a distance, with its low white-washed houses, the village looked like a smudge of white that an artist had painted between the greeny-brown of the hills.

  Bartolomé Carrasco was sitting in the shade on the crumbling old steps of the church, watching the children who gathered here every evening after supper to play on the village square. They were barefoot, like himself, and not well dressed.

  Bartolomé was drawing in the dust with his finger. He was sketching his thirteen-year-old brother, Joaquín, who was kicking a ball around with his friends. The ball was really a pig’s bladder, filled tight as a drum with air and wrapped in rags. Now that the sun had gone down, it was not as hot as it had been, and the game was fast and furious. Children’s voices echoed hoarsely over the square. Dust swirled around the players.

  One of them gave the ball a mighty kick, and it came rolling in Bartolomé’s direction. It looked as if it was going to ruin his drawing. He hauled himself up to kick it out of the way with his club foot, but he couldn’t manage it, and instead he went head over heels into the sand, and the ball landed on his hump. Above him, he could hear the laughter of the children. Joaquín grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up, shook him like a ragdoll so that sand came streaming out of his shirt and trousers, and shoved him roughly back onto the steps.

  ‘Give it over,’ he muttered to Bartolomé.

  A whisper went around among the children: ‘The cripple wants to play.’ They didn’t dare say it out loud, though, because anyone who made fun of the ugly little dwarf would have Joaquín to reckon with.

  The game went on, more furiously than before. It pained Bartolomé to watch. Joaquín was the quickest and most skilful. Time and again, he used his long legs to keep possession of the ball.

  Those legs! thought Bartolomé enviously. His own legs were spindly little sticks, out of which grew feet like two squashed lumps of clay with crooked toes. He certainly couldn’t run on them. Even walking was difficult, more like stumbling. His arms were far too long in comparison with his legs and his body with its big hump, but if he balanced on his hands he could scramble along quite quickly, like an animal, on all fours. But he mustn’t let anyone see, or he’d be beaten. Not by his father, Juan, but by his mother, Isabel.

  Juan Carrasco was coachman to the little princess, the Infanta Margarita, in Madrid, and he rarely made the hard three-day journey home to visit. Most of the men of the village worked away from home. They were mostly labourers on the farms of rich landowners. Not so Juan. He had had the nerve and the determination to go to Madrid. At first he’d worked as a stable hand in the royal stables, and so good was he with horses that he came to the attention of the stable manager and was promoted to coachman.

  Juan was ambitious. At first he was just an ordinary coachman, driving the luggage cart when the king journeyed from one royal castle to another. Bartolomé knew all their names. Alcázar and Buen Retiro were the city palaces. El Escorial was an abbey, Torre de la Parada a hunting lodge. Juan Carrasco, a simple country man, was soon made coachman to the Infanta, the king’s little daughter. He was called Don Carrasco now in the village, and although he never came home on horseback in his fancy uniform, but came on foot and dressed like one of them, still he was hailed as a gentleman.

  No, it was not his fine father who punished Bartolomé when he went creeping along on the ground. He knew what a dreadful way to behave this must be, since his own mother beat him for doing it. ‘You are not an animal!’ she yelled at him every time she caught him crawling. ‘You are a human being, like us.’

  But Bartolomé knew all too well that this was not true. He was not like his brothers and sisters. He did not have the fine upright stance of his fourteen-year-old sister Ana or the lithe limbs of Joaquín. Even though he was ten years old, he was smaller than his six-year-old sister Beatríz, and even his baby brother Manuel had a perfect body. Bartolomé was secretly jealous of the healthy skin, the straight limbs and the perfect little feet, each with five rosy toes, that he saw when his mother washed and changed the baby. Why, Bartolomé wondered, had he been born so deformed?

  The football game was slowing down now. The ball was left lying on the sand. The children were tired. They’d been herding goats since early morning or pulling weeds in the miserable fields. All the work of the village fell on the shoulders of the women and children. They watered the stony fields, they looked after the olive groves and the orange and lemon orchards. Only Bartolomé and the old priest spent their days in idleness. Though, mind you, Father Rodriguez did say mass and baptised children, heard confessions and buried the dead. Bartolomé, on the other hand, could only sit and watc
h life passing him by. At ten years of age, he was the only boy in the village who had never stripped off and swum in the river or gone fishing there. He’d never harvested olives or picked stones out of the fields at ploughing time. He was good for nothing.

  He looked over at his sister. Beatríz was sitting happily at the front door, playing with her doll. It was just a piece of wood that she’d tenderly wrapped up in a cloth. She was rocking the doll and singing a song to her. Bartolomé knew that inside the house his mother was singing Manuel to sleep with the same song. His other sister, Ana, was sitting with the big girls by the well. They were brushing each other’s hair. She was still a girl, but soon she and her friends would put on long skirts and marry. On his last visit home, Juan Carrasco had brought a suitor for his eldest daughter, a quiet, serious young man, the son of a friend. But nothing had come of it. Bartolomé had overheard his parents discussing the matter. He often lay awake at night, because his legs hurt, and that’s how he’d come to overhear the conversation.

  ‘He thinks she might give birth to another cripple.’ His father’s hard, accusing voice still rang in Bartolomé’s ears.

  ‘I’ve got four strong, healthy children,’ his mother whispered. ‘That’s more than most.’

  But that counted for nothing with the suitor, Bartolomé thought sadly, nor with his father.

  As the pale red sun sank behind the houses, the children disappeared. Bartolomé waited patiently until the square had emptied. Then he looked carefully around. Most of the shutters had already been closed. He couldn’t see anyone watching him. Quickly, he lowered himself onto his hands and ran like a dog. He didn’t haul himself up onto his feet until he had reached the front door, and then he lurched into the house.

  Homecoming

  ‘PAPA is here!’

  Beatríz came running, whooping, into the house. It was the afternoon of the following day. Isabel yanked off her apron, picked Manuel up off the floor, and positioned herself in the doorway.

  Beatríz was quite right. Juan Ca rrasco had come home on a visit. Isabel gave a puzzled frown when she saw him. How come he’d brought a donkey and cart?

  Joaquín and Ana came running from the fields, where they had been pulling weeds. Joaquín was leading the donkey now, and Ana was holding her father’s hand. They came across the village square, the three of them together.

  Isabel stood aside to let Juan enter. He didn’t hug her until he’d got inside the room. Manuel looked suspiciously at his father. But Juan smiled at the child, took him in his strong arms and raised him up to the ceiling. For a moment, Manuel looked as if he was going to cry. Isabel kept an anxious eye on her youngest son. But in the end he plumped for laughter. Juan whirled him through the air, like a bird, and Manuel roared with pleasure. Beatríz clung jealously to Juan’s legs. When Manuel was safely back in his mother’s arms, Juan bent down and kissed Beatríz on her thick black curls, and he got an affectionate smack on the cheek.

  Joaquín had been tying up the donkey and giving it water. He came in now, and Juan gave him a clap on the back. Bartolomé was making himself as small as possible in the gap between the bed and the blanket chest. Isabel spotted him and pulled him out.

  ‘Say hello to your father, Bartolomé,’ she ordered. She held him tight, so that he could stand almost straight. Bartolomé hung his head.

  ‘Hello, Papa,’ he mumbled.

  Juan nodded at him.

  Bartolomé slipped out of his mother’s grip and crept back into his corner. Joaquín pushed his way in between his parents. ‘Why have you brought a donkey and cart?’ he asked curiously. ‘Are we rich now?’

  Juan laughed hoarsely. The dust of the road made his throat rasp. ‘In Madrid, every poor wretch has a donkey and cart. The rich people there have horse-drawn coaches.’

  ‘But do they belong to us?’

  For Joaquín, owning a donkey and cart was unimaginable wealth. Only the village priest, Father Rodriguez, owned a donkey, and nobody had a proper cart. They got by with handcarts. There were plenty of children to pull those, and anyone who had saved a bit of money preferred to spend it on a goat. A goat gave milk, its flesh was edible and you could make all sorts of useful things out of the hide. A donkey was a luxury.

  ‘Pipe down, Joaquín,’ Isabel rebuked her eldest son. She knew how short-tempered her husband could be when he arrived home from the long journey, tired, hungry and thirsty.

  ‘Leave him be,’ said Juan good-naturedly, sitting down on the bed. ‘Just get me something to drink from Tomáz, and if Beatríz will pull off my boots for me and Ana will bring me a basin of water to wash in, I’ll tell you my big news later.’

  He gave Joaquín a coin, and the boy snatched a jug and was gone, as fast as his legs would carry him. Tomáz Gasset lived on the edge of the village. He had a small vineyard, and he’d set up a wine stall in his yard, with a couple of tables. Most evenings, he stood at his door with a wineskin, waiting for customers. But it was afternoon now, and he was taking a nap. Joaquín stormed into the house and woke him up unceremoniously.

  ‘Papa’s come home,’ he explained, as Tomáz filled the jug with wine. ‘He’s come like a señor, a rich man,’ he said boastfully, ‘with a donkey and cart.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Tomáz. ‘He’ll drop by here this evening, then, I suppose.’

  ‘He surely will, Señor Gasset.’

  At home, Bartolomé was watching as Beatríz pulled off her father’s boots, and as Ana bathed his swollen red feet in cool water and dried them with a soft towel. Even little Manuel was able to help Juan Carrasco feel better after his strenuous journey. Isabel had planted tobacco in the spring, and she’d dried the leaves carefully, chopped them up and stuffed them into a little sack. She pressed the little sack into Manuel’s hand now and pushed him towards his father. ‘Take the tobacco to your father,’ she ordered, and Manuel wobbled over to his father on his little legs with his arms outstretched.

  ‘He’s learnt to walk,’ said Isabel proudly, as Juan pulled his youngest son on to his lap.

  ‘Can you give Papa the pipe too, out of its bag?’ he asked softly.

  Juan opened the leather pouch that he carried on his belt. Manuel stuck his hand in and pulled out an old pipe with a chewed mouthpiece.

  ‘There!’ he crowed, sticking the pipe in his own little mouth.

  Juan gave a loud laugh. ‘That’s my boy!’ he cried.

  Joaquín came running in, holding a hand protectively over the top of the wine jug, so that not a drop of wine should spill. He gave it to his father.

  ‘Who’ll bring me my mug? Or is the Infanta’s coachman going to have to drink out of the jug, like a common labourer?’ asked Juan.

  The children watched him expectantly. Nobody moved. Which of them would be entrusted with the task of bringing him his mug?

  It should be my turn now, thought Bartolomé. I could bring him the mug. If I could just push my high chair over to the cupboard, and if I could climb up and support myself on one hand, and with the other, I could take down the mug, if I …

  There were too many ifs. His father would never ask him to do such a thing. But his mother might think of it. He came out of his corner and tried to signal quietly to her to pass the mug quickly to him. Then he could easily manage the last few steps to his father, with the mug in his hand.

  Isabel took the heavy pewter mug down from the cupboard, but instead of passing it to her dwarf son, she reached across the heads of the children with it, and gave it to her husband herself.

  ‘Take it,’ she urged him. ‘Drink.’ She was just as impatient to hear why he had brought a donkey and cart from Madrid as Joaquín was.

  Madrid

  ‘WE’RE moving to Madrid,’ announced Juan, delighted with himself, after he’d drunk his mug of wine in one long, thirsty draught.

  To Madrid! Bartolomé’s eyes widened in surprise. Madrid was the king’s city. It was huge. It was full of palaces where princes and princesses ate off golden plates and drank from cu
t-crystal glasses. The streets were thronged with horses and coaches, soldiers in uniform, all kinds of tradesmen, corner boys and beggars. There were rows upon countless rows of shops and warehouses and bars lining the narrow streets and alleys. On his visits home, their father had often described the lively doings of all these people in this fabulous city with its stately buildings. Ana, Joaquín, Bartolomé and Beatríz had listened to him, their mouths hanging open. Now they were going to move there and see it all with their own eyes.

  ‘In recognition of my loyal service, the court high marshal has given me permission to come and get you. I was able to hire the donkey and cart cheaply. Tomorrow we’ll pack up the bed, the table, the chairs and the chests and all our belongings – and off we go!’

  Juan looked around. It was clear from their faces that Joaquín and Ana were delighted. Beatríz was staring at him as if he were the king himself. Manuel was too small to understand the wonderful thing that Juan Carrasco had achieved. He, the son of a poor peasant, had managed to be employed at court, and now he was one of very few underlings to be allowed to bring his family to join him.

  ‘To Madrid!’ whispered Isabel. She’d never thought such a thing could happen. How could she go with the children to Madrid and leave everything behind? The house, the vegetable garden, their olive trees, the goats and the stony fields? She’d lived all her life in this little village.

  ‘Can I tell everyone, Papa?’ asked Joaquín. He’d been aware for some time that his friends were waiting for him out on the village square.

  Juan nodded, and Joaquín ran out. Ana followed him to the door. None of her friends had ever left the village, and she was about to move to the fabulous city of rich princes and brave heroes.

  Isabel pushed Beatríz and Manuel out into the open air as well. She had questions to ask that were not for children to hear.