Bartolomé Page 6

  ‘Yes, but you can see that the Bible is worth a lot more than a homemade alphabet board,’ said Don Cristobal kindly.

  Disappointed, Bartolomé stared at the book. If he wasn’t going to be allowed to read it, he would never learn to write properly.

  ‘Your father should buy you a cheaper book,’ the monk suggested. ‘Then you can practise your reading and writing at home.’

  Bartolomé was just about to shake his head sadly and explain to the monk how unlikely it was that his father, of all people, would buy him a book. Just in time, he remembered that Don Cristobal did not know the whole truth.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ muttered Bartolomé.

  Don Cristobal nodded contentedly.

  ‘Next week, you can show me your own book, and we’ll use it to practise on. The Bible belongs in the library and I can’t borrow it a second time without the abbot’s permission.’

  A Book

  ‘I NEED a book,’ Bartolomé announced as soon as Isabel hauled him out of the laundry basket.

  ‘A book?’ Isabel looked at Bartolomé in dismay. Only priests and rich people had books, people who had mastered the art of reading and who had the means. Simple people like them didn’t own books.

  ‘The Bible would be best.’ Bartolomé was thinking of Don Cristobal’s fat book that contained infinitely many words.

  ‘The Bible!’ cried Isabel in horror. A Bible cost a small fortune. She remembered that they had collected money in the village to buy a new Bible when Father Rodriguez’s old Bible had become illegible because it was covered with spots of mildew. Every family had had to contribute.

  ‘You can forget about that,’ she said shortly and began hanging up the wet clothes.

  ‘I can’t make any progress without a book,’ said Bartolomé stubbornly.

  ‘But you’re able to read and write already. Take a piece of coal. I’ll say all the words I can think of, and you can write them out.’

  ‘I can’t,’ sighed Bartolomé dejectedly.

  Isabel left her washing and hunkered down in front of Bartolomé. She stroked his hair.

  ‘Nonsense. Yesterday, you could write anything.’

  ‘It wasn’t right. It was only the sound, and not the way the words are spelt,’ Bartolomé tried to explain. ‘It’s only when you know the spellings that you can write the words without mistakes.’

  Isabel didn’t understand what Bartolomé was talking about. ‘Don Cristobal will teach you these spellings in the next lesson, and you’ll remember them,’ she said consolingly.

  Bartolomé laughed, in spite of himself.

  ‘You see? Everything is fine again,’ said Isabel happily, making to go back to her work.

  Bartolomé grabbed hold of her. ‘Mama,’ he asked, ‘did you ever count the stars in the sky?’

  ‘Of course not. You can’t do that. There are too many.’

  ‘If every star was not a light but was a word, would you be able to learn all those words, without looking at the sky?’

  Isabel looked attentively at Bartolomé. ‘You mean,’ she said slowly, ‘that you don’t just have to hear words, you have to see them if you want to be able to write them down?’

  Bartolomé nodded. ‘That’s the way it is. I learned that today. And that’s why Don Cristobal wants me to have my own book, so I can learn the spellings of the words out of it. He can’t give me one, and I can’t ask Papa.’

  Isabel put her arm around Bartolomé. Where was she going to get a book for him? She needed the few coins she earned from her sewing for the housekeeping. She’d only been able to pay for the two little candles that Bartolomé’s lessons cost by buying vegetables at the market for herself and the children that were not as fresh as they should have been. She could use that to make a thick soup and along with the stale bread that Joaquín could get cheaply from the baker, she could fill the children’s tummies.

  Beatríz and Manuel were too small to notice the difference. Joaquín, Ana and Bartolomé didn’t complain, because they knew what Isabel was saving the money for. But it will never be enough for a whole book, thought Isabel.

  ‘We can’t do it, Bartolomé,’ she whispered, hugging him tightly.

  Ana, who until now had been sitting in a corner, listening, got up and went to them. ‘I know a way out,’ she said decisively.

  Isabel stood up. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘When Señora Lopez and Maria go to the apothecary shop in the mornings, I can sneak a book down. The widow has a few in her bedroom. I can make sure that Teresa and Gaspar suspect nothing. Then, before the widow comes home, I can put the book back.’

  Bartolomé beamed. He had never loved Ana so much as he did just at that moment.

  Isabel looked horrified. ‘That’s stealing,’ she said.

  Ana shrugged her shoulders. ‘Bartolomé needs a book, and we’re just borrowing one for him.’

  ‘But taking something without asking is stealing,’ replied Isabel.

  ‘It’s a question of Bartolomé’s future. We have to do it,’ Ana insisted.

  ‘No!’ Isabel knew she could never approve of theft. If only she owned something that she could swap for a book! She thought of the little wooden box with her jewellery in it. There were just a few cheap pieces of thin silver. Only her grandmother’s ring was worth anything. It was gold, with a sparkling chip of diamond. She might get enough money for it to buy a book. On the other hand, it was an heirloom, destined for Ana, just as she, as the eldest daughter, had got the ring from her mother on her deathbed.

  ‘My ring,’ said Isabel softly.

  Ana understood at once what she meant. She knew the piece of jewellery and had often admired it. One day, the ring would be hers. Not to wear, of course, but to treasure as a valuable jewel, as her mother did.

  Ana hesitated. The ring for a book? Maybe Don Cristobal could still be persuaded to lend Bartolomé one. Or maybe he’d got it wrong, and Bartolomé could learn to spell even without a book? And why couldn’t she secretly borrow one of Señora Lopez’s books in her absence? That would hurt nobody, whereas the ring would be lost for ever. Had Bartolomé any idea how hard and how unfair this decision was?

  ‘Ana, if I get work and it makes me rich, the first thing I will do is buy you a new ring,’ Bartolomé promised.

  Ana looked into her brother’s dark eyes. ‘We’ll sell the ring,’ she agreed.

  ‘Do you really want to do that?’ Isabel asked.

  Ana nodded quickly.

  Isabel got the jewellery box from the back room and gave it to her eldest daughter. Carefully, Ana opened the lid and put the ring on her finger. She went to the window and held it up to the sunlight. It glittered. Dreamily, Ana waved the ring back and forth. She would never own this piece of jewellery now.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Joaquín, coming in and putting down a leather water container. It was one of his chores to fetch water every day, and since Isabel never pressed him to come home quickly, he liked doing it. He liked wandering through the narrow streets of Madrid, observing the merchants and the artisans or running along behind a fine coach along with other lads in the hope that the rich owner would take a notion and throw them a few coins, which they would then jostle for. On this afternoon, however, his rumbling stomach had brought him home earlier than usual.

  ‘Why have you put that ring on? Joaquín asked now.

  ‘We’re going to use it to buy a book for Bartolomé,’ Isabel explained.

  It took Joaquín a while to work out what was going on. Like Ana, he was of the opinion that she should use Señora Lopez’s books. Isabel absolutely forbade it. None of her children could ever have theft on their conscience.

  ‘Don’t sell the ring, though,’ Joaquín suggested. ‘Pawn it.’

  Isabel blenched. Only the very poorest people went to the pawn shop. It was a terrible shame for a family when a person was forced to pawn their possessions.

  ‘Then I can redeem the ring later, and give it back to Ana!’ cried Bartolomé
, delighted.

  ‘But suppose I don’t get enough money that way to buy a book,’ Isabel asked.

  ‘Don’t take any money for the ring,’ explained Joaquín. ‘Instead, ask for a book. In Calle Granado there is a pawnbroker who sometimes sits out in front of his shop, reading. He’d definitely agree to that plan. And when Bartolomé doesn’t need the book any more, we can take it back and then all we have to pay is the interest. That can’t be too bad.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Ana.

  ‘You can learn a lot in this city if you are quick on your feet and if you keep your eyes open and your wits about you,’ Joaquín answered, very sure of himself.

  Isabel wrapped the ring in a piece of linen and hid it carefully in her petticoat pocket. Draping her scarf over her head and shoulders, she turned to Ana.

  ‘Go and get Beatríz and Manuel from downstairs and stay here with them in the apartment,’ she ordered.

  Ana nodded.

  ‘And get the supper ready.’

  ‘What if Papa comes home earlier than usual?’ asked Ana.

  Isabel hesitated. Juan must never know that she’d gone to the pawnbroker. On the other hand, she couldn’t lie to him.

  ‘Joaquín, take the little jug with you. We’ll buy some oil at the market,’ she said.

  Ana smiled. ‘So you’ve gone out to buy oil,’ she said.

  Isabel reddened. ‘That’s right,’ she snapped.

  The Pawnbroker

  CALLE GRANADO was one of those alleyways where dark little workshops were huddled among the shops. Smiths, cobblers, weavers, coopers, potters, bakers and butchers were all squashed in together. The baker quarrelled with the butcher about his waste which attracted rats. The weaver complained loudly about the suffocating smoke that poured out of the smith’s and got into his cloth. The shoemaker was poor and could only afford to use substandard leather, and he remained poor because his customers would pay only small amounts for shoes like that. The cooper’s big wooden barrels were rattled carelessly over the bockety cobbles by his two apprentices and made the potter fear for the safety of his wares which he had set out in front of his doorway.

  The pawnbroker’s shop was at the end of the street.

  At last, thought Joaquín, I have a chance to see what is behind the locked door decorated with three gold-painted balls.

  The pawnbroker was an old man with a white beard, dressed in black. As usual, he was sitting on a chair in front of his door, reading. The fact that someone could earn his living by sitting in idleness, reading, impressed Joaquín.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Isabel whispered to him as they stood outside the shop. She was embarrassed to think that all the passersby would be whispering about her.

  Joaquín stepped up to the pawnbroker. ‘Señor, my mother would like to pledge a ring for a short while,’ he said politely.

  The old man snapped his book shut and stood up. ‘Everything that is left here is left only for a short time, Señora,’ he said kindly.

  He opened the door and led Isabel and Joaquín into a dusky room. ‘Rebecca!’ he called. ‘We have customers.’

  A pretty young girl emerged from the darkness, carrying an oil lamp. She put it down on a table and smiled at Joaquín and Isabel. Isabel rummaged in her skirt. With shaking fingers, she took out the ring and unwrapped it. She held the jewel out to Joaquín, who put it on the table. The pawnbroker pushed the oil lamp nearer. He took a magnifying glass and a pair of scales out of a drawer. He weighed the ring carefully and examined it closely for a long time.

  ‘Definitely more than one generation old,’ he murmured. ‘Comes from the Seville area, if I am not mistaken.’

  Joaquín stared at the girl. She had an ivory face, framed by jet-black hair.

  ‘Rebecca, offer the señora a seat,’ ordered the pawnbroker.

  Isabel protested, but Rebecca pushed a chair towards her. Joaquín put out his hand for it.

  ‘Thank you very much, Señorita,’ he said hoarsely.

  Isabel sat down. Her hands were clutching the linen that the ring had been wrapped in. Suppose the pawnbroker put the ring in his pocket and sent them away without giving them anything for it!

  The old man stretched his back. ‘The ring has a certain value,’ he declared carefully, watching the woman’s face closely. Interpreting the relief that always showed in the faces of customers when this sentence was pronounced was an art in itself. That was how he managed always to lend just as much money as the customer needed, and not as much as the jewellery was actually worth. If they could pay him back the sum lent later, he pocketed only the small amount of interest. On the other hand, it often happened that he made a hefty profit if the piece had not been reclaimed by the agreed time and so reverted to him.

  Isabel cast her eyes down. She felt uncomfortable under the gaze of the old man. She was afraid of him.

  Joaquín stood in front of his mother. ‘We want to swap the ring for a book,’ he said bravely, ‘preferably the Bible.’

  Bartolomé had insisted to him that only the Bible contained infinitely many words.

  ‘The ring for a book?’ repeated the pawnbroker disbelievingly.

  Joaquín nodded. ‘My brother needs it to study reading and writing. When he’s mastered it, we’ll bring the book back and get the ring.’

  The pawnbroker shook his head. Never before had anyone suggested such an unusual trade. ‘If I give you a book, you’ll have to pay the interest in cash.’

  Joaquín nodded his agreement.

  ‘Within six months – by Epiphany, that is – you must redeem the ring. Otherwise, it’s mine.’

  ‘Agreed, Señor.’

  Joaquín put out his hand, relieved, to seal the bargain.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said the pawnbroker. ‘I haven’t got a Bible. But I have other fat books. Rebecca, get them out of the chest.’

  Joaquín thought things over. Bartolomé wanted a Bible. The pawnbroker had only other books. How was he going to know which of them was good enough for studying out of?

  Rebecca came back with an armful of leather volumes and put them down beside the ring on the table. They smelt musty.

  ‘Choose one,’ the pawnbroker urged Joaquín.

  Joaquín bit his lip. Should he just take the thickest book?

  ‘They are good books,’ said the girl softly.

  Joaquín looked at her in surprise. Could she read?

  ‘Joaquín, make a decision,’ Isabel whispered behind him. ‘We have to go.’ The sooner she could get out of this dark room, the better.

  ‘Which book has the most words in it?’ asked Joaquín uncertainly.

  The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘A good story doesn’t have to have a lot of words, and bad stories can be written in way too many sentences,’ he said, a little snootily.

  Joaquín felt his cheeks burning, and he was glad that his face couldn’t be seen here in this dim light. ‘My brother doesn’t need the book for pleasure, Señor, but in order to learn to spell as many words as possible,’ he explained.

  The pawnbroker snorted audibly. ‘Then take the thickest.’

  ‘Father!’ said the girl quietly. She bent over the books and quickly pulled one out. It wasn’t the thickest book, Joaquín could see, and the leather was stained.

  ‘Don Quixote, by Cervantes,’ said the girl. ‘You can study this book for days and it is still enjoyable to read the story. It makes you laugh and it makes you cry.’ She offered it to Joaquín.

  Can a book really make someone laugh and cry? Joaquín wondered, holding it awkwardly in his hands.

  At home, Bartolomé received it with great excitement. His own book, even if only for a short while. He sniffed. The printed paper smelt strangely of old cellars.

  ‘It’s not the Bible,’ Joaquín admitted. ‘The pawnbroker didn’t have one. But his daughter recommended this. She can read.’

  Bartolomé riffled through the pages with his fingers. The book seemed to have just as many words as Don Cristobal
’s Bible. And it had pictures. Delighted, Bartolomé looked at the engravings. A lean man on a horse, holding in his hand a lance that was way too long. In the background stood a couple of windmills.

  ‘Don Quixote, a knight of sorry appearance, fights windmills,’ Bartolomé spelt out.

  Why would anyone fight windmills? How come this man, who didn’t look a bit aristocratic but more like a fool, was a knight? And why was he of sorry appearance? Bartolomé couldn’t see any deformities in his body. Forgetting all about Isabel, Ana and Joaquín, he opened the first page and started to read under his breath. It wasn’t easy. The long words made Bartolomé feel as if his tongue was in a knot when he tried to put the sounds together in the proper order. But the story of Don Quixote captivated him. He read on, page after page.

  ‘He read,’ Bartolomé murmured, ‘day and night, and because he read too much and ate too little, the fluids in his brain dried out and he lost his reason.’

  Isabel gave a shout of horror. She’d been listening spellbound to the extraordinary story for an hour. Now she had her doubts. Could a person lose their reason through reading?

  ‘Shut that book, Bartolomé!’ she cried.

  Bartolomé looked up, baffled. He’d completely forgotten that he was sitting on his sleeping mat. In his thoughts, he had been in that little town where Don Quixote had his house.

  ‘Look, you’re all in a muddle. Put it aside. Joaquín will take it back tomorrow. We might not even have to pay any interest.’

  Bartolomé hugged the leather volume close. He wouldn’t let her do that to him. He needed the book. ‘It’s only a story,’ he said. ‘Somebody just made it up. It’s not necessarily true.’

  ‘But if it is?’ asked Isabel. ‘Suppose you go mad. Is it not bad enough that you …’ She stopped.

  ‘He can show it to Don Cristobal at the next lesson,’ said Ana into the silence. ‘He’ll know if it’s dangerous to read it.’

  ‘Until then, you are not even to look at those pages! Promise me that?’ Isabel crouched down to Bartolomé.

  Bartolomé agreed unwillingly. He wouldn’t see Don Cristobal again until Tuesday. He’d lose so many hours. Precious time when he should be practising reading and writing.