Bartolomé Page 7

  ‘Bartolomé, look me in the eye and promise me loud and clear.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bartolomé watched unhappily as Isabel took the book from his reluctant hands and stuck it into a cloth bag. She hid the bag in a chest.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she grumbled, ‘I think all these secrets will end in tears. Maybe we should let your father in on it. He’d know for sure what’s best for Bartolomé.’

  ‘No!’ cried Ana, Joaquín and Bartolomé together.

  ‘When Bartolomé can put the first money he has earned himself on the table, then Papa can know,’ said Joaquín firmly.

  Otherwise, he’ll send me back to the village, to Tomáz, thought Bartolomé.

  And he wouldn’t be able to bear that.

  Pen and Ink

  AFTER the last lesson, Don Cristobal, whose conscience was bothering him, went to the abbot to get his permission to teach Bartolomé. The monastery was small, with only a few monks, and the abbot was a kindly man. When Don Cristobal told him about Joaquín’s impassioned plea and about Bartolomé’s eagerness to learn, the abbot forgave him his unauthorised behaviour and allowed the monk to teach Bartolomé, as long as he did not neglect his duties. Don Cristobal promised that he wouldn’t.

  When Joaquín and Bartolomé came to the monastery on the following Tuesday, Don Cristobal had an altar to prepare in the church for a mass. Joaquín offered to help with that. Bartolomé remained in the cloister on his own, sitting waiting on a wooden footstool, leaning his hump against the cool white stone wall. He opened his cloth bag and took out the book. Could it really be dangerous to read? For two long days he’d kept staring at the chest in which the book was hidden. Dozens of times a day, he’d love to have taken it out and read on. Even now, his fingers were itching. They wanted to leaf through the pages. How long was it going to take until Don Cristobal came back from the church?

  Insects hummed among the roses. In the little garden that was surrounded by the cloister, the sun warmed Bartolomé’s face. A breeze ruffled his hair and rustled the pages of the book. Bartolomé decided to open the page with the worrisome sentence on it, not to read it, but to show it to Don Cristobal as soon as he had finished his work. Bartolomé’s fingers hovered over the lines. He read a word here and there. At last, he found the place he was looking for. ‘And lost his reason,’ Bartolomé read. His eyes followed the sentence. Without meaning to, or maybe because he really did mean it, he read on.

  There were many words that he could not decipher. People’s names, words in a foreign language, expressions that he didn’t know. But every line he read led him further into the story of this extraordinary, slightly mad knight. Bartolomé could almost see Don Quixote polishing up and putting on his grandfather’s armour, saddling his skinny horse and giving him a new name: Rosinante.

  ‘What’s that book you are reading?’

  Bartolomé started with fright. Don Cristobal had come back and was bending down to him, so that the folds of his brown habit covered the book.

  ‘I didn’t mean to keep reading,’ Bartolomé stammered.

  ‘Why not? I am pleased when my pupil is diligent.’

  ‘Because … because I don’t know if, if, if …’ Bartolomé, still half-lost in the story, was searching for words.

  Don Cristobal waited patiently.

  ‘My mother thinks that you can lose your reason by reading this book,’ Bartolomé explained at last.

  ‘Lose your reason? Where ever did she get an idea like that?’

  Bartolomé could hear in Don Cristobal’s voice what a stupid idea he thought that was. He was ashamed on his mother’s behalf. At the same time, he wanted to stick up for her, silly as she was.

  ‘It says so here.’ He leafed quickly back and put his finger on the fatal line. Don Cristobal read it thoughtfully, once, then a second time.

  ‘I know this book,’ he said. ‘A fantastic story. Cervantes was a great author. But he’s not reporting reality. It’s all made up.’

  Bartolomé felt relieved.

  ‘So reading doesn’t make you mad?’ he asked.

  Don Cristobal hesitated. He couldn’t entirely rule it out. ‘Of course, it could happen,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that if a person like Don Quixote did nothing but read nonsense and forgot to work, forgot to eat and sleep and pray, he might possibly lose his reason because of it.’

  ‘And this book, is it nonsense?’ asked Bartolomé, wanting to know exactly what was what.

  Don Cristobal shook his head. ‘No. It’s fantasy, not nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t understand that,’ Bartolomé admitted. For him, they were the same thing.

  ‘At the royal court, there are jesters and fools,’ explained Don Cristobal. ‘The jester wears motley, and everyone laughs at him. But the fool, on the other hand, dresses up his jibes with folly and in this way hides the point of his jokes from the audience. They mock him anyway. But if they are smart, they realise that the fool has held up a mirror to them, and then they laugh at themselves, not at the fool.’

  ‘Don Quixote, is he a fool?’ asked Bartolomé, thinking it over.

  ‘Cervantes is the fool. He makes Don Quixote do all the stupid things that we ourselves do all too often. So you should not just study the words, but also think about the meaning of the story. In that way, your reason, far from being lost, is developed.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Bartolomé promised eagerly.

  Don Cristobal smiled. How wonderful it was that even in this body that would always remain small and crooked, there was something that could grow into greatness. He’ll surprise us all yet, he thought confidently.

  The monk sat down beside Bartolomé and together they started to read. Patiently, Don Cristobal explained the expressions that Bartolomé didn’t know. He pointed out to him unusual spellings which seemed to go against the sounds of the words. He made his pupil, who was thirsty for knowledge, write out the hard words on his slate. Bartolomé was so keen, he didn’t notice the time passing. He was sad when the clocks all chimed the hour and the monk finished the lesson, because now he would have to wait another four days.

  Don Cristobal noticed Bartolomé’s sadness. Against his better judgement, he ran quickly into the library, and out of the big oak cupboard he took a few sheets of paper, a quill pen and a little flask of ink. He’d have to confess this theft to the abbot some time.

  In the cloister, he gave Bartolomé the utensils. ‘You can use these to study at home. Any time you come across something that you don’t understand, make a note of it. The next time you come, I’ll answer all your questions.’

  Bartolomé’s eyes shone with joy as he carefully placed his quill, ink and paper in the cloth bag. Now he had what a secretary needed. Don Cristobal looked at the dwarf. Even if I am not forgiven for the theft, he thought to himself, I’d still do it again.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Bartolomé, overcome, and put his arms out to embrace Don Cristobal. The monk hugged him briefly. Through his habit he could feel the beating of Bartolomé’s heart.

  As the door closed behind the children, Don Cristobal realised that he felt as if he had just embraced a perfect body.

  At home, Isabel stared at the paper, quill and ink. She could not take it all in, that her little crippled Bartolomé possessed these fine things.

  ‘Are you really going to use it?’ she asked.

  Bartolomé looked up from his book and gave a scholarly nod. ‘If there is something that I don’t understand, I’ll write it down,’ he explained. His face glowing with joy, he smoothed out a sheet of paper, opened his inkpot, dunked the quill in it, tapped the drops carefully from it, and formed letters on the paper.

  ‘Don Quixote,’ he wrote as a heading. Under that, he was going to make a list of all the words that he could not make out.

  ‘You’d better get rid of it pretty sharpish before Papa or Beatríz comes home,’ Isabel warned him.

  Bartolomé nodded. But within moments, he was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice Isabel star
ting to get supper ready. It was only when she laid her hand gently on his hump that he noticed the smell of cooking. Reluctantly, he put everything away in the chest. If only morning would come, thought Bartolomé longingly.

  Joaquín Goes Away

  BARTOLOMÉ was so lost in thought during supper that Ana kicked him surreptitiously. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she whispered. ‘Papa has looked over at you three times because you’re not eating and are staring into space.’

  Hastily, Bartolomé stuck a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed on it.

  ‘I have good news,’ said Juan proudly.

  Everyone looked expectantly at him.

  ‘It has to do with Joaquín. I spoke to the baker today. He is very satisfied. After dinner, Joaquín and I are going to go over there to sign the contract. From tomorrow, you’ll be an apprentice baker.

  Bartolomé could see how pleased Joaquín was about the praise and about his father’s pride. When I can read and write properly, Bartolomé thought, he’ll be proud of me too.

  ‘I’ll miss him,’ said Isabel. ‘He’s saved me a lot of work.’

  Juan nodded. ‘It’s time Beatríz began to help more around the house. She’s old enough now.’

  Beatríz pulled a face and sulked. She didn’t want to work. Playing was much nicer.

  ‘I could sew by the time I was six,’ Ana pointed out to her little sister. In her opinion, Beatríz had been far too spoilt.

  As if turned to stone, Bartolomé sat among them. Was he the only one who realised how dreadful this change was going to be? Joaquín was going to move out, and Beatríz was going to be home more to help out around the house instead of playing in the yard. How was he going to study and – he shuddered – how was he going to get to Don Cristobal if Joaquín couldn’t carry him? Bartolomé’s arms and legs started to shake. He could feel Juan staring at him crossly. But he couldn’t stop. The muscles in his face clenched, making it even more crooked. A little thread of spittle ran out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Go to bed,’ said Juan in disgust.

  Isabel jumped up and carried Bartolomé into the little bedroom. She rolled out his sleeping mat, laid him on it, and covered his shivering body. ‘He’ll come to visit us as soon as he can,’ she said to console him.

  Bartolomé turned his face away from her. Visit! He needed Joaquín’s swift legs and his strong back. Without him, he couldn’t manage.

  Juan stood in the doorway. ‘I knew that Madrid was no place for Bartolomé. At home, he never shook like this. As soon as I get permission, I will go back to the village and take him with me.’

  Isabel said nothing. Even through the cover, she could see how her son was still shivering. In the village Bartolomé had been different and she had had no secrets from her husband. Maybe it would be better for everyone if Bartolomé went back there after all.

  The next morning Joaquín stood awkwardly beside Bartolomé’s sleeping mat. ‘I’m leaving now, Bartolomé,’ he said. He was carrying a bundle with his clothes wrapped in it under his right arm.

  Bartolomé had refused to get up and have breakfast.

  ‘When he gets hungry, he’ll come,’ Juan had said and wouldn’t let Isabel get him.

  It’s all gone so quickly since supper last night, thought Joaquín, looking at the silent shape under the bedclothes. He’d hardly have thought it possible that he would be going this morning to the baker with his father. Nobody in his family had ever learnt a trade before. They’d all been poor tenant farmers. Joaquín was planning to become the best baker in Madrid. Maybe he would even supply the royal court.

  Bartolomé knew he should say goodbye to Joaquín. He would only see him occasionally in the coming years. But at that moment, he hated his brother.

  Has Joaquín no idea how much damage he is doing? thought Bartolomé bitterly. Joaquín could just as easily go to learn his trade and start his own life later. But because he was going now, he was destroying Bartolomé’s only hope of achieving the same. He didn’t want to talk to Joaquín or even to look at him.

  Joaquín hunkered down beside the mat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But this was always the plan. You knew all along I was on probation with the baker and that I was going to have to go and live there when the apprenticeship was set up.’

  Joaquín stroked the cover unhappily. He didn’t want Bartolomé to be sad. ‘And anyway, you can read now,’ he said.

  Bartolomé stiffened.

  ‘I’ll go and explain to Don Cristobal why you can’t come any more, so he won’t think you’re just lazy,’ Joaquín promised.

  Bartolomé didn’t move.

  ‘I’m sure you can keep the paper and the pen and ink for a while longer. You can use those things to practise your writing. You’re so smart, Bartolomé. You’ll do it, even without Don Cristobal’s help. I know you will.’

  Bartolomé suppressed a sob.

  ‘As soon as I get a day off, I’ll take you and your paper with all the questions on it to Don Cristobal. I promise.’

  Joaquín stood up and waited. Bartolomé didn’t answer. He gave no indication of having heard a word of what Joaquín had said.

  ‘I helped you as much as I could,’ said Joaquín, crestfallen. ‘You never once said thank you.’

  Now the cover moved and Bartolomé stuck out a tear-stained face. His mouth was a hard line.

  ‘First you behave as if I am a real human being, then you just take off. You were probably lying all along.’

  Bartolomé knew how unfair this accusation was. He could see how much he’d hurt Joaquín with it. Even so, he added, ‘And I hate you for that. I don’t want anything more from you. You can go. I don’t need a brother.’

  Joaquín left the room without a word.

  When Bartolomé heard the front door closing, he started to cry and cry. He wished he could run after Joaquín.

  Ana came in and sat down beside Bartolomé on the floor. To console him, she took his head on her lap. She ruffled his hair softly with her hand. She sang a tune that she had made up herself. Gradually, Bartolomé’s sobs died down. And in the end, he stopped crying.

  ‘If you promise me,’ whispered Ana, ‘that you will work away on your own for two weeks, then I’ll try to find a way to get you to Don Cristobal in the laundry basket after that.’

  Bartolomé sat up. ‘The basket is too heavy,’ he said. ‘Joaquín is stronger than you, and even he could barely carry me. There is no point in promising me something you can’t do.’

  Ana’s face took on a decisive look. ‘Do you want to become a secretary or not?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I do, but –’

  ‘No buts! Take your book and start learning. Use every hour. I’ll make sure that Beatríz has to go to the well for water. That’ll keep her out of the way for a while.’

  Bartolomé looked up at his big sister. Her voice sounded just like her father’s. Did she know that?

  Ana left the room and Bartolomé crawled off his mat, washed his face and hands in the washbasin, dried himself carefully and got his book, paper, ink and pen out of the chest. He opened the book and began to study. But all the time, he could see Ana’s face in his mind’s eye. Would she really take him to Don Cristobal?

  Without giving much thought to what he was doing, Bartolomé took up a piece of paper. He dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, ‘Ana will always help me. She promised.’

  Now that it was there in black and white, Bartolomé’s confidence grew that she would be able to do it. But should he waste a piece of paper like this? Well, it was too late to worry about that now.

  ‘I love Ana very much,’ he added.

  And Joaquín? He left me in the lurch, Bartolomé answered his own inner voice. But he knew that was not true.

  He dipped his pen in the ink again and started to write, one sentence after another. He wrote down all his troubles from his heart. When he had finished, he felt relieved. In this way, he felt, he had somehow begged Joaquín’s pardon.

 
The bottom one-third of the page was still blank. But no more sentences occurred to Bartolomé, so instead he drew, as he used to draw in the sand of the village square. Using light strokes, he drew Ana, consoling him; Joaquín, shouldering the laundry basket; Beatríz coming home from the well with a jug of water, scowling, and Manuel in his mother’s arms.

  Drawing is much easier than writing, Bartolomé thought. It allowed him to express things that he couldn’t find words for. After some hesitation, he added, right in the corner, a picture of Juan putting on his uniform. And under it he wrote one final sentence: ‘He must not send me back.’

  It was a kind of vow. Bartolomé folded the page and stuck it into a crack in the floorboards.

  Ana’s Plan

  OVER the next two weeks, Bartolomé studied diligently. He read page after page. Using a piece of chalk that Isabel had somehow found for him, and which did not leave smears when it was wiped out, he covered the floor of the little room with words. His list of questions also grew. Before long, he had run out of paper and his inkpot was almost empty.

  At last, the fourteen days were over. When he woke up the next morning, Bartolomé looked expectantly at Ana. He was afraid to ask. He was afraid that she was not going to be able to keep her promise. But Ana gave a confident smile.

  ‘When Beatríz goes to the market with Mama this afternoon, then it’s time,’ she whispered happily into his ear, as if there was no question of a problem.

  The morning dragged by endlessly in the little room. Bartolomé had scrubbed his face ages ago and combed his wild hair and changed his shirt. He had his bundle of papers stacked up neatly and placed in the cloth bag along with his book, paper, pen and ink. He waited, listening. He could still hear Beatríz’s light voice and Isabel’s soft, deep one in the living room. When would they go? Noon had just chimed. At last, just as he was about to explode with impatience, he heard the door shutting and Ana came into the little bedroom. She had the laundry basket on her back.