Bartolomé Page 9

  They arrived home at last, in an awful state. Upstairs in the living room Ana let Bartolomé slip to the floor. Manuel started to roar with fright when he saw Bartolomé’s inky blue face. Beatríz stared curiously at her older brother and sister.

  ‘How come Bartolomé was out even though Papa doesn’t allow that?’ she asked. ‘If I tell Papa …’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ Isabel scolded. Something bad had happened and the last person she wanted to think about at that moment was Juan.

  Offended, Beatríz pulled a face. She was not stupid. She had long been aware that there was a secret between her mother and the older children. She’d been sent out on the flimsiest of excuses too often lately and she’d noticed that conversations came to a sudden halt when she came into the apartment. She’d felt left out. Now she was delighted. Ana and Bartolomé were sure to be punished.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Isabel took hold of Ana by the arms and shook her hard. ‘Did you go to Don Cristobal?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Ana kept stammering. She broke free and ran into the bedroom.

  ‘Bartolomé, what happened?’ Isabel hunkered down in front of her son, angry but worried at the same time.

  ‘I don’t want to go. She can’t have me!’ cried Bartolomé tearfully.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl from the coach,’ said Bartolomé.

  A coach? That reminded her of Juan. He’d be home soon. She must have Bartolomé washed by then. She emptied a water jug into a large basin.

  ‘Take this jug and get more water,’ she ordered Beatríz.

  ‘I’ve already been to the well today,’ moaned Beatríz. ‘There’s enough water.’ She wanted to be there when her father came home from work.

  Isabel gave her a clip on the ear. Wailing, Beatríz took the empty jug and ran angrily out. If they tried to pull the wool over her father’s eyes, she’d tell all, she decided.

  Bartolomé used his hands and feet to try to beat off the wet facecloth.

  ‘No washing,’ he roared, and, when she ignored him, he bit despairingly into Isabel’s arm. He had gone too far now. Since Bartolomé had learnt to read, Isabel had never smacked him. But now she gave her dwarf son a thrashing like never before. She hit him wildly about the legs, the crooked back, the head. When Bartolomé tried to protect himself with his arms, she beat him even harder. She should never have been party to all these secrets.

  ‘So I shouldn’t bother about you?’ she yelled angrily. ‘Well stay as you are, then, and just wait till your father gets home. He can do what he likes with you.’

  She threw him in to Ana in the little bedroom and banged the door on them. Her shoulders were shaking.

  Isabel saw Manuel cowering in terror in the corner. She went to him to console him with a hug. Manuel squealed. Was she going to beat him too and lock him in the little room? He fled down the stairs and threw himself at Doña Rosita’s door. He would feel safe in her arms.

  Isabel sank into an armchair and started to cry. What would Juan do to her and the children when he came home?

  Just as Doña Rosita opened the door and took the distraught Manuel up in her arms, Juan entered the house. He took no notice of his little son and the neighbour woman. The Infanta had sent him to get the cleaned-up human dog immediately. She didn’t want to wait until the next day. Juan was furious. He would never have believed that his own children could have upset him so badly. And whatever Isabel had to say, he was no longer willing to protect Bartolomé. He could find out for himself what it was like to be the butt of mockery for everyone. And Ana? He could not throw her out. In spite of his towering rage, he was not equal to that. But he would beat her so badly that she would never again challenge him.

  He rushed up the stairs. When he fled from the apartment, Manuel had left the door open. As Juan went in the door upstairs, Doña Rosita took a basket and left the house quickly, with Manuel in her arms. Whatever was going to happen upstairs, she didn’t want to hear it.

  Juan stood in the middle of the room. Isabel’s soft weeping and the sobs of his children, muffled by the bedroom door, did nothing to diminish his anger. On the contrary, it drove him into an even worse rage.

  ‘Please don’t do anything to them,’ stammered Isabel, when she became aware of Juan’s presence.

  Juan walked past her, yanked the door open and hauled Ana up from her sleeping mat. He hit her with his bare fist. The blows hit her on the arms, with which she tried to protect her face. Then Juan grabbed his daughter’s slender wrist with one hand, and with the other, he punched her repeatedly in the face. It wasn’t until it had swollen up and blood dropped from her nose that he became aware of Isabel’s distraught voice.

  ‘You’ll kill her. You’ll kill her. Stop!’

  At that, Juan let the girl fall to the floor. He turned around to Isabel.

  ‘Did you know about this too?’ he asked. His voice had suddenly gone quiet.

  ‘Me?’ The fear Isabel felt was written in her eyes. ‘I wanted to tell you, but it …’

  ‘You knew!’ Juan shook his head. He could understand nothing any more.

  ‘We wanted to surprise you,’ whispered Isabel hoarsely.

  Juan landed a mighty punch on Isabel’s temple. She let out a loud cry, swayed and crumpled to the ground.

  Bartolomé knew it was his turn next. His father’s anger would definitely be even worse against him. He closed his eyes. There was no one to save him. But Juan did not hit him. Instead, he dragged his son into the front room to the washbasin. When Bartolomé opened his eyes, he saw the reflection of his blue face in the water. It reminded him of Don Matteo drowning kittens in a bucket back in the village.

  ‘Papa, please don’t!’ he stuttered.

  Juan pulled off Bartolomé’s clothes with shaking hands. He had great difficulty in controlling himself. Then he washed Bartolomé’s naked, crooked body carefully. His movements were firm but not rough. Bartolomé hung there in his arms, limp as a ragdoll.

  The thought ran through Bartolomé’s head: He’s only doing nothing to me because he’s going to take me to the Infanta. He wished he’d been beaten like Ana and his mother. He wanted to have bruises and welts. Any pain would be better than this empty realisation that his father was going to deliver him to the royal court like a lifeless or, worse, an unloved, unvalued commodity.

  Parting

  ISABEL had crawled to Ana. They cowered silently together at the doorway into the back bedroom and watched Juan’s movements with fearful eyes. Juan looked over to them, when he had finished cleaning Bartolomé up. He had even washed Bartolomé’s tousled hair with soap until it stood up fluffily on his head.

  ‘Bring me his best shirt and trousers,’ Juan told Isabel. Isabel looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Do it! I have no time. We are expected.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Ana to Isabel. ‘He can’t do this.’

  ‘What’s going on with Bartolomé? Where are you taking him?’ Isabel dared to ask.

  Juan laughed a loud, ugly laugh. ‘He’s going to have a fine time. The Infanta of Spain wants him as a plaything.’

  ‘Plaything!?’

  ‘He’s going to be her little human dog. He’ll go scuttling after balls and lap up milk from a silver salver,’ Juan explained in a hard voice.

  Ana started to cry again.

  ‘You can’t allow it!’ Isabel shrieked at her husband.

  ‘Who am I to prevent it? The Infanta has seen him and now she wants him.’

  ‘You are his father. You have to help him, protect him.’

  ‘He broke his promise, so why should I protect him any more?’

  ‘He is a child, Juan. He is your son.’

  ‘I do not have a son who is a human dog,’ said Juan. There was a finality about his tone and it was clear that he would not tolerate any more opposition.

  Since Isabel did not budge, Juan himself went and got Bartolomé’s best clothes and dressed him. Bartolomé put up no strug
gle. There was no point. Not even his mother could see a way to help him. And his father?

  I never had a proper father, thought Bartolomé bitterly. This man had barely put up with him, never loved him.

  ‘You’ll have to say goodbye now,’ said Juan. He stepped back and turned away.

  Isabel hesitated. Bartolomé was sitting on the floor beside the table. He did not look up. His head, pushed forward by the hump, almost touched his short legs. Like a grotesque dwarf in a puppet theatre whose strings had been cut, he sat there, saying nothing.

  Isabel knelt down in front of him and embraced his crooked body. She kissed his head, his neck, his hump. But she couldn’t look into his face. That would break her heart.

  Ana came too, but she did not dare to hug him. She was too afraid of another outburst from her father if she dirtied Bartolomé’s clean clothes with her bloody face. She put her hand on his hair, but did not stroke it. Then she ran back into the little room.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Juan at last. He lifted Bartolomé out of the arms of his mother and carried him out of the apartment, down the stairs, through the streets to the great royal palace of Alcázar.

  A little later, Beatríz came back with the water jug. She had dawdled at the well and wandered home, coming the long way round. Her desire to see Ana and Bartolomé being punished had been replaced by anxiety. As she climbed up the dark stairs, the silence behind the door of the apartment was uncanny. She waited for a while uncertainly on the landing and listened. Not a sound, not a movement broke the ghostly silence.

  Carefully, she opened the door. Her mother was sitting at the table in the main room, still as a statue. Her hands lay idly on the table top. At the window stood Ana, her swollen face lit by the sun. Beatríz had never before seen how blows could disfigure a face. She almost let the jug fall from her hands. She looked around. How much worse must Bartolomé have been punished! The door to the bedroom was open. Beatríz looked in. The little room was empty.

  ‘Where is Bartolomé?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘Gone,’ answered Isabel.

  ‘But he’ll be back?’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘No, never again.’

  Beatríz had never cared much for Bartolomé. In the village, she’d even been a bit ashamed of him, and she’d avoided playing near him when he sat out on the village square. But he couldn’t just disappear out of her life like that.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked. She thought it was possible that her father’s anger could have been that terrible. When she saw Ana’s face, she could not believe that Bartolomé’s little body could withstand such a beating.

  ‘No, Papa had to take him to the royal palace. The Infanta wants to play with him,’ said Isabel.

  Beatríz’s eyes widened. She stared open-mouthed at her mother. How come Bartolomé had not been punished? How come he was actually rewarded for the bad thing he had done? Why did the Infanta want to have a crippled child, of all people, as a playmate? Jealousy welled up in her.

  ‘How come Papa didn’t take me too? I’d love to play with a real princess.’ Her disappointment was written all over her face. In her head, her father had come home in order to find a playmate for the little princess, and because she herself was not there, he had taken Bartolomé instead.

  ‘Oh, Beatríz,’ said Isabel standing up. She opened her arms and the little girl ran into them, weeping.

  ‘Believe me,’ whispered Isabel to her, ‘Bartolomé didn’t want to go, but he had to.’

  ‘Then he’s a silly billy,’ said Beatríz.

  Isabel kissed her. She didn’t have the heart to explain to Beatríz what it meant to have to be the plaything of the spoilt princess.

  ‘Mama, the next time the Infanta wants someone to play with, Papa must take me,’ Beatríz pleaded.

  Isabel sensed that Ana wanted to say something. She shook her head. Beatríz was too small. She wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Mama, does Bartolomé really have to stay there for ever?’ Beatríz had just remembered what her mother had said at the start.

  Isabel nodded. ‘Princesses are like that,’ she said.

  Beatríz thought for a moment. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘I’d rather not play with a princess after all.’

  Part 2

  Alcázar

  JUAN carried Bartolomé silently through the streets of Madrid to the enormous walls of Alcázar.

  Hundreds of people lived and worked in the palace, from the lowest kitchen maid to the mighty ministers of the Council of State. The court of Philip the Fourth, King of Spain and lord of numerous colonies, was a world in itself. Anyone who managed to gain the favour of the king could make a career even as a simple citizen. However, anyone on whom his wrath fell lost, in short order, all his privileges and offices, and if he did not leg it fast out of the orbit of the court with all its intrigue, calumny and corruption, could easily end up a beggar on the streets of Madrid. Juan knew that things went on behind the gorgeous façades of Alcázar that would have horrified an honest, hardworking citizen.

  Anyone who had the slightest influence was liable, before long, to try to supplement his earnings, which were often irregularly paid. Juan himself had to hand over some of his pay packet to the chief stablemaster. It never crossed his mind to complain about it; that was just how things were. In any case, there was no way he could complain even if he had wanted to. Protocol was strict. The coachmen were under the chief stablemaster, and it was unthinkable for Juan to lay his case before a more senior person.

  Juan hurried as fast as he could through the silent courtyards of Alcázar. He hoped he would not meet anyone he knew, who might ask questions.

  When he finally reached the gate to the Quarto del Principe, that part of the palace in which the royal family lived, he handed Bartolomé over to one of the sentries.

  ‘He’s for the Infanta,’ said Juan.

  ‘Papa,’ whispered Bartolomé, feeling the stranger’s arms reaching for him. ‘Papa, when are you going to take me home again?’

  Juan turned wordlessly and hurried away. Bartolomé looked after him as he went over the cobbled yard and under the arch of a gateway and disappeared out of Bartolomé’s life. The sentry looked with revulsion at the humped dwarf in his arms. At least he didn’t stink and was neatly if poorly dressed. It’s a whim of the rich, he thought, to keep such creatures for their amusement.

  He knocked at the gate. ‘For the Infanta of Spain,’ announced the soldier.

  And so Bartolomé was passed like a parcel from person to person, through countless corridors and rooms with thick carpets and richly coloured tapestries and paintings. At last, he was carried by one of the guard of honour to the chamberlain of the Infanta, who passed him to the first lady-in-waiting, Doña Marcela de Ulloa.

  ‘Here he is,’ she said crossly.

  Bartolomé recognised her. It was the woman dressed in black from the coach. Doña Marcela de Ulloa had been in charge of the little court that had surrounded the royal child from birth. At the age of five, Infanta Margarita had at her disposal six pages – sons of noble families – three aristocratic ladies-in-waiting, a priest and a confessor, two doctors and a surgeon, a teacher, a tutor, a dancing and music master, four chamberlains, a guard of honour consisting of twenty soldiers, ten footmen, two chambermaids, five lower serving women, a baker and a confectioner, three cooks with their kitchen staffs, two water carriers and five washerwomen. Doña Marcela de Ulloa was in charge of all these people, and she alone decided who should be admitted to the Infanta’s presence.

  Doña de Ulloa considered to whom she should pass on this dwarf, so that he could be appropriately dressed and instructed. Her choice fell on Doña Maria Augustina de Sarmiento, the youngest lady-in-waiting. She enjoyed looking after Infanta Margarita’s menagerie of animals and dwarves. She never missed an opportunity to entertain the princess with these creatures.

  ‘Fetch Maria Augustina,’ Doña de Ulloa ordered a page standing next to her, staring the whole
time at Bartolomé, who was sitting on the floor. The page bowed and hurried off.

  Doña de Ulloa turned to Bartolomé. She was never sure how much these deformed creatures understood. All the same, it was necessary to make sure they took in the most important rules of behaviour at court.

  ‘You are not to speak unless someone asks you a question. If you have to answer, you are to call the Infanta “Your Highness”. And you are not to look her in the eye and you’re to speak only briefly. Nobody may turn their back on the Infanta of Spain. Anything she asks, you are to do immediately. You may not laugh, shout or cry. Somebody will be in charge of you, to supervise you, and, since you seem not to be able to walk yourself, to make sure you are carried anywhere you are required.’

  Bartolomé let this torrent of words wash over him without saying a word himself. Doña de Ulloa got cross with the dwarf. She didn’t notice how upset Bartolomé was. In her view, he was awkward or stupid or both.

  ‘Do you have any idea what an honour it is to have attracted the interest of the Infanta?’ she rebuked him. ‘She rescued you from the gutter. For that, you owe her infinite gratitude. And the best way to show that is to fulfil her every wish. Then it will go well with you. Understood?’

  Bartolomé nodded helplessly. He had been handed over to these people, but not pulled out of the gutter. He had a mother and brothers and sisters. He had Don Cristobal. But they were out of his reach and could not come to his aid.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Doña de Ulloa contentedly.

  ‘Madam?’ Maria Augustina de Sarmiento curtsied to the first lady-in-waiting. She was a young girl with a pretty, open face.

  She looked curiously at Bartolomé. Until now, she’d considered Marie Barbola, a fat dwarf with a bloated round face, the ugliest creature in the Infanta’s menagerie. But this little fellow outdid her.

  ‘It’s the human doggy that the Infanta spotted on her outing. She wants to play with him. You’ll dress him appropriately, and when the princess does not want him around, then the dwarf Marie Barbola is to look after him,’ Doña de Ulloa ordered.