Bartolomé (10 page)

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 struggle. 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.

A human dog! Indeed, this dwarf with his short legs, his hump and his long arms was more like an animal than a human. The Infanta had never owned anything like this. Maria Augustina had a lively imagination. She was already thinking about the best way to dress the creature so that it really did resemble a dog.

‘I need bathwater and seamstresses, and they are to bring me brown, furry material,' she announced confidently.

Doña de Ulloa nodded her agreement. She had made a good choice. Maria Augustina was the right person to dress up this dwarf.

‘You can take him away and order anything you need,' the first lady-in-waiting said graciously.

‘Follow me,' Maria Augustina said to Bartolomé.

‘He can't walk, only crawl,' said Doña de Ulloa. ‘You'll have to carry him.'

I can walk if someone holds my hand,
Bartolomé wanted to say, looking up into the lovely face of Maria Augustina. He trusted her, and would have liked to take her by the hand. So he stuck out his long arm freely to the lady-in-waiting. Maria Augustina pulled back in horror.

‘You can't expect me to do that. Marie Barbola can bring him to my room,' she said in disgust. She lifted her skirts and, after a quick curtsy, she hurried away. She would never carry one of these creatures.

Bright red and deeply wounded, Bartolomé hung back. A little later, he was grabbed roughly by a dwarf woman.

‘Come with me. Give me your hand. I'm not going to carry you,' said the dwarf that had to be Marie Barbola.

Although she was not much taller than Bartolomé, she was astonishingly strong. With a practised hand, she supported him so that he could totter along beside her.

‘What's your name?' she asked when they were out of earshot of the first lady-in-waiting.

‘Bartolomé,' answered Bartolomé softly.

‘Lovely name. But nobody will call you that here. The Infanta likes to think up names for her playthings. She calls me Moonface, when she's in good humour. Cowpat, when she's in a bad mood.'

‘I'm not a toy,' Bartolomé dared to contradict her. ‘I am a child, and I want to go home.'

Marie Barbola laughed bitterly. ‘From now on, you are her toy and the palace is your home. The quicker you get used to that, the better. Make sure that she likes you and it will be fine. She'll give you sweets, and you'll be allowed to go everywhere with her. But woe betide you if you annoy her. Then you'll be thrown into a corner like a broken old doll.'

‘When she doesn't want me any more, can I go home then?' asked Bartolomé hopefully.

Marie Barbola gave him a slap in the face with her free hand. ‘Don't even think about it.' But when she saw Bartolomé's terrified face, she stopped in the long corridor and turned to him with a serious face. ‘If the Infanta wants rid of you, you will be thrown out into the gutter in front of the palace. Nobody will bother to take you home.'

Bartolomé's cheeks were burning.

‘You're lucky that Maria Augustina has taken you on,' Marie Barbola informed him. ‘Her pretty little head is full of ideas. I've been here for years. But only since she's had to look after me has the Infanta started to take any notice of me. Recently, Maria Augustina had my face painted yellow. Then a servant had to hang me upside down, from a rope, in front of the Infanta's bedroom window, moving me back and forward. The princess was thrilled. Now she calls me Moonface and she's given me a new dress.'

‘She called me Human Dog when I was lying in front of her coach,' murmured Bartolomé.

Marie Barbola clapped delightedly. ‘It's good if she has a name for you already. I'm sure Maria Augustina will think of something good. We'll go to her at once. She doesn't like waiting and we'd better not annoy her.'