Bartolomé (17 page)

‘Right away, sir!' Juan hastened to say. ‘I'll get a coach and drive it around.'

While Juan was harnessing the horses, he was thinking rapidly. It could not be too hard to find out where in Madrid the painters' apprentices met up. Every guild and association had its own tavern, where its members liked to go to enjoy each other's company. But what should he say to this apprentice? All of a sudden, the plan with the expensive puppy seemed ridiculous. He should not have been persuaded to take part in this scheme.

All the same, he set off that evening to find the tavern.

Andrés

THE tavern in which the painters' guild met was situated in a spacious vaulted cellar. Over the entrance, a wooden paintbrush and a palette were hung on an iron chain. Just inside the door, a staircase led down into the cellar. Smoke, food smells, the murmur of voices and gales of laughter came gusting out onto the street every time the door was opened.

Downstairs, countless oil lamps and candles bathed the tables, benches and chairs in a glimmering light. Business was brisk. Most of the tables were already taken, though it was still early in the evening. The tavern-keeper and two young serving boys were running around with jugs of wine and plates of food. From the kitchen came the loud voice of the tavern-keeper's wife. Every now and again she appeared, tall and stout, behind the counter and gave a good look around the room. There was a picture of her on the wall.

Andrés and Juan de Pareja had found an unoccupied table. They ordered wine with bread and soup.

‘The Infanta is coming back tomorrow,' Juan de Pareja said as they used their bread to mop up the last of the soup. ‘What will we do about Bartolomé?'

‘Maybe she'll have forgotten him,' said Andrés hopefully.

Juan de Pareja shook his head. ‘We can't count on that. We have to find a way to set him free.'

They drank their wine in silence for a while.

‘I can't think of anything,' said Andrés at last, ‘short of asking the Infanta for him.'

‘Under no circumstances. That would only make her more determined to hold on to him. A spoilt child like that wants exactly what she knows other people don't want her to have.'

‘Don't let anyone hear you talking about the Infanta like that. It could cost you your head,' Andrés warned him, but he was smiling. In this tavern, where only painters met, there were no informers, and the tavern-keeper was well used to his artist guests letting off steam from time to time about the royal household, but there was no real malice in it.

The tavern-keeper, who knew his regular customers well, came to their table now. He bowed gravely to Andrés.

‘There's someone at the bar who would like to speak to you.'

‘Are you expecting anyone?' asked Juan de Pareja, surprised.

‘No.'

Andrés stood up and looked over the heads of the crowd to the bar. He didn't know the man, but the stranger had to be employed at court, since he was wearing the uniform of a royal coachman.

‘Send him over,' said Andrés, curious.

Juan stood bashfully in front of Andrés. He didn't know how he should address him. The painter's apprentice was only a young craftsman, but his confident demeanour and the serious, quiet face of the older, carefully dressed man beside him aroused Juan's respect. He gave a slight bow.

‘Sir,' said Juan, turning to Andrés, ‘please forgive my asking what I am sure is a strange question, but do you know Bartolomé?' Juan faltered. ‘He is crippled and a dwarf.'

Andrés banged his fist on the table.

‘Do I know him!' he cried. ‘It's because of him that we are sitting here racking our brains. We're trying to come up with a plan …'

Juan de Pareja interrupted him. ‘Andrés, I think the coachman wants to ask us something. We should let him speak.'

He pointed to a free chair. ‘Sit with us. We'll get the taverner to bring us another jug of wine and a mug.'

He waved at the tavern-keeper and ordered. Juan sat down with the painters. What could Bartolomé have been doing that made this fine gentleman think about him?

‘Now, what did you want to ask us?' Andrés looked at Juan with interest.

‘I …' Juan found it difficult to go on. He had never before acknowledged Bartolomé as his son.

‘Go on!' said Andrés impatiently.

‘I am Bartolomé's father, and I want to take him home.'

‘Bartolomé's father!' Andrés leapt up and reached over to shake Juan heartily by the hand. ‘Do you know what a talented son you have? You are to be congratulated.'

Juan had no idea what Andrés was talking about. His confusion was so clearly written in his face that Juan de Pareja took pity on him.

‘Bartolomé came to us in the studio to be made up by Andrés. He took an interest in our craft, and Andrés allowed him to spend time with us and help out in the studio.'

‘I let him paint a picture, and he has talent, great talent. He has the makings of a painter.' Andrés cut the explanation short.

Picture, painter, talent? Juan looked from Andrés' eager face to the quiet, thoughtful face of Juan de Pareja.

‘He is a dwarf, a crippled dwarf,' he stammered. They couldn't possibly mean Bartolomé.

Andrés nodded, unperturbed.

‘His hands are all right. And so are his eyes and his head. That's all that's required for painting. You must allow us to train him.'

‘But a person like him can never be a painter.' It was an absurd idea. The gentlemen must be joking.

Juan de Pareja nodded. ‘He can't become a qualified painter. That's correct. The guild would not allow it. But he has talent, and I would be happy to teach him. When he has mastered his craft, he would have no difficulty in getting work in a studio, well-paid work. He could earn his keep and, if he is frugal, he could even save a little.'

Juan was bowled over. He had come here with the hope of finding a way to get Bartolomé back to the village, and here he was, sitting with strangers who were telling him that this crippled child could earn his own money.

Andrés misinterpreted Juan's silence. ‘You really must allow him to study with Don Pareja. It's not so important that he can't qualify formally as a painter. Bartolomé understands that, but he wants to paint. Anything is better than this terrible dog's life that he is forced to live at the moment.'

Juan hung his head in shame. Andrés' words pierced him like an accusation.

‘There was nothing I could do to defend him. When the Infanta saw Bartolomé on the street, she wanted to have him. I'm just a simple coachman.'

Juan de Pareja put an arm over Juan's shoulder.

‘The important thing now is that we find a way together to get him away from the Infanta,' he said. ‘Later, we can take the time to discuss his future.'

‘We can't think of anything better,' Andrés admitted freely, ‘than to fall on our knees and beg her to let him go.'

‘And that is more likely to have the exact opposite effect,' Juan de Pareja added.

The two painters looked at Juan expectantly.

‘My family and I have come up with a plan,' said Juan bashfully. ‘But in order to make it work we have to make contact with Bartolomé. That's why I came looking for you.'

He explained the plan quickly.

‘It might work,' said Juan de Pareja thoughtfully.

‘It has to work,' said Andrés. ‘I just don't know how.'

‘We thought maybe Bartolomé should make a present of the little dog to the Infanta, and then ask her to let him go,' said Juan.

‘She won't agree to that,' replied Juan de Pareja. ‘She'll want to keep both of them.'

‘It'll have to be like magic,' murmured Andrés.

‘What do you mean, magic?'

‘Magic. Bartolomé disappears and the dog shows up. Then the Infanta will think that Bartolomé has been changed into a real dog.'

‘But that's impossible,' said Juan.

Juan de Pareja thought for a while. The solution was getting closer. He must just … He smiled. He was remembering his trip to Rome with Velázquez.

‘This magic can happen,' he said confidently.

The Magician and his Trick

NICOLASITO PERTUSATO was the reluctant focus of a small group that had gathered in the painters' studio.

Juan de Pareja, dressed in dark colours and serious as ever, Andrés in his stained painter's smock and Léon were standing around the vain little creature, who was all dickied up. Bartolomé was sitting a little to the side, on the cold marble flagstones. He had Justo in his arms. His father had handed the dog over to Andrés that morning outside the palace.

Bartolomé was stroking the little dog tenderly. If it all worked out, it would be taking his place at the Infanta's side in a matter of hours. Then he would be free to start a new life.

Juan de Pareja had spoken to Bartolomé's father and they had made the arrangements. He was going to be allowed to stay in Madrid. As Joaquín lived with the baker, he was going to live with the painters. He would be able to come home on visits from time to time, and one day, he would give his father a few coins from his first pay packet. He would never have thought it possible that it could have worked out like this.

The little dog rubbed his soft snout against Bartolomé's arm.

‘She will definitely be fond of you,' the dwarf promised him.

The puppy licked Bartolomé's hand with his red tongue.

‘If she hurts you,' the dwarf whispered earnestly, ‘you can bite her, do you hear? She's really only a little girl and she has no right to mess you about. You have to watch out for yourself. If she kicks you out, then you can come to me in the studio. I'll hide you.'

Bartolomé hugged the puppy close.

Juan de Pareja's strong voice came through loud and clear. ‘Nicolasito, you are the only one who has the skill for this,' Juan de Pareja was explaining earnestly.

Nicolasito gave an arrogant nod. ‘I know. But why should I do it? What's in it for me?'

Bartolomé's confident mood vanished. Of course Nicolasito had no interest in helping him. Why would he? The worse things were for him, the more pleased the page was.

‘Just think!' Andrés urged him. What he'd really like to do, though he would never say it aloud, would be to give the silly dwarf in his page costume a clip on the ear.
Is it not enough,
he wanted to shout,
that you can help Bartolomé to start a new life?

Nicolasito's eyes were glittering. He felt his power, and he was enjoying it.

Juan de Pareja laid a soothing hand on Andrés' shoulder. Andrés did not finish his sentence. He stared furiously at Nicolasito. Nicolasito smiled.

Juan de Pareja picked up where Andrés had left off. He spoke thoughtfully.

‘The lady-in-waiting Maria Augustina de Sarmiento would be very annoyed if you outwitted her. She has not got a high opinion of dwarves. I once heard her calling you the Infanta's dolly.'

Bartolomé pricked up his ears. Nicolasito – a doll, a plaything? Had all that talk of friendship just been bravado?

‘That's not true, you're lying!' cried Nicolasito. His pretty face was fiery red.

‘I heard that too,' Léon chipped in. ‘You should pay her back. And now you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.'

Nicolasito thought it over. If he went along with the painters' plan he could get one over on the lady-in-waiting. In the Infanta's eyes, he would be the greatest, and if he played his cards right, he could … An enchanting dream began to play itself out before Nicolasito's eyes. He could make Maria Augustina de Sarmiento the laughing stock of the court. If the Infanta was on his side, then the lady-in-waiting wouldn't have a chance of defending herself.

On the other hand, it irritated him that Bartolomé, of all people, would gain his freedom through this plan. How in the world had the cripple managed to gain the obvious attention and favour of the painters? Enviously, he looked over at Bartolomé. Nobody had ever put themselves out for
him
.

Juan de Pareja must have sensed Nicolasito's negative feelings.

‘This magic trick has never before been performed in a European court,' he lied. ‘It comes from the east and is the bestguarded secret of the magicians there.'

In reality, he had seen the trick in the court of an Italian count and had persuaded the magician, on a whim, to show him how it was done. It was a simple but clever mechanism that, together with two mirrors, made the trick work. In return, he had painted a portrait of the magician.

‘If he hasn't got the nerve for it, then I'll do it,' Andrés added angrily.

Juan de Pareja shook his head.

‘The trick depends on sleight-of-hand. Only a person who has mastered that to perfection will succeed in it.'

Nicolasito wavered. Juan de Pareja's words flattered him.

Suddenly he grinned. Of course he would agree. Wouldn't it give him the power to reveal how the trick worked at a later stage, whenever he felt like it, and so force Bartolomé to be a human dog once again?

Juan de Pareja could see what was behind Nicolasito's sly smile. But once Bartolomé had been turned into a proper dog, in full view of the Infanta, he would be able to protect the boy from any more cruelties Nicolasito might have in store for him.

‘Agreed,' said Nicolasito.

Bartolomé gave a sigh of relief. Nicolasito was the right choice. Once the Infanta's favourite dwarf had declared himself ready to help, then he was very keen to make sure that the performance of which he was to be the star was properly organised. He gave orders, demanded a cloak of black velvet and secretly had his face made up.

They were all ready when the Infanta's coach drove into the palace courtyard late in the afternoon. Nicolasito was waiting for her there. Bartolomé hunkered next to him, dressed as a dog. Behind them stood a large wooden crate, painted with strange characters and symbols.

‘Real Arabian magic formulas,' Juan de Pareja had explained to Nicolasito.

‘Nonsense, we painted whatever we felt like,' whispered Andrés to Bartolomé. ‘Juan hasn't got a word of Arabic. He came to Europe as a child.'

In the crate, in a compartment hidden behind a mirror, was Justo. From outside the box, Bartolomé was talking reassuringly to him. The little dog was not to be scared of the dark.

Andrés, Léon and Juan de Pareja had also changed their clothes. They were wearing long white robes and were standing humbly behind Nicolasito.

The Infanta allowed herself to be lifted from the coach by Don Nieto, her chamberlain. She was tired and cranky after the hot, bumpy journey.

Doña de Sarmiento, equally exhausted and sweating, followed her. When she saw the absurdly dressed Nicolasito, she raised her eyebrows disapprovingly. What was he thinking of to approach the Infanta like this? She wanted to get rid of him, but Nicolasito was ahead of her. He pranced up to the Infanta and gave an exaggerated bow.

‘Greetings, my Infanta. I am the Great Wizard of the Far East and I bring you the most amazing magic, to cheer up my Infanta after her …' Nicolasito could not refrain from throwing a meaningful look at the lady-in-waiting, who was standing by the carriage in her crumpled travelling dress. ‘… after your extremely boring journey, which you have had to undertake without the benefit of my company.'

The little Infanta smiled. Her tiredness was forgotten and her bad mood had disappeared. Intrigued, she looked at her page from the arms of her chamberlain.

‘I am going to perform the greatest magic trick of all time for my Infanta!' boasted Nicolasito.

The little girl clapped her hands delightedly. With a sweeping arm movement, Nicolasito pointed at Bartolomé and the crate.

‘
Entero magis Labyrinthum
.'

Obediently, Bartolomé sat up and begged for the last time. The Infanta took hardly any notice of him. She was too absorbed in anticipation of the promised trick.

Andrés came forward hastily and opened the little door of the wooden crate.

‘This crate is totally empty,' whispered Nicolasito in a dark voice. Out of the folds of his velvet cloak, he took a magic wand and he made circles in the air in front of the opening.

Bartolomé crawled into the crate. Andrés closed the trapdoor. The Infanta had escaped from the arms of her chamberlain and, standing on the ground, was watching the performance openmouthed. Nicolasito made mysterious movements with his wand and murmured the magic words that he had invented himself, in a language also of his own invention. Andrés, Léon and Juan de Pareja turned the crate a couple of times in a circle so that the wooden boards clattered loudly on the cobblestones. In this way, any sound from the crate would be disguised.

Inside the box, Bartolomé opened the hidden trapdoor and changed places with the puppy. Justo licked Bartolomé's face in delight.

‘Stop that,' Bartolomé reprimanded the puppy. ‘You must keep very quiet and don't bark.' He shut the trapdoor carefully again, and the mirrors slipped back into place.

At that very moment, the turning stopped.

Outside, the painters took a step back and bowed to Nicolasito, who stepped up to the crate, and, with a single movement of his hand, yanked open the little door. The little dog blinked, startled, in the bright sunlight. In front of it, it could see the outline of a little girl.

‘A dog,' yelled the child in a high voice.

Justo did what he had been taught to do. He ran to the girl and leapt up at her in excitement. The Infanta went down on her knees and stretched out her arms.

Justo hopped into them, barked in his soft doggy voice and pressed his funny little snout to the royal cheek. He took the heart of the Infanta by storm.

Nicolasito stood gravely by, assured of the princess's gratitude. Maria Augustina de Sarmiento gathered her skirts together and hurried away. Nobody noticed Andrés, Juan de Pareja and Léon carrying the crate with Bartolomé in it quickly into the palace.

Upstairs, at the tall window of the studio, stood Don Velázquez, watching the events below in the courtyard. He would change his masterpiece once again, he decided, with a sudden burst of inspiration. Instead of the king's hound, he would paint in the Infanta's new dog. Not as a little puppy, but fully grown. When he was older, Justo would be a fine dog with a thick, gleaming, golden-brown coat.

Don Velázquez started to scrape off the half-dried layers of paint. Underneath, the outline of the original drawing started to show through. He didn't notice Juan de Pareja coming into the studio with Bartolomé in his arms. They came and stood behind him.

‘Why?' Bartolomé dared to ask the famous court painter when he saw the picture.

Don Velázquez leapt up, startled, turned around and looked into Bartolomé's anxious face.

‘I'm not going to paint
you
,' he assured the dwarf. ‘I'm going to paint Justo, as he will be one day, in your place.'

Bartolomé let out a sigh of relief.

‘And you will get down to work and mix the appropriate paints,' Don Velázquez continued. ‘But of course,' he turned to Juan de Pareja, ‘only if your own master allows you,' he said politely and with an emphasis that Juan de Pareja fully understood.

The Moorish painter, who would never be a master, did not flinch. ‘I am a student myself and always will be. Whatever my esteemed master suggests, I can only act on it, and anyone who wants to study with me will do the same,' he promised quietly.

Don Velázquez nodded, satisfied. It was right that Juan de Pareja knew his place, and would train Bartolomé to take his place also.

Bartolomé didn't care about all that. The main thing was that he was going to be allowed to learn to paint. Carefully, he chose a suitable shade from the great selection of pigments.

Through the open window came Nicolasito's voice, prompting Justo to show off his tricks. The Infanta clapped her hands and her laugh echoed across the courtyard.

Never again,
thought Bartolomé, bending over the grinding glass and starting eagerly to grind the brown powder.