Bartolomé (7 page)

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.

‘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.

O
therwise, 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 starting 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.