Bartolomé (9 page)

Accident

IN the meantime, Ana had found Jeronima at the silversmith's. The childish woman came running towards her, howling. The smith had shouted at her when she had tried to put one of the silver chains around her neck.

After Ana had consoled her, they went together to the well. Jeronima offered to carry the basket, but Ana shook her head.

‘It's my turn,' she said slyly. ‘On the way home, I have to call in to the monastery to pick something up, and then it'll be your turn again to carry the basket.'

They washed the few garments quickly. It didn't occur to Jeronima that there should have been much more washing than these three shirts in such a very heavy basket.

‘Will you take me with you again tomorrow?' she asked Ana, as she shouldered the basket.

‘Not tomorrow,' said Ana kindly. ‘Maybe next week.'

She had decided to ask Don Cristobal to take Bartolomé for only one lesson a week. She was afraid that if she took Jeronima with her too often, someone would smell a rat.

Jeronima refused to wait on her own outside the monastery. ‘That bad man will come and shout at me,' she muttered anxiously, pointing an accusing finger over at the silversmith's.

Ana thought it over. She could not bring Jeronima into the monastery. Nobody could be allowed to see Bartolomé.

The church was next to the monastery. Ana led Jeronima into the cool, dim interior of the church. An old woman was sitting in a corner, selling candles. Ana rooted a coin out of her pocket. The candle for Bartolomé's lesson hadn't been paid yet. She pressed the coin into Jeronima's hand.

‘Go and buy a candle. Light it over there, in front of the picture. There, where all the candles are burning. I'll be back in a moment.'

Jeronima stared at the old woman. ‘Will she shout?' she asked fearfully.

‘No,' said Ana calmly. ‘Shouting is not allowed in church, and anyway, you can pay for the candle with this coin.'

‘I've never paid for anything,' Jeronima confided. ‘I'm too stupid for that, my mother says.'

‘No, you're not. I think you are clever enough to buy something by yourself.'

‘Really?'

‘For sure!'

Jeronima went shyly up to the old woman who had a basket of thin white candles beside her. Jeronima turned around a few times to Ana. Every time, Ana nodded encouragingly. Slowly, pride overcame Jeronima's fear. Yes, she
could
buy something herself. When she reached the old woman, she asked confidently for a candle and showed her coin.

Ana made a run for it.

She knocked loudly at the monastery. It took a while before Don Cristobal opened the gate.

‘Is Bartolomé ready?' asked Ana hastily, putting down the basket.

Bartolomé came lurching along by the wall.

‘Get a move on,' said Ana.

She didn't want Jeronima getting scared and getting into bother again. She hauled her brother roughly into the basket and covered him with the wet washing.

‘Is that really necessary?' muttered Don Cristobal. ‘Maybe I should just go and speak to your father.'

‘No!' cried Bartolomé from inside the basket. ‘I can only come if nobody sees me on the street.'

Don Cristobal sighed. What sort of idea did Bartolomé's father have of his son's future as a scribe if he could not show himself in public? Bartolomé certainly was in danger of being mocked, but all this secrecy with the laundry basket was ridiculous. The monk understood that the sister went so far as to wash the clothes that they used to hide Bartolomé's twisted body.

‘Can my brother come back next week?' Ana interrupted Don Cristobal's thoughts.

‘He can come as often as he likes. I'm always at the gate,' said the monk.

‘Tomorrow,' squeaked Bartolomé from his hiding place

‘No,' said Ana. ‘It will be a week before I can bring you again.'

She opened the gate and dragged the basket out. Don Cristobal noticed that Ana left the laundry basket in front of the entrance and went hurrying off to the church, where a fat woman was waiting for her. She took the woman by the hand and led her to the basket. The woman was smiling at Don Cristobal, but her eyes had an empty, slightly lost look. She bent over willingly as Ana put the straps over her shoulders.

‘Now it's my turn again,' said the woman, standing up.

‘Goodbye, Don Cristobal,' called Ana.

‘Goodbye, Ana. Goodbye, Bartolomé.'

Don Cristobal went back into the monastery.
What a family,
he thought.
Bartolomé crippled, and this young woman without much sense.

‘Did he mean me?' asked Jeronima, when they were out of earshot.

‘No. He probably saw someone on the street behind us. That's who he was talking to.'

‘But he meant you,' Jeronima insisted.

‘Yes,' answered Ana shortly. She was in a hurry. She wanted to get home before her mother came back from the market with Beatríz.

‘Will we go to the monastery again the next time?' Jeronima asked.

‘Perhaps,' said Ana carefully.

‘Then you'll have to tell the monk my name too. I want to be greeted also,' Jeronima demanded.

Ana promised and hurried on.

Jeronima ran after her. ‘And can I buy a candle again?' she asked.

‘If we get home quickly, you can!'

Jeronima started to walk happily. She overtook Ana. The basket swayed on her broad back. Ana ran behind her.

Too late, Jeronima saw a fabulous coach coming out of a side street. The horses shied when the fat young woman suddenly appeared in front of them. Jeronima's arms flew open with fright. The straps slipped over her round shoulders and the basket fell onto the cobbles with a loud noise. Jeronima ran away, weeping.

The basket swayed, toppled and finally rolled, at first gently, then faster and faster towards the coach. Bartolomé could hear the scrape of wood on the cobbles, the squeak of the wheels, the metallic clang of hoofs on the roadway. He heard the loud voice of the coachman, who was pulling with all his might on the reins. Just as the coach finally pulled up, the laundry basket came to a halt in front of the wheel and broke open.

Bartolomé unwrapped himself from the wet clothes. The newly filled inkpot in his cloth bag had smashed, and Bartolomé's face was all blue. People came running towards him from all directions, staring at him. He couldn't see Ana anywhere. Two footmen in livery jumped down from their place at the back of the coach, trying to keep back the thronging mass of people.

Suddenly Bartolomé heard a girl's voice over his head. He looked up and saw the most charming being he had ever laid eyes on. It was a little girl, a little younger than Beatríz, leaning curiously out of the window of the elegant black coach. Her cheeks were pink with excitement. Her carefully styled blond hair framed her white face with long curls. Some bright yellow flowers were stuck in her hair, behind her left ear. She had big dark eyes and her lips were cherry-red. Bartolomé had never seen such a pretty child. She stuck her arm out of the window and pointed at him.

‘Doña,' she called, ‘There's something very strange down there.'

The noble lady-in-waiting with a black veil stuck her head out of the window and stared down at Bartolomé. He got frightened and tried to sidle away from the coach and from all these people.

‘Doña, it must be a new animal!' called the little girl. ‘Look, it walks like a little dog, isn't it funny?' The child clapped her hands in delight. ‘I'd like to play with this human dog. Bring it to me,' she said imperiously, as if she was used to getting everything she wanted at once.

‘Infanta, it's dirty and it will definitely have fleas,' cried the lady.

‘The footmen or the coachman are to catch it,' insisted the Infanta.

Bartolomé had no intention of being caught, and since the people were blocking his way forward, he turned around and tried to creep his way through, under the coach.

If only Ana were here,
thought Bartolomé. Why didn't she come and rescue him?

Ana was pressing herself up against the wall of a house. Rigid with shock, she watched the drama. At first she thought that the basket, together with Bartolomé, would be squashed under the hooves of the horses or the wheels of the coach. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Bartolomé seemed to be unharmed. Then she saw the pretty child looking delightedly out of the window of the coach.

It must be the little Infanta Margarita,
thought Ana. What other child in Madrid was driven in a carriage accompanied by footmen? Her father had often told them about the pretty princess. Her father! Ana looked in horror towards the coach. There he sat, ramrod straight, staring down at Bartolomé. What would he do with Bartolomé, and with her, if he caught sight of her?

Juan was doing nothing, apart from wishing the ground would open and swallow him up. His own crippled son, whom he believed to be holed up in the back room of the apartment, had stopped the royal coach in full view of everyone. Worse still, he had attracted the attention of the Infanta. Juan sat on the coachman's seat as if he were nailed to it, but he was seized with a dreadful anger. How dare Bartolomé turn up here and confront him like this! He felt horribly humiliated. Now everyone would see what kind of monster he had for a son.

‘I want him!' The words of the Infanta pressed in on Juan and broke his torpor. He leapt down from his seat, grabbed Bartolomé by the foot and dragged him out from under the coach. He would dearly like to have thrown Bartolomé at the wall of a nearby house, over the heads of all these staring people.

‘Coachman, give me the human dog!' The Infanta made to open the door of the coach but her lady-in-waiting held her back.

‘Infanta,' she said, ‘I'm sure he stinks and has lice.'

She looked with revulsion at Bartolomé, who was being held upside down by the ankle by his father.

I don't stink,
thought Bartolomé. He wished his father would defend him. But Juan said nothing. He looked at Bartolomé as if he were a total stranger.

In spite of her fear of her father, Ana had pushed her way to him through the onlookers. She didn't want to abandon Bartolomé.

Bartolomé saw her and stretched out his hands to her.

‘
He
can wash him, then, and then bring him to me,' insisted the Infanta.

‘Certainly!' Juan bowed, and as he stood up straight again, he caught sight of Ana. He pushed Bartolomé into her arms.

Bartolomé clung to Ana. She held him tight. The two of them could sense the violent anger that radiated from Juan. Ana tried to protect Bartolomé from it with her embrace.

‘Who's that?' asked the Infanta jealously.

‘My daughter Ana, Infanta. She'll wash him.'

The Infanta nodded her agreement. ‘But I want to have him afterwards. He's going to be my human dog.' She leant back happily.

‘Go home, disappear,' Juan ordered his two children quietly. Ana didn't hesitate for a moment. With Bartolomé in her arms, she hurried away.

Home Again

ANA carried the weeping Bartolomé home through the streets. Bartolomé hid his face in her blouse, as if that would prevent people from seeing his deformed body. But he could not close his ears. He could hear the cornerboys shouting insults after him. Someone tried to trip Ana up. She stumbled but did not fall.

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.