Bartolomé

  ‘Why is it so white?’ he asked Bartolomé, putting a brown thumb on the mill.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Bartolomé shyly. ‘It just seemed right.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ Juan de Pareja chided him. ‘A painter must try to puzzle out why.’

  Bartolomé thought it over. Why had he painted the mill such a radiant white? In reality, it had been dark grey in the evening light. Maybe that had been a mistake. Should he paint over it in a darker colour?

  ‘Think it over,’ said Juan de Pareja, ‘and when you know why, come to me. I’d like to know.’

  After the fourth sitting, Don Velázquez sent Marie Barbola and Nicolasito away. Then he turned to Bartolomé. ‘In the morning, it’s your turn.’

  Bartolomé nodded.

  ‘Suitably made up and properly dressed,’ Don Velázquez aded. He’d only just noticed that the dwarf had taken off his costume.

  Bartolomé hung his head. He hated the dog costume, but he had no choice. In the picture, he had to be the Infanta’s human dog.

  That night, Bartolomé slept secretly in a corner of the studio. Andrés noticed, but he let him be. He was sure that Bartolomé wouldn’t do any harm and he wanted to let him have the feeling of being an apprentice painter for a while longer.

  The next morning, Bartolomé silently donned his costume. Andrés helped him to button it up.

  ‘It’s not so very terrible!’ he said, trying to console the dwarf as he began to make up his sad face. ‘Just remember, a dog stands for loyalty and courage.’

  Bartolomé bit his lip. He was not a dog. He didn’t want to be a dog, not even the bravest, most loyal dog in Spain. He wanted to be Bartolomé.

  Don Velázquez told him to lie sideways on the floor, to stretch out his arms and legs and to keep his head up.

  The master started to paint. Bartolomé paid attention. He’d already seen, when the painter was doing Nicolasito and Marie Barbola, how quickly and confidently Don Velázquez painted the figures with swift brushstrokes.

  But this time it didn’t work like that. The court painter kept stopping up short. At one point, he went so far as to throw the brush angrily on the table and scrape off the paint he’d applied with a scalpel. He was in a bad mood. It had not been a good idea to include this crippled child in his ridiculous costume in the picture. If only the Infanta had not insisted on it! He’d been able to render the fat dwarf woman and the dainty page with some kind of dignity with his brush – but this!

  Bartolomé hung his head. It was tiring to hold it up for so long.

  ‘Stop that,’ Don Velázquez snarled at him. Although Bartolomé’s muscles ached, he lifted his head again obediently. But not high enough.

  ‘Can you not at least behave like a proper dog? That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  Don Velázquez had put down his palette and come near to Bartolomé. He dragged the dwarf’s head roughly into the right position.

  Bartolomé gave a loud cry of pain. So loud, that the whole studio suddenly fell silent.

  Horrified, Don Velázquez let him go. Bartolomé slumped back. His neck and back hurt terribly. He felt as if he could not move his head any more. He felt sick and dizzy. The apprentices and Juan de Pareja came over to him.

  ‘I think I’ve hurt him. I didn’t mean to,’ said Don Velázquez contritely.

  Juan de Pareja crouched down to Bartolomé and picked him up. He laid him on the table, which Léon and Andrés quickly cleared. In front of everyone, he gently took Bartolomé’s costume off and felt his back, neck and shoulders.

  Bartolomé started, and suppressed a yell.

  ‘His shoulder is dislocated,’ muttered Don Pareja and he started to massage the deformed little back.

  ‘I have to loosen up your muscles and then I can click it back into place for you,’ he explained to Bartolomé, who was lying silently on the table with his eyes closed.

  Nobody said anything. They had all studied how the body was structured so that they could paint bodies properly. But even Don Velázquez, the great master, had no idea that there could be such a badly deformed and twisted body under the costume. But he understood what his anger had caused. He saw the way Bartolomé clenched his teeth to prevent himself from crying out again. It was his fault that the dwarf had to suffer this pain.

  ‘I can’t paint him as a human dog,’ murmured Don Velázquez. He went back to the canvas and carefully removed the layers of paint that showed Bartolomé as a grotesque figure, half-human, half-dog.

  Andrés went up to him. ‘Don Velázquez?’ he said.

  The court painter liked Andrés. He reminded him of himself when he had been a pupil.

  ‘What is it, Andrés?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t you paint Bartolomé as a proper dog, big and strong and beautiful? I’ve told him that a painter always paints in a dog as a symbol of courage and loyalty. And Bartolomé is very brave.’

  ‘So Bartolomé is his name,’ said Don Velázquez thoughtfully.

  Andrés waited for an answer. None came. Lost in thought, Don Velázquez reached for a brush and palette.

  Dream of the Future

  DON VELÁZQUEZ was thinking. If he took up Andrés’ suggestion he would run up against the rules of the court. The king had approved the set-up for the picture. There couldn’t be any changes to that. On the other hand, could he not paint Bartolomé as the Infanta saw him?

  It was impossible. Over the years that he had been the king’s painter, he had often painted the court dwarves, but he had always tried to give them their due dignity. People had robbed Bartolomé of his human dignity, however, by dressing him as a dog and making him behave as such.

  Don Velázquez reached a decision. I’ll do it, he thought, and started to paint.

  Before Andrés’ eyes, a real dog appeared, dark brown, trim, but big and strong.

  ‘It’s Jupiter, the king’s favourite hunting dog,’ said Don Velázquez to Andrés, when he was finished. ‘The king will like that. And the Infanta will have to go along with it.’ Don Velázquez smiled with satisfaction.

  Meanwhile, Juan de Pareja had put Bartolomé’s shoulder back in place and Léon had put his painter’s smock on him. Don Velázquez went over to them.

  ‘Bartolomé, would you like to see the picture?’ he asked.

  Bartolomé shook his head. Never, he thought.

  ‘You should, though,’ said Andrés and picked him up from the table with a swift movement. He carried him to the picture.

  Bartolomé closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to see it,’ he said miserably. ‘I know how ugly I am.’

  ‘Rubbish. Open your eyes!’ replied Andrés. ‘Otherwise, I will never let you paint again.’

  Reluctantly, Bartolomé opened his eyes. In front of him was the picture.

  ‘It’s not me!’ he cried. ‘It’s a real dog. Don Velázquez hasn’t painted me.’ Relieved, and at the same time upset that he was too ugly to appear in a painting, he looked over at Don Velázquez.

  ‘I did paint you,’ the master said.

  ‘I’m not a dog,’ said Bartolomé.

  ‘I know, but the Infanta has dressed you as a dog. She only sees your outside appearance. After all, she’s only a little girl. We have to forgive her that.’ Don Velázquez was choosing his words carefully. ‘A painter tries to see what is inside, hidden, and to capture it with his brushstrokes on the canvas.’

  ‘But that’s not me,’ Bartolomé said stubbornly. Whatever else was going to happen, he decided at this moment never to be a dog again.

  Don Velázquez nodded. ‘That’s right. You are not a dog. For this reason, I could not paint your outer self as the Infanta sees you. So that is why I took your inner self and painted it in the form of Jupiter, the king’s favourite hound. Just look at how strong that dog is. That is your strength.’

  Bartolomé stared at the dog. Was the dog’s outer self really his own inner self? Or was Don Velázquez just trying to console him, a sad, ugly little dwarf?

 
Bartolomé looked at the picture for a long time. The dog did not look back at him. He lay peacefully under Nicolasito’s foot.

  All at once, Bartolomé could see what Don Velázquez meant. He saw the dog’s strength, the muscles under the smooth, dark brown coat. Nicolasito was not in control of the dog; rather, the dog was good-naturedly tolerating Nicolasito’s stuck-up posing.

  At any moment, Bartolomé thought, that dog could have enough of this, leap up and give Nicolasito an unpleasant surprise. It made him smile.

  ‘You see,’ Don Velázquez said contentedly.

  Bartolomé nodded. Something suddenly clicked in his head.

  ‘Don Pareja,’ he called excitedly to the Moorish painter, who was varnishing a painting nearby. ‘I know now why I painted the mill so white in my picture!’

  ‘Your picture?’ asked Don Velázquez in surprise.

  ‘Master, I let him paint a picture,’ explained Andrés, ‘using leftover paints and an old board. The board was no good for anything else.’

  Don Velázquez nodded.

  ‘It’s a good picture,’ added Juan de Pareja. ‘Bartolomé has talent.’

  He got the picture and showed it to Don Velázquez.

  ‘Why did you paint the mill so white?’ he asked.

  ‘Because it was our destination on this long day of travelling. My father planned to arrive in daylight, but we didn’t make it. We were too slow. By the time we arrived, it was dark, but even so, the milled seemed white in my memory, rather than grey. As if it hung on to the daylight a bit longer, to show the travellers that they had reached their destination, safe and sound, and could stay there overnight.’

  Suddenly shy, Bartolomé stopped. This idea was probably stupid and childish. Andrés and Léon would laugh at it.

  ‘The way a painter thinks,’ said Juan de Pareja admiringly.

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartolomé, astonished.

  Everyone around him nodded in agreement. Even Don Velázquez.

  ‘You have the makings of a painter, Bartolomé,’ Juan de Pareja said.

  ‘Dwarves can’t become painters,’ said Bartolomé softly. ‘Even if they want to very badly.’

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Don Velázquez.

  ‘I did,’ admitted Andrés. ‘How could Bartolomé drag buckets of gesso around the place, learn to make paper, carry wooden boards, stretch canvases, frame paintings and, last but not least, clear up the studio?’

  ‘A painter has his apprentices for that kind of donkey work,’ Don Velázquez said.

  Andrés flushed. ‘I don’t want to be awkward,’ he said, ‘but anyone who wants to be a painter has to be an apprentice first.’

  ‘Or perhaps not,’ said Don Velázquez quietly.

  ‘And how could he paint large pictures?’ asked Andrés.

  ‘He could specialise in miniatures,’ Don Velázquez came back at him.

  ‘What painter would take him on under those conditions? And what would the guild have to say?’ Léon chipped in, thinking of the examination he was going to have to do shortly.

  Don Velázquez said nothing. Every painter had to be approved by the Guild of St Luke. It was unthinkable that they would recognise Bartolomé as a painter without the appropriate training. It was equally unthinkable that Bartolomé could learn the craft in accordance with the guild’s rules.

  ‘You see,’ said Andrés. ‘Not even you, the king’s court painter, could take Bartolomé on as an apprentice. Bartolomé simply can’t become a painter, even though he is so talented.’

  Bartolomé, in whom a vague hope had started to grow during this exchange, now balled his fists.

  ‘I’m so fed up with it all!’ he cried. ‘Some people hurt me because they hate me, others because they don’t care about me one way or another, and you …’

  ‘And we’ve hurt you because we gave you a hope that cannot be realised,’ Juan de Pareja finished his sentence for him.

  Bartolomé nodded. A single tear ran down his cheek.

  Andrés and Léon looked away in embarrassment. They liked Bartolomé; they’d like to help him, but there was nothing they could do about the strict rules of the guild.

  ‘Don Velázquez.’ Juan de Pareja turned to the court painter. ‘Years ago, in Genoa, you bought a slave child in chains because he drew figures in the sand of the marketplace, and set him free. You took me on and taught me the craft of painting, and you took no notice of the Guild of St Luke. I know I can never call myself a painter. I’m not even an apprentice.’

  Andrés and Léon looked at Juan de Pareja curiously. They hadn’t known that.

  ‘The masters of the guild wouldn’t allow me to take the exams, and none of my pictures bears my name,’ Juan de Pareja continued. ‘As a moor and a former slave I don’t have the right to do that. But I have never complained. I’ve never asked you for anything. It has always been enough for me to serve you. I would take Bartolomé on as a pupil. He can serve me as I serve you. I’ll teach him the craft, and no master of the guild can hold it against you.’

  Bartolomé beamed at Juan de Pareja. Don Velázquez kept silent for a long time.

  ‘I will allow it, if Bartolomé understands what he is taking on,’ said the court painter eventually.

  Bartolomé would love to have leapt high in the air. He nodded furiously.

  ‘I want to be a painter,’ he cried.

  Juan de Pareja picked him up and put him on the table.

  ‘Bartolomé, do you understand what you are letting yourself in for?’ he said seriously.

  ‘Yes, and I want to be a painter!’

  ‘You will never be a painter like Léon, Andrés and the others,’ said Juan de Pareja curtly. ‘You have to understand that people like us – moors, slaves, dwarves – are outside society. We haven’t got the same rights. We are not admitted to guilds and associations. We are accorded no privileges. People put up with us only as long as we make ourselves useful and make no demands.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ cried Bartolomé.

  ‘It should matter to you! Just imagine what it would be like to make things, day in, day out, that can never belong to you. Someone else will get the credit for everything you do. Everything you paint, and you will paint wonderfully, will be signed by someone else, your pictures will bear a stranger’s name.’

  ‘Don Pareja, that is still a hundred times better than the way things are at the moment, when I am not even allowed to be myself. I still want to paint, even if I can never be a painter.’

  Bartolomé looked at Don Pareja, who said, ‘Right. Well then, from this moment on, you are my pupil.’

  The apprentices clapped their hands and carried Bartolomé, beaming with joy, around the studio in triumph.

  As the most senior apprentice, Léon baptised Bartolomé with the water in which the brushes were washed, and Andrés gave him a present of a palette.

  ‘When I am my own master,’ he promised, ‘you can come to me. You can paint the small pictures and I’ll paint the big ones. We’ll sign them all with a double-barrelled name: Bartolomé Andrés.’

  Juan de Pareja and Don Velázquez watched the celebrations.

  ‘It won’t be easy for him,’ said Don Velázquez quietly.

  ‘It wasn’t for me either,’ replied Juan de Pareja, ‘but he has nothing to lose. Things can only improve for him.’

  ‘The Infanta,’ said Don Velázquez thoughtfully. ‘She’ll probably want him back.’

  ‘Children forget quickly. She hasn’t seen him for three weeks. She’ll have a new plaything by now.’

  ‘And if not?’ asked Don Velázquez.

  Juan de Pareja thought it over. ‘A wise man once said, if you can’t change something yourself, then you can be sure that somebody else will. Fate has to work in Bartolomé’s favour at some stage.’

  A Real Dog

  ON the afternoon that Juan Carrasco had put his arm helplessly around Bartolomé, he went home, knowing that he must rescue his son from the palace and take him back to the
village. It had been a terrible mistake to bring him to Madrid.

  Juan had to admit that, until now, he had never paid Bartolomé any real attention. The crippled dwarf had remained a stranger to him. Before, on his rare visits to the village, when he saw how much trouble Bartolomé caused Isabel, he had often thought that a child like that should die at birth instead of making everyone else’s life difficult. He had been there and had seen the midwife helping a tiny, floppy blue child into the world. The old woman had had to dunk the newborn into a bucket of cold water before the tiny bundle of humanity had started to breathe. Afterwards, she had put the child, naked, into his arms. Juan had looked at it in disgust. The deformed feet, the crooked back which would later become a hump and the oversized head had marked Bartolomé as a cripple from his first breath.

  Ana, Joaquín, Beatríz – he was proud of them. But from the very beginning, he had been ashamed of Bartolomé. If Isabel had not loved the baby so much, he would have been all on for leaving him outside a convent as a foundling and abandoning him to his fate. He remembered all that now, as he made his way slowly home through the streets of Madrid.

  When he came into the little apartment, his family was waiting for him. Food was steaming on the stove. Manuel ran babbling up to him to be thrown up into the air by his father’s strong arms. Juan took no notice of him, however.

  Joaquín was home on a visit. Ana and Isabel were sewing at the window and Beatríz was setting the table.

  ‘We have to get Bartolomé out of the palace,’ said Juan loudly into the room. ‘I cannot stand by while they make him ridiculous and torment him.’ He felt relieved now that he had said it.

  Isabel leapt up. ‘What are they doing to him?’ she cried. Until now, Juan had refused to discuss Bartolomé with her.

  He sat on the bed.

  ‘The Infanta has had a dog costume made for him, with a tail and floppy ears, and this afternoon …’ Juan faltered. ‘This afternoon, they threw him into the water at the bullfight. He would have drowned if someone hadn’t rescued him at the last moment.’