Bartolomé

by Rachel vanKooij

  Isabel, Ana and Joaquín stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘They treat him like an animal,’ Juan went on. ‘No, worse than that. A real animal would defend itself. It would bite or scratch. But Bartolomé has to put up with whatever they demand of him.’

  ‘How long have you known this, and why did you not take him away immediately?’ Isabel demanded angrily.

  Juan covered his face with his hands. He could sense the odium in her accusation.

  ‘How could I do that?’ he said softly. ‘He is the property of the Infanta. It would be considered theft, and who would look after him and provide for you all if I am in jail?’

  ‘But we have to bring him home!’ cried Ana. ‘He is not an animal and he does not belong to the Infanta.’

  Juan nodded. ‘That’s what I want too, but I don’t know how. The Infanta is besotted with her human dog. She will never give him up.’

  ‘There has to be a way,’ murmured Joaquín. ‘Suppose we kidnap him and hide him?’

  ‘Impossible. The Infanta’s surroundings are under constant surveillance. Nobody gets to her except by order of their Majesties, or under the protection of her first lady-in-waiting.’

  ‘A letter …’ Joaquín did not want to give up. ‘Could we not get a letter to Bartolomé, saying that he should flee and that we will be waiting for him outside the palace?’

  ‘Who is to write this letter?’

  ‘Don Cristobal of course! He would definitely help us if he hears how mean they are being to Bartolomé.’

  ‘And who is going to read it to Bartolomé?’

  ‘But he can read!’ Ana interjected.

  Juan had forgotten. That terrible afternoon came back to him now. If he had not been so furious about Bartolomé’s secret lessons, he would certainly never have hit Ana and maybe he would not have taken Bartolomé to the palace either.

  ‘It won’t work. I don’t know anyone to whom I could entrust a letter. In the palace, there are lots of envious people. Someone would read it, and then I’d end up in jail anyway. That’s no good.’

  ‘Has the princess not got a real dog to love?’ Beatríz suddenly butted in. She couldn’t understand why a princess would want her ugly brother as a dog when there were so many sweet little dogs in Madrid. Only recently, she had been admiring a basket of puppies in the market. Every single one of them was a hundred times cuter than Bartolomé.

  Nobody listened to her. But Beatríz was a determined girl. She stood up in front of her father, put her hands by her side and said: ‘Papa, I know how we can get Bartolomé back.’

  Juan laughed.

  ‘I really do know,’ insisted Beatríz.

  ‘How?’ asked Ana.

  ‘We’ll do a swap,’ explained the little girl.

  ‘What are we going to swap?’ asked Isabel.

  ‘A dog, of course. We’ll swap a real dog for Bartolomé.’

  Now they all laughed.

  Beatríz stamped her foot. ‘What are you laughing about?’ she cried unhappily. ‘If I were the princess, I would give Bartolomé up immediately for a proper dog.’

  Isabel reached out to take Beatríz in her arms, to console her, but Joaquín stood between them. His eyes were shining.

  ‘Why is a proper dog better than Bartolomé?’ he asked.

  Beatríz looked at her brother in astonishment. It was obvious.

  ‘Bartolomé is so ugly, and he can’t walk properly either – and he’s not actually a dog,’ she explained.

  ‘Of course he’s not a dog,’ Isabel snapped.

  Joaquín signalled to her to keep quiet.

  ‘And a proper dog?’ he prompted his sister.

  Beatríz could just see the basket of puppies in front of her.

  ‘A proper dog is sweet. I would stroke him and race him. He would sleep beside me. I wish I had a little dog just for me. I’d look after him well.’

  She gave her father a longing look. Who knows, maybe he would get her one.

  Juan shook his head. ‘We have enough problems, Beatríz,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to feed a dog.’

  Joaquín went on thinking. The Infanta and Beatríz were around the same age. She must have the same kind of thoughts and desires as his sister.

  ‘Papa,’ said Joaquín. ‘If we buy a cute little puppy and give it to the Infanta as a present, then maybe she wouldn’t need Bartolomé any more.’

  Juan considered it. Could this plan work? He could see that there were a lot of flaws in it.

  ‘Suppose he wets the floor, if he scratches or bites the Infanta or is a bit rough with her?’ he asked.

  ‘We would train him well first.’

  ‘And who is going to give the Infanta this dog?’

  ‘Bartolomé,’ said Joaquín. ‘And he should ask her to take the real dog in his place.’

  Juan shook his head. They were back to the original problem.

  ‘How could we get in touch with Bartolomé in secret? How could we give him a dog, if I can’t get as much as a letter to him without it being seen by many eyes?’

  Joaquín didn’t know either. ‘There has to be a way. It’s just that we can’t see it yet,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘We could at least try,’ Ana begged her father.

  Juan looked at Isabel. ‘What do you think? Does it make sense?’ Before Isabel could answer, Beatríz said: ‘If the princess is going to get a dog from us, can I have one too? It can share my food.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘We could give it a try,’ she said.

  Juan gave in. With two fewer mouths to feed, since Bartolomé and Joaquín had left, he had managed to save a little money, enough to buy a dog. Isabel’s horrified reaction had shamed him deeply. If they could free Bartolomé in this way and if he personally could take him back to the village, to Tomáz, where the child would be safe, he would have made up in some way for what he had done.

  But what if it didn’t work? Juan wavered.

  Isabel seemed to be thinking the same thing. ‘If it doesn’t work, we could always sell the dog again,’ she said softly.

  ‘All right, then,’ Juan decided. ‘We’ll give it a try.’

  Beatríz sulked when she realised she was not going to get a dog of her own. She didn’t want to go with them to the market to choose a puppy for the Infanta. She stood defiantly where she was in the room. Isabel lifted her up.

  ‘You want Bartolomé to come home, don’t you?’ she asked gently.

  Beatríz nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Then you have to help!’ said Isabel.

  ‘Why? It was my idea, and now Joaquín is going on as if he was the one who thought of it. And I’m not going to get a dog of my own either.’

  Isabel looked at Joaquín.

  ‘Joaquín knows that, don’t you, Joaquín?’

  ‘It was Beatríz’s idea,’ Joaquín conceded readily. ‘Are we going to go to the market now? I know a market trader who has puppies.’

  ‘He’s doing it again.’ Beatríz’s lower lip quivered.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Juan. He’d been thinking the plan through quietly. ‘Beatríz,’ he said, ‘not only is it your idea, but the plan can only work if you help.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You must be the one to choose the little dog.’

  ‘Not Joaquín?’

  ‘Certainly not Joaquín.’ Juan turned to face the whole family. ‘Do you see? Beatríz has to like the puppy. That’s the only way to do it. And we’ll have to train the puppy so that it obeys only Beatríz. That way, the Infanta will like it too, and it will obey her. They are both little girls, after all.’

  He smiled at Beatríz.

  ‘I’m like the Infanta!’ breathed Beatríz.

  Isabel hugged her close.

  ‘You are a thousand times better than the Infanta,’ she said.

  They bought a little puppy with a good pedigree, according to the market trader. What was much more important, though, was that Beatríz chose him as the sweetest of the litter.

>   At home, they spent days training the puppy together. Juan thanked his lucky stars that the princess’s visit to the country was extended by two weeks, and that she had gone there in her parents’ coach and did not need him to drive her.

  The little dog, which Beatríz christened Justo, learnt quickly. Soon the puppy knew that he was not allowed to leave little puddles indoors, and he came running when Beatríz called him in her clear child’s voice. Juan spent a lot of time teaching Justo never to respond to a deep, adult voice. He would put Ana or Beatríz standing at one side of the room, and himself or Isabel on the opposite side. Then they would both call him at the same time. If Justo ran to the girls, he was rewarded with titbits. If he went to the adults, however, he got nothing. It didn’t take Justo long to understand what was expected of him.

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to give him away,’ sighed Beatríz from time to time. Secretly, she wished she really could keep the dog. Why couldn’t her father just ask the Infanta, while they were out driving in the coach, to let Bartolomé go home?

  Every time Juan was in the palace, and had time to spare, he tried to get news of Bartolomé. He sought out the company of the guardsmen. He would invite them to a glass of wine and try to get them to talk. But they could tell him nothing about Bartolomé, except that he was the Infanta’s human doggy.

  Juan did not have much time left. The royal family would soon be coming back to Madrid. Part of the Infanta’s little household, under the leadership of the chamberlain, Don Nieto, had already gone to the country house in order to prepare the Infanta for her return journey.

  One afternoon, as Juan was cleaning the Infanta’s coach in the stables, a page came running in.

  ‘Hurry!’ he ordered. ‘Get a coach ready for Don Nieto.’

  Juan bowed his head. Now was his chance to find out about Bartolomé.

  ‘Sir,’ asked Juan, ‘I have a clever son. Would it be possible for him to get a place as a page to the Infanta?’

  The page gave an arrogant smile.

  ‘My father is Don Rodriguez de Herraro. He owns large tracts of land and is a loyal supporter of the king.’

  ‘So one would have to be of noble blood, like you?’ said Juan flatteringly.

  The page nodded.

  ‘Only the noblest boys are good enough to serve the Infanta of Spain.’

  ‘Excuse my ignorance, sir, but I have heard that the Infanta has a crippled dwarf as a page. Is he also of noble blood?’

  ‘That’s not a page, it’s the human dog!’ said the boy in disgust. ‘Who told you he was a page?’

  Juan hid a smile. The page had taken the bait.

  ‘Oh, some drunken guardsman,’ lied Juan. ‘I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him again.’

  The page turned away. As far as he was concerned, this conversation was over.

  But Juan started up again. ‘Would you allow me to ask one more question, sir?’

  The page, who hardly counted in the household and was ordered around by everyone, nodded graciously.

  ‘Noble sir, what is a human dog?’ asked Juan.

  The page laughed.

  ‘That’s what the Infanta calls him. Actually, he’s just an ordinary dwarf. She rescued him from the gutter and had a dog costume made for him. He has to wear it day and night, and with his brown face, he really does look like a dog. He behaves like a dog too. Sometimes we think he is more dog than human.’

  ‘Brown face? Has he got a disease?’ asked Juan.

  The stupidity of the lower orders is unbelievable, thought the page. Aloud he said, ‘Of course not. He is made up. An apprentice of Don Velázquez, the court painter, is responsible for that.’

  A painter’s apprentice. Juan made a mental leap in the air. Now he had something to go on.

  ‘How much longer is it going to take to get a coach?’ asked the page, suddenly impatient.

  ‘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 abo
ut 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.’