Bartolomé (5 page)

Don Cristobal

FOR the next few days, Bartolomé was bursting with impatience. He could hardly wait to see Joaquín. In the afternoons, he sat in the little back bedroom. He listened intently, his ear to the door, to hear the quick footsteps of his brother on the stairs. Joaquín was aware how much faith Bartolomé was putting in him and decided to let Ana in on the plan. Maybe she would be able to think of a way to find a teacher for Bartolomé.

‘But Papa mustn't get wind of it,' he warned her.

Ana nodded. ‘He won't allow it,' she said, ‘because nobody is allowed to see Bartolomé.'

‘And I can't think either where we are going to get the money to pay for lessons,' declared Joaquín.

‘If we let Mama in on the plan, she'd be able to help by saving on the housekeeping,' Ana said. She had noticed that Isabel was worried about Bartolomé, because he had got so quiet and sad. Now his eyes were shining again.

‘We won't tell her until I have found a teacher,' Joaquín decided. ‘She might forbid us, on account of Papa.'

Joaquín's search ran into a blind alley almost immediately. Anyone who was able to read and write had no time for teaching, or demanded a lot of money to teach this fine art.

When Joaquín noticed one day that Bartolomé's eyes had dulled again, he made his mind up. After work, he went to the Franciscan monastery and knocked. An old monk, bare-footed and wearing a simple brown habit, opened the gate. Joaquín excused himself shyly. He couldn't think how to put his request into words.

‘My son, what can I do for you?' asked the monk kindly.

‘My name is Joaquín Carrasco, and I have a request,' said Joaquín bashfully.

‘Of God or of me, Joaquín?'

‘Of you, Father.'

The monk nodded and waited patiently. He seemed to have all the time in the world.

‘My brother, Bartolomé … he needs to learn to read and write,' Joaquín stammered.

‘This isn't a school, Joaquín.'

‘I know. But my father would never send him to school.'

‘Your father probably has other plans for your brother. As a son, you should not question your father's decisions.'

Joaquín looked into the monk's kindly face. ‘I know, Father, but …' He was ashamed to say what he had to say. He had never before said a bad word about his father. ‘Forgive me, Father, but my father locks Bartolomé in a back bedroom. Bartolomé sits there like a prisoner, and no outsider is allowed to see him.'

Don Cristobal, for that was the old monk's name, saw before him a skinny, lanky lad who was revealing a family secret, his face ablaze. Even if he didn't hear confessions himself, he knew that behind many a closed door in Madrid things happened that would horrify an old man like him, and would make him doubt God's goodness. And now it was his turn to search for the right words.

‘Would you like me to speak to your father?' he offered finally. ‘Sometimes a conversation can change things.'
Or not
, he added to himself.

Joaquín shook his head in horror. ‘He mustn't find out that I've been here.'

‘Is it that bad? Does he mistreat your brother?'

‘No, he would never do a thing like that,' said Joaquín quickly. ‘He's ashamed of him, I think. He is so ashamed that nobody is allowed to see Bartolomé. Bartolomé hasn't grown. His body is crooked. He has club feet and he can hardly walk on them.'

‘A dwarf,' murmured Don Cristobal.

Joaquín nodded. ‘A dwarf, a cripple, a freak – that's what an outsider would call him. But he is my brother and he is clever and he learns quickly.'

Joaquín's cheeks were glowing, not with shame now but with enthusiasm.

‘If he can learn to read and write, then he can become the king's secretary, like El Primo. He is respected by everyone and doesn't have to hide away.'

‘El Primo,' said Don Cristobal. ‘Joaquín, you must know that there are hundreds of dwarves and cripples who eke out a living as miserable beggars on the streets of Madrid, and also probably many like your brother who are hidden from the mockery of the world in dark rooms and hovels. El Primo's story is most unusual. God's grace has rested on him in a very special way.'

‘What El Primo has achieved, Bartolomé could do too.'

‘Of course. God's grace could rest on your poor brother in a special way also. But who are we mere humans to know where and how God's grace will fall?' answered Don Cristobal mildly.

‘Father, he must learn to read and write. Please help him. I promised him, and I can pay. Not much, but you won't have to teach him for nothing.'

Joaquín gave the old monk a beseeching look.

‘You want me to go to your house, behind your father's back, and teach your brother to read and write? Have you any idea what you are asking?'

Don Cristobal shook his head. He could never do such a thing. The abbot wouldn't allow it, and without his permission he couldn't leave the monastery. If the child could come to him, though …

Joaquín seemed to read Don Cristobal's thoughts.

‘Father, if he could come to you, would you teach him?' he asked.

‘I have a lot to do. I am not just the porter here,' murmured Don Cristobal. ‘I have to look after the church and the garden too.'

‘While you are teaching Bartolomé, I could work in the garden,' Joaquín offered. He had a feeling that the monk was almost ready to help. He had no idea how he could get Bartolomé to the monastery. He'd have to get his head around that later.

‘And I'll pay you too,' he went on.

‘I can't take money,' said Don Cristobal. As a monk, he could call nothing his own apart from his habit.

‘Or I could use the money to buy …'

‘Candles?' Don Cristobal suggested.

Joaquín's heart leapt. Was the monk trying to say that he would teach Bartolomé?

‘A candle for Our Lady,' Don Cristobal decided.

Joaquín was jubilant. Forgetting that the monk was a holy man, he hugged him hard.

Don Cristobal gave in.

‘Twice a week, Tuesdays and Saturdays, for an hour at lunchtime.' Don Cristobal added, ‘But only if your father allows it.'

Joaquín nodded. It was all fine with him. The monk would teach Bartolomé. That was all that mattered.

As Don Cristobal closed the gate behind Joaquín, he decided he would wait until the first lesson before asking the abbot for permission.

The Secret Plan

‘WE have to do it!'

Bartolomé had never seen his brother so determined. As confident as his father, bossy even, Joaquín was speaking to Isabel.

‘We can't tell him. Not yet anyway. He would forbid it,' Joaquín insisted.

Bartolomé looked at his mother. Would she agree to keep the secret from his father?

Isabel felt she was being steamrolled into it. Joaquín, Ana and Bartolomé were all lined up in front of her. She tried to withstand the pleading looks of her children. She couldn't allow such a thing. Juan was her husband. She must not keep anything from him.

‘Mama.' Ana came right up to Isabel. ‘Mama, if Bartolomé can read and write, then he has a future.'

‘He can earn his own money that way,' Joaquín added.

‘Then maybe Papa will be proud of me,' Bartolomé whispered.

Isabel had to look into his great, dark eyes. She could sense his longing. It would be wonderful if Bartolomé learnt a profession.

But Juan would be terribly angry at the deception. No, she could not allow it.

‘Nobody must see him. Your father has forbidden it,' she said quietly.

‘I know,' said Joaquín. ‘That's why I am going to transport him in the laundry basket. Ana will come too and people will think I am helping her with the washing.'

‘We've had a trial run. Bartolomé fits, and Joaquín is strong enough to lift up the basket and to carry it. We'll show you!'

Ana's face glowed with enthusiasm. Without waiting for an answer, she led her dwarf brother to the basket and heaved him in. Bartolomé made himself as small as possible. His black mop of hair disappeared beneath the rim of the basket. Ana put a few bits of washing on top of him.

‘While Bartolomé is studying, I'll wash a few clothes, and everyone will see us coming home with the wet laundry. Nobody will have a clue what is going on,' Ana assured her mother. ‘There will be no questions asked.'

Joaquín knelt in front of the laundry basket, slipped his arms into the straps and stood up, wobbling. Drops of sweat beaded his forehead as he walked up and down the room taking little steps.

‘How far is it to the monastery?' Isabel asked in spite of herself.

‘Not far,' gasped Joaquín. ‘I can do it.'

Isabel hesitated. She had never seen her children so set on anything, and if they carried Bartolomé through the streets like this, they would not be breaking Juan's edict.

No,
that's not right
, thought Isabel. The monk would see Bartolomé. But did a monk count anyway? Was he not pledged to silence? This thought eased Isabel's conscience.

‘Mama?' Bartolomé stuck his head over the edge of the basket, like a cuckoo breaking out of the egg. Isabel couldn't help but laugh.

‘Can I?' asked Bartolomé.

Isabel nodded. She couldn't help herself. Bartolomé's joy was so great that he would have leapt out of the basket and jumped right into his mother's arms, if only he had been capable of it.

HIS knees wobbling from the effort, Joaquín reached the monastery gate. Nobody in the busy streets had taken any notice of them. Nobody could have guessed that the two excited children were hiding a secret in their laundry basket.

Joaquín knocked at the gate, which Don Cristobal immediately opened. He had been waiting for them.

‘Where is he?' he asked in surprise when he could see no crippled dwarf.

‘In the basket,' answered Joaquín, stumbling into the monastery.

Ana followed him.

‘In the basket?' Don Cristobal frowned. ‘Does your father not know about this?'

Ana interrupted him. ‘Our father doesn't want him to be seen on the street,' she lied emphatically.

‘Is that so?' Don Cristobal asked Joaquín.

Hanging his head, Joaquín muttered his agreement. He didn't want the monk to see his red face. He put the basket down, and Ana helped Bartolomé out. She could feel her little brother shaking with excitement. She held him good and tight so that he could lean his body against her.

‘I'm Don Cristobal, and you must be Bartolomé,' said Don Cristobal, trying to hide his shock. He hadn't expected the child to be so badly deformed. The big hump, which forced his upper body forward, the crooked legs, which seemed too weak to support even the little dwarf body, the club feet. Don Cristobal felt a shudder running up his spine. He had once seen pictures of the devil which showed Satan with feet deformed like these. No, this was superstitious thinking, unworthy of a man of the cloth.

‘I want so much to learn to read and write.' Bartolomé looked trustingly at Don Cristobal.

How could this ugly dwarf have such a pure, bell-like voice? Don Cristobal looked into Bartolomé's crooked face and saw something else that was wonderful: Bartolomé's eyes gleamed hopefully at him like two dark pearls. Don Cristobal went down on one knee and grasped Bartolomé's outstretched hands. These, he discovered to his surprise, were finely formed. Perhaps Joaquín was right, and God's grace rested even on this poor freak. Were the voice, the eyes and these hands not a sign?

‘You will learn to read and write, Bartolomé,' promised Don Cristobal in a firm voice.

The monk led Bartolomé into the shady cloister where he had set up a low bench and a footstool under the white stone arcade. Don Cristobal sat down on the bench. When his pupil had taken up his place on the stool, the monk took a little wooden board out of his habit, on which he had carefully painted the lower-case and capital letters of the alphabet. He showed them to Bartolomé.

‘This is an A, this is a B, a C …'

Bartolomé listened carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Joaquín, weeding the roses in the courtyard.

The monk continued patiently, moving his finger over the board and naming the letters. Bartolomé repeated what was said and tried to remember the shapes of the letters.

‘What is this letter called?' Don Cristobal tested him after a while.

Bartolomé stared at the straight white stroke out of which two fat tummies grew. He wasn't quite sure. All these letters looked so alike, but had such different names.

‘That's a B,' he decided eventually.

Don Cristobal smiled. The crippled child was quick. In no time he had memorised all the letters on the board.

‘Name the letters as I point them out,' Don Cristobal continued. His finger jumped hither and thither and Bartolomé worked hard to read the letters.

‘B – A – R – T – O – L – O – M – E.'

‘That's right,' Don Cristobal praised him. ‘But do you know what you have just read to me?'

Bartolomé shook his head shyly. The different sounds of the letters were whirling around in his head. They didn't make any sense.

‘Listen more carefully as you say them,' Don Cristobal told him, and once again, his finger wandered from letter to letter.

‘B – A – R – T – O – L – O – M – E.' The dwarf looked up in astonishment. ‘It sounds like my name. It sounds like Bartolomé!'

He moved his finger eagerly over the board.

‘First a B, then A, R, T …' He spelt Bartolomé without a single mistake. His name.

Don Cristobal was delighted.

‘You've done very well. We'll practise some more in the next lesson.'

Bartolomé could hardly believe that his first lesson was over so quickly. But the church clock chimed the hour, confirming Don Cristobal's guess about the time.

With difficulty Bartolomé tore his eyes from the wooden board. He wanted to read more. He wanted to read Joaquín, Ana, Manuel and Beatríz. He wanted to spell butter, egg and cheese.

‘Could I take the board home with me?' he asked.

Don Cristobal hesitated. He'd made the little board himself. But a monk was not allowed to own anything. Everything belonged to the monastery. On the other hand, the child would be able to practise at home if he had it, and nobody in the monastery had any use for the board.

‘You must bring it back for the next lesson,' he said.

Bartolomé hugged the board to his body.