Bartolomé (2 page)

Homecoming

‘PAPA is here!'

Beatríz came running, whooping, into the house. It was the afternoon of the following day. Isabel yanked off her apron, picked Manuel up off the floor, and positioned herself in the doorway.

Beatríz was quite right. Juan Ca rrasco had come home on a visit. Isabel gave a puzzled frown when she saw him. How come he'd brought a donkey and cart?

Joaquín and Ana came running from the fields, where they had been pulling weeds. Joaquín was leading the donkey now, and Ana was holding her father's hand. They came across the village square, the three of them together.

Isabel stood aside to let Juan enter. He didn't hug her until he'd got inside the room. Manuel looked suspiciously at his father. But Juan smiled at the child, took him in his strong arms and raised him up to the ceiling. For a moment, Manuel looked as if he was going to cry. Isabel kept an anxious eye on her youngest son. But in the end he plumped for laughter. Juan whirled him through the air, like a bird, and Manuel roared with pleasure. Beatríz clung jealously to Juan's legs. When Manuel was safely back in his mother's arms, Juan bent down and kissed Beatríz on her thick black curls, and he got an affectionate smack on the cheek.

Joaquín had been tying up the donkey and giving it water. He came in now, and Juan gave him a clap on the back. Bartolomé was making himself as small as possible in the gap between the bed and the blanket chest. Isabel spotted him and pulled him out.

‘Say hello to your father, Bartolomé,' she ordered. She held him tight, so that he could stand almost straight. Bartolomé hung his head.

‘Hello, Papa,' he mumbled.

Juan nodded at him.

Bartolomé slipped out of his mother's grip and crept back into his corner. Joaquín pushed his way in between his parents. ‘Why have you brought a donkey and cart?' he asked curiously. ‘Are we rich now?'

Juan laughed hoarsely. The dust of the road made his throat rasp. ‘In Madrid, every poor wretch has a donkey and cart. The rich people there have horse-drawn coaches.'

‘But do they belong to us?'

For Joaquín, owning a donkey and cart was unimaginable wealth. Only the village priest, Father Rodriguez, owned a donkey, and nobody had a proper cart. They got by with handcarts. There were plenty of children to pull those, and anyone who had saved a bit of money preferred to spend it on a goat. A goat gave milk, its flesh was edible and you could make all sorts of useful things out of the hide. A donkey was a luxury.

‘Pipe down, Joaquín,' Isabel rebuked her eldest son. She knew how short-tempered her husband could be when he arrived home from the long journey, tired, hungry and thirsty.

‘Leave him be,' said Juan good-naturedly, sitting down on the bed. ‘Just get me something to drink from Tomáz, and if Beatríz will pull off my boots for me and Ana will bring me a basin of water to wash in, I'll tell you my big news later.'

He gave Joaquín a coin, and the boy snatched a jug and was gone, as fast as his legs would carry him. Tomáz Gasset lived on the edge of the village. He had a small vineyard, and he'd set up a wine stall in his yard, with a couple of tables. Most evenings, he stood at his door with a wineskin, waiting for customers. But it was afternoon now, and he was taking a nap. Joaquín stormed into the house and woke him up unceremoniously.

‘Papa's come home,' he explained, as Tomáz filled the jug with wine. ‘He's come like a
señor
, a rich man,' he said boastfully, ‘with a donkey and cart.'

‘Well, well,' said Tomáz. ‘He'll drop by here this evening, then, I suppose.'

‘He surely will, Señor Gasset.'

At home, Bartolomé was watching as Beatríz pulled off her father's boots, and as Ana bathed his swollen red feet in cool water and dried them with a soft towel. Even little Manuel was able to help Juan Carrasco feel better after his strenuous journey. Isabel had planted tobacco in the spring, and she'd dried the leaves carefully, chopped them up and stuffed them into a little sack. She pressed the little sack into Manuel's hand now and pushed him towards his father. ‘Take the tobacco to your father,' she ordered, and Manuel wobbled over to his father on his little legs with his arms outstretched.

‘He's learnt to walk,' said Isabel proudly, as Juan pulled his youngest son on to his lap.

‘Can you give Papa the pipe too, out of its bag?' he asked softly.

Juan opened the leather pouch that he carried on his belt. Manuel stuck his hand in and pulled out an old pipe with a chewed mouthpiece.

‘There!' he crowed, sticking the pipe in his own little mouth.

Juan gave a loud laugh. ‘That's my boy!' he cried.

Joaquín came running in, holding a hand protectively over the top of the wine jug, so that not a drop of wine should spill. He gave it to his father.

‘Who'll bring me my mug? Or is the Infanta's coachman going to have to drink out of the jug, like a common labourer?' asked Juan.

The children watched him expectantly. Nobody moved. Which of them would be entrusted with the task of bringing him his mug?

It should be my turn now
, thought Bartolomé.
I could bring him the mug. If I could just push my high chair over to the cupboard, and if I could climb up and support myself on one hand, and with the other, I could take down the mug, if I …

There were too many ifs. His father would never ask him to do such a thing. But his mother might think of it. He came out of his corner and tried to signal quietly to her to pass the mug quickly to him. Then he could easily manage the last few steps to his father, with the mug in his hand.

Isabel took the heavy pewter mug down from the cupboard, but instead of passing it to her dwarf son, she reached across the heads of the children with it, and gave it to her husband herself.

‘Take it,' she urged him. ‘Drink.' She was just as impatient to hear why he had brought a donkey and cart from Madrid as Joaquín was.

Madrid

‘WE'RE moving to Madrid,' announced Juan, delighted with himself, after he'd drunk his mug of wine in one long, thirsty draught.

To Madrid! Bartolomé's eyes widened in surprise. Madrid was the king's city. It was huge. It was full of palaces where princes and princesses ate off golden plates and drank from cut-crystal glasses. The streets were thronged with horses and coaches, soldiers in uniform, all kinds of tradesmen, corner boys and beggars. There were rows upon countless rows of shops and warehouses and bars lining the narrow streets and alleys. On his visits home, their father had often described the lively doings of all these people in this fabulous city with its stately buildings. Ana, Joaquín, Bartolomé and Beatríz had listened to him, their mouths hanging open. Now they were going to move there and see it all with their own eyes.

‘In recognition of my loyal service, the court high marshal has given me permission to come and get you. I was able to hire the donkey and cart cheaply. Tomorrow we'll pack up the bed, the table, the chairs and the chests and all our belongings – and off we go!'

Juan looked around. It was clear from their faces that Joaquín and Ana were delighted. Beatríz was staring at him as if he were the king himself. Manuel was too small to understand the wonderful thing that Juan Carrasco had achieved. He, the son of a poor peasant, had managed to be employed at court, and now he was one of very few underlings to be allowed to bring his family to join him.

‘To Madrid!' whispered Isabel. She'd never thought such a thing could happen. How could she go with the children to Madrid and leave everything behind? The house, the vegetable garden, their olive trees, the goats and the stony fields? She'd lived all her life in this little village.

‘Can I tell everyone, Papa?' asked Joaquín. He'd been aware for some time that his friends were waiting for him out on the village square.

Juan nodded, and Joaquín ran out. Ana followed him to the door. None of her friends had ever left the village, and she was about to move to the fabulous city of rich princes and brave heroes.

Isabel pushed Beatríz and Manuel out into the open air as well. She had questions to ask that were not for children to hear.

In his corner, Bartolomé made himself even smaller. For the first time in his life, he hoped that his parents wouldn't notice him. If he listened, he could impress Joaquín later with his information. He'd make his brother promise, in return, to carry him through the streets of Madrid on his back, so that he could see for himself all the wonders of the city.

Bartolomé crawled under the bed. It wasn't really necessary. Isabel was so distracted, she never gave him so much as a thought.

‘What about the house?' she asked. ‘We can't just leave it empty.'

‘I'm going to settle that this evening,' said Juan calmly. ‘Tomáz has been wanting to have a proper tavern on the village square for ages.'

‘He hasn't got the money to rent a house!'

‘I know. So he'll have to do me a favour instead.'

‘What kind of a favour?'

‘He'll have to look after Bartolomé.'

‘Bartolomé!' The blood drained from Isabel's face, as it did from Bartolomé's, where he was hiding under the bed.

‘We can't take him with us,' Juan explained quickly. ‘You told me yourself, the last time I came home, what happens when a stranger sees him. Ana is going to need a husband soon. She's clever and pretty and strong. She'll make a good match in Madrid. With a bit of luck, she could even marry a merchant or a master craftsman. And I need to find an apprenticeship for Joaquín. But the masters don't take on just anyone. They demand good money. And if Bartolomé stays on here with Tomáz, that's one less mouth to feed in Madrid.

Under the bed, Bartolomé reddened with shame and anger. How could his father talk about him as if he were not his son but some worthless object!

‘But he's our son too!' cried Isabel loudly. She knew that Juan disliked Bartolomé, even if he wouldn't admit it.

Juan looked his wife in the eye. Why did she love this particular child so much?

‘I know that,' he said. ‘But he'll be better off with Tomáz than in Madrid. Cripples are forced to beg at the church gates there. People trample on them and jeer them.'

‘But we wouldn't let that happen,' protested Isabel.

‘Some day we'll be old, and then we wouldn't be able to protect him. And we can't ask Joaquín to take on such a responsibility. With Tomáz, he can make himself useful in the tavern. Tomáz has no children of his own. He'll get fond of Bartolomé and he'll soon think of him as his own son,' said Juan, but his voice had a hard edge to it. Isabel should be sensible, he told her.

‘It would break my heart to leave him behind. He's still so small.'

‘He's ten years old. At that age, Joaquín was already herding the goats. You have to think of your other, healthy children now. You can't spoil their chances of a better life.' Juan stood up from the bed and took Isabel in his arms. ‘This is the best way, believe me,' he said reassuringly.

Bartolomé was listening, waiting for his mother to fight his corner. He wanted to go to Madrid with the others. Tomáz would work him like a slave and would make no allowances for his poor, weak, crooked body. Bartolomé went rigid with fear. Why didn't his mother say something?

In the end, he couldn't stand it any longer. He crawled out from under the bed, pulled himself up on a chest and screeched like an abandoned young goat for his mother. Tears streamed down his face. Isabel pulled out of Juan's embrace and ran to her son. She knelt down in front of him, trying to dry his tears with the corner of her apron.

‘He heard it all,' she stammered.

Juan turned around, opened the door and stood on the threshold. Outside, he could see Joaquín, with the donkey and cart, surrounded by a crowd of amazed friends. His pretty Ana was standing among the girls at the well. For him, she was the loveliest of them all. Beatríz was sitting a few metres from him on the ground. She was playing with Manuel, telling him about the king, whom they were sure to see every day.

There was a better future for everyone in Madrid. Only not for Bartolomé. How was Juan going to make his wife understand that, in the big city, cripples were mocked and abused – not just stared at, the way they were in the village, but spat on and humiliated by the indifferent masses. Behind his back, he could hear the despairing tears of the child.

‘Take me with you, take me with you,' Bartolomé cried again and again.

Isabel tried in vain to comfort him.

In the end, Juan could bear it no longer. He turned around and said, ‘If we take you with us, nobody must see you. You'll have to stay in our apartment, day in, day out.'

‘Yes, Papa.'

‘And if anyone comes to visit, you'll have to go into the back room.'

‘Yes, Papa.' Bartolomé would promise anything, if only he could go with them to Madrid.

Juan tried once more to persuade his son. ‘You'd be better off here in the village.'

But Bartolomé only shook his head silently. He didn't want to stay behind alone in the village. He belonged with his family. He was a Carrasco too.

Departure

VERY early next morning, they left the village. Isabel wondered if it was to be a parting for ever. She'd spent her whole life in this little place with its white houses and its stony fields and its olive and orange groves. How would her family get on in the big city?

Joaquín and Ana went ahead and led the donkey, which patiently pulled the heavily laden cart. Isabel and Juan followed behind the cart, Isabel with Manuel wrapped up in a bundle on her back, and Juan holding Beatríz by the hand. When the little girl got tired and cranky from all the walking, Juan lifted her up for a while on to the donkey's back. Bartolomé was being shaken from side to side as he sat on the cart, stuck in among the family's possessions: the bed, the table, the chairs, their household things and clothes.

They'd started out early in the morning, but now the hot sun was beating down on the little caravan. They planned to stop at the next inn, in the next village, for a rest and to let the noonday heat pass. Bartolomé stared longingly down the road, watching out for a church spire. His tongue felt like a leather cloth in his dry mouth. He didn't dare to ask for water. The water in the canteen was for the other children and for his mother, who had to walk. At last he spied, in the shimmering heat, the outline of a spire and several roofs.

‘A village!' he called, stretching out his arm.

Joaquín and Ana hastened their steps. They could hardly wait to rest in the shade. Ana smacked the donkey impatiently on its sweat-drenched flank to hurry it up.

‘Whoa!' called Juan suddenly from behind. The donkey stood stock still and the cart creaked to a halt. Ana and Joaquín turned around, wondering what was going on. Juan approached the cart and reached for the reins.

‘Does anyone want a drink?' he asked.

They all shook their heads. The water in the leather waterbag was lukewarm by now and tasted brackish. Soon they'd get ice-cold fresh water from a deep village well.

Juan took a slug himself and wiped the drops of water from his chin with the back of his hand. Then he offered the waterbag to Bartolomé.

‘Drink up,' he ordered him. ‘Drink till you're no longer thirsty.'

Bartolomé did as he was told, though he didn't understand why he had to finish the stale-tasting water. Juan waited patiently. After Bartolomé had given him back the water-bag, Juan opened one of the chests. It was empty, except for one blanket.

‘Climb in,' he commanded.

Bartolomé gave his father a horrified look. Was he supposed to crawl into this little chest?

‘Go on!' said Juan curtly.

‘Juan,' protested Isabel softly.

‘From now on, he'll have to stick to the rule: he mustn't let any stranger see him. If he doesn't co-operate, then I can always send him back to Tomáz.'

With clenched teeth, Bartolomé crawled into the chest. The lid slammed over him. Daylight squeezed into the dark through cracks in the wood, but the heat was almost unbearable. Perspiration rolled off him in bucketfuls.

Bartolomé could feel the donkey starting to move again and the slow, wobbly forward movement of the cart over the uneven road surface. He tried to lie in such a way that his mouth was as near as possible to the biggest crack, so that he could breathe fresh air. The rough woollen blanket scratched his sweaty skin. But when his father had made a decision, he stuck to it.

The village was much like their home place. A few houses and a church around a dusty village square with a well. At the edge of the village was a little tavern. A farmer had set up a few tables in the shade of his olive trees. Here Juan stopped. He treated himself to a glass of wine. Isabel went with the children to the square to get water. Bartolomé stayed in his prison and listened to the conversation between his father and the owner of the little bar.

‘I'm on my way to Madrid,' said Juan, ‘together with my family.'

‘If only I could do that!' said the tavern-keeper with a sigh. ‘But my wife is afraid I would find no work there, and that she and our daughters would starve in the streets. Here we have a farm, and the bar brings in a bit of money. Only a fool would give that up, she says.'

‘I have work,' said Juan proudly. ‘I am coachman to the Infanta of Spain. I have taken an apartment in Madrid, and my sons will have a better future there. They'll learn a trade.'

Bartolomé's heart leapt. His father had plans for him, then. He was to learn a trade. If that was really possible, he'd go the whole way to Madrid in the chest without a word.

‘Sons. We hoped for that. But it was not to be,' said the tavern-keeper sadly.

Juan nodded thoughtfully. He was glad he had been spared that fate.

‘Both my sons will do well in Madrid, if they work hard. And I'll make sure they do!'

Both
his sons?

But he has three sons
, thought Bartolomé. Did he not count? Bartolomé pressed his fists to his ears. He didn't want to hear his father's voice any more.

Isabel came back with the children and the freshly filled water-bag.

‘I drank so much water,' cried Beatríz, ‘that my stomach is ice-cold and it's gurgling.'

Juan laughed. ‘Then we'll eat,' he announced.

Isabel got the basket from the cart and shared out bread, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, tomatoes, olives and peppers. Once, when the bar-owner had gone into the house to pour Juan another mug of wine, Isabel snuck the lid of the chest open and pushed in a piece of bread.

‘You'll get more once we're clear of the village,' she promised Bartolomé.

Let me out!
Bartolomé wanted to yell. But he didn't do it. Instead, he stuffed the bread in big wodges into his mouth and chewed angrily. It tasted salty.

As the midday heat abated, they moved on. As soon as the cart was out of sight of the village, they stopped. Juan lifted Bartolomé out of the chest. He was dripping with sweat, and he had a heat rash on his legs, arms and face.

‘I don't want to go back to the village,' said Bartolomé, although Juan hadn't said a word about that.

Juan put him back in his place between the chests and the bed. The leftovers from lunch were waiting for him there, wrapped up in a cloth – another piece of bread, some cheese, olives, an egg and a few fresh figs.

‘I didn't get any figs,' moaned Beatríz, watching from the donkey's back as Bartolomé was about to put one of the sweet fruits into his mouth.

‘Those are Bartolomé's figs,' her father said sharply. He felt guilty that the midday rest had lasted so long.

Bartolomé hesitated. There were only a few fruits, and he could smell their sweet, heavy fragrance. He struggled with himself.

‘Beatríz and Manuel can have them,' he said at last.

Juan nodded and took the figs. Bartolomé tried to see if there was an acknowledging look in his father's eyes, but he had turned away and was sticking a fig into Manuel's mouth.

He held the other two out to Beatríz. ‘You can have them if you'll walk a bit now,' he said.

Beatríz pulled a face.

Maybe she'll refuse, and I'll get the figs back
, Bartolomé hoped.

‘He's allowed to sit the whole time,' whinged Beatríz. ‘And he's much older than me.'

Juan lifted Beatríz down immediately from the donkey's back.

‘You'll walk now,' he said, putting her down roughly on the stony road. He pressed the figs into her hand. ‘You should be thankful that you have two strong, healthy legs, and that you aren't a cripple.'