Bartolomé by Rachel vanKooij Read Free Book Online

children had gathered firewood without giving it a second thought, but here every log had to be paid for. The same with fruit and vegetables. They used to grow these themselves, but now they had to buy them at the market.
    The whole family’s days were filled with work and play. Except for Bartolomé. He missed the village. Locked into the little room, he thought longingly of the dusty village square, the white houses and the little church with its stone steps and the weather-beaten wooden porch from where he had watched the doings of the village.
    Sometimes, when Isabel and Ana were alone, he was allowed into the big room in the daytime. He would sit quietly in a corner and watch them doing housework. But it never occurred to Isabel to give him a task to do. The sound of the street came pouring in through the big open windows of the apartment. Bartolomé listened longingly with his eyes closed and tried to imagine that he was taking part in the goings-on outside. But the more monotonous days that went by, the less he was able to conjure up this daydream and the quieter and sadder he got.
    One afternoon, just as Bartolomé was quietly going mad in the little room, where he knew every chink in the wall and every crack in the floorboards, Joaquín came bursting in. He hunkered down on the floor opposite Bartolomé. His cheeks were red from running, and his eyes were blazing with excitement.
    â€˜Listen, Bartolomé!’
    Bartolomé looked dully at Joaquín. He used to enjoy it when Joaquín told him about the wonderful things that went on in the city. He used to imagine that he had experienced it all himself. He had run behind coaches, had seen someone thieving in the marketplace and had gone walking along by the mighty walls of the royal palace of Alcázar. But those dreams had long lost their magic. Instead, Bartolomé felt more and more keenly how empty and lonely his own life was. He turned his head away, but Joaquín was not to be put off.
    â€˜I saw an important man,’ he whispered.
    Bartolomé sighed to himself. Joaquín’s stories were always about important gentlemen and rich ladies.
    â€˜He was being carried in a sedan chair. I followed him. At San Isidor’s Cathedral, he got out and …’ Joaquín hesitated pointedly.
    â€˜And …?’ asked Bartolomé without a great deal of interest in hearing the rest of the story.
    â€˜He was almost as small as you. But grown up. He had a beard and he wore an elegant suit of gleaming black damask.’
    â€˜A dwarf like me?’
    â€˜Yes, but rich and respectable. I asked one of the bearers about him. The dwarf is called Don Diego de Acedo. But they call him El Primo. He is a secretary in the royal court.’
    â€˜A secretary at court,’ repeated Bartolomé.
    Joaquín nodded. ‘He writes letters and documents for the king. He lives in the palace and I bet he’s well paid for his work, because he can afford his own sedan and bearers. Bartolomé, if only you could do that!’
    Bartolomé bit his lip. A dwarf like him could have a job and he could allow himself to be seen, without anyone looking down on him. How come his father had kept this from him and had locked him up like an animal when in Madrid dwarves could work for the king?
    â€˜As a secretary, you would have influence at court. You could make sure I became court baker, and Ana and Beatríz could be lady’s maids to the little Infanta.’ Joaquín was weaving wonderful fantasies.
    â€˜I can’t read and write,’ Bartolomé interrupted him. ‘I can’t do anything except sit and look.’
    Joaquín’s mood changed, but only for a moment. ‘You’ll just have to learn,’ he said. ‘There must be schools in Madrid.’
    Bartolomé gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m not even allowed to sit in the big room during the daytime. And you think that Papa would send me to