Bartolomé by Rachel vanKooij

Author:Rachel vanKooij
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Little Island
Published: 2012-12-10T16:00:00+00:00

Home Again

ANA carried the weeping Bartolomé home through the streets. Bartolomé hid his face in her blouse, as if that would prevent people from seeing his deformed body. But he could not close his ears. He could hear the cornerboys shouting insults after him. Someone tried to trip Ana up. She stumbled but did not fall.

They arrived home at last, in an awful state. Upstairs in the living room Ana let Bartolomé slip to the floor. Manuel started to roar with fright when he saw Bartolomé’s inky blue face. Beatríz stared curiously at her older brother and sister.

‘How come Bartolomé was out even though Papa doesn’t allow that?’ she asked. ‘If I tell Papa …’ she murmured to herself.

‘Keep quiet,’ Isabel scolded. Something bad had happened and the last person she wanted to think about at that moment was Juan.

Offended, Beatríz pulled a face. She was not stupid. She had long been aware that there was a secret between her mother and the older children. She’d been sent out on the flimsiest of excuses too often lately and she’d noticed that conversations came to a sudden halt when she came into the apartment. She’d felt left out. Now she was delighted. Ana and Bartolomé were sure to be punished.

‘What have you done to him?’ Isabel took hold of Ana by the arms and shook her hard. ‘Did you go to Don Cristobal?’

‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Ana kept stammering. She broke free and ran into the bedroom.

‘Bartolomé, what happened?’ Isabel hunkered down in front of her son, angry but worried at the same time.

‘I don’t want to go. She can’t have me!’ cried Bartolomé tearfully.

‘Who?’

‘The girl from the coach,’ said Bartolomé.

A coach? That reminded her of Juan. He’d be home soon. She must have Bartolomé washed by then. She emptied a water jug into a large basin.

‘Take this jug and get more water,’ she ordered Beatríz.

‘I’ve already been to the well today,’ moaned Beatríz. ‘There’s enough water.’ She wanted to be there when her father came home from work.

Isabel gave her a clip on the ear. Wailing, Beatríz took the empty jug and ran angrily out. If they tried to pull the wool over her father’s eyes, she’d tell all, she decided.

Bartolomé used his hands and feet to try to beat off the wet facecloth.

‘No washing,’ he roared, and, when she ignored him, he bit despairingly into Isabel’s arm. He had gone too far now. Since Bartolomé had learnt to read, Isabel had never smacked him. But now she gave her dwarf son a thrashing like never before. She hit him wildly about the legs, the crooked back, the head. When Bartolomé tried to protect himself with his arms, she beat him even harder. She should never have been party to all these secrets.

‘So I shouldn’t bother about you?’ she yelled angrily. ‘Well stay as you are, then, and just wait till your father gets home. He can do what he likes with you.’

She threw him in to Ana in the little bedroom and banged the door on them.

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