Free Bartolomé by Rachel vanKooij

forth. She would never own this piece of jewellery now.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ asked Joaquín, coming in and putting down a leather water container. It was one of his chores to fetch water every day, and since Isabel never pressed him to come home quickly, he liked doing it. He liked wandering through the narrow streets of Madrid, observing the merchants and the artisans or running along behind a fine coach along with other lads in the hope that the rich owner would take a notion and throw them a few coins, which they would then jostle for. On this afternoon, however, his rumbling stomach had brought him home earlier than usual.
    â€˜Why have you put that ring on? Joaquín asked now.
    â€˜We’re going to use it to buy a book for Bartolomé,’ Isabel explained.
    It took Joaquín a while to work out what was going on. Like Ana, he was of the opinion that she should use Señora Lopez’s books. Isabel absolutely forbade it. None of her children could ever have theft on their conscience.
    â€˜Don’t sell the ring, though,’ Joaquín suggested. ‘Pawn it.’
    Isabel blenched. Only the very poorest people went to the pawn shop. It was a terrible shame for a family when a person was forced to pawn their possessions.
    â€˜Then I can redeem the ring later, and give it back to Ana!’ cried Bartolomé, delighted.
    â€˜But suppose I don’t get enough money that way to buy a book,’ Isabel asked.
    â€˜Don’t take any money for the ring,’ explained Joaquín. ‘Instead, ask for a book. In Calle Granado there is a pawnbroker who sometimes sits out in front of his shop, reading. He’d definitely agree to that plan. And when Bartolomé doesn’t need the book any more, we can take it back and then all we have to pay is the interest. That can’t be too bad.’
    â€˜How do you know all this?’ asked Ana.
    â€˜You can learn a lot in this city if you are quick on your feet and if you keep your eyes open and your wits about you,’ Joaquín answered, very sure of himself.
    Isabel wrapped the ring in a piece of linen and hid it carefully in her petticoat pocket. Draping her scarf over her head and shoulders, she turned to Ana.
    â€˜Go and get Beatríz and Manuel from downstairs and stay here with them in the apartment,’ she ordered.
    Ana nodded.
    â€˜And get the supper ready.’
    â€˜What if Papa comes home earlier than usual?’ asked Ana.
    Isabel hesitated. Juan must never know that she’d gone to the pawnbroker. On the other hand, she couldn’t lie to him.
    â€˜Joaquín, take the little jug with you. We’ll buy some oil at the market,’ she said.
    Ana smiled. ‘So you’ve gone out to buy oil,’ she said.
    Isabel reddened. ‘That’s right,’ she snapped.

The Pawnbroker
    CALLE GRANADO was one of those alleyways where dark little workshops were huddled among the shops. Smiths, cobblers, weavers, coopers, potters, bakers and butchers were all squashed in together. The baker quarrelled with the butcher about his waste which attracted rats. The weaver complained loudly about the suffocating smoke that poured out of the smith’s and got into his cloth. The shoemaker was poor and could only afford to use substandard leather, and he remained poor because his customers would pay only small amounts for shoes like that. The cooper’s big wooden barrels were rattled carelessly over the bockety cobbles by his two apprentices and made the potter fear for the safety of his wares which he had set out in front of his doorway.
    The pawnbroker’s shop was at the end of the street.
    At last , thought Joaquín, I have a chance to see what is behind the locked door decorated with three gold-painted balls .
    The pawnbroker was an old man with a white beard, dressed in black. As usual, he was sitting on a chair in front of his door, reading. The fact that someone could earn his