Free Bartolomé by Rachel vanKooij Page B

softly.
    Joaquín looked at her in surprise. Could she read?
    â€˜Joaquín, make a decision,’ Isabel whispered behind him. ‘We have to go.’ The sooner she could get out of this dark room, the better.
    â€˜Which book has the most words in it?’ asked Joaquín uncertainly.
    The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘A good story doesn’t have to have a lot of words, and bad stories can be written in way too many sentences,’ he said, a little snootily.
    Joaquín felt his cheeks burning, and he was glad that his face couldn’t be seen here in this dim light. ‘My brother doesn’t need the book for pleasure, Señor, but in order to learn to spell as many words as possible,’ he explained.
    The pawnbroker snorted audibly. ‘Then take the thickest.’
    â€˜Father!’ said the girl quietly. She bent over the books and quickly pulled one out. It wasn’t the thickest book, Joaquín could see, and the leather was stained.
    â€˜ Don Quixote , by Cervantes,’ said the girl. ‘You can study this book for days and it is still enjoyable to read the story. It makes you laugh and it makes you cry.’ She offered it to Joaquín.
    Can a book really make someone laugh and cry? Joaquín wondered, holding it awkwardly in his hands.
    At home, Bartolomé received it with great excitement. His own book, even if only for a short while. He sniffed. The printed paper smelt strangely of old cellars.
    â€˜It’s not the Bible,’ Joaquín admitted. ‘The pawnbroker didn’t have one. But his daughter recommended this. She can read.’
    Bartolomé riffled through the pages with his fingers. The book seemed to have just as many words as Don Cristobal’s Bible. And it had pictures. Delighted, Bartolomé looked at the engravings. A lean man on a horse, holding in his hand a lance that was way too long. In the background stood a couple of windmills.
    â€˜Don Quixote, a knight of sorry appearance, fights windmills,’ Bartolomé spelt out.
    Why would anyone fight windmills? How come this man, who didn’t look a bit aristocratic but more like a fool, was a knight? And why was he of sorry appearance? Bartolomé couldn’t see any deformities in his body. Forgetting all about Isabel, Ana and Joaquín, he opened the first page and started to read under his breath. It wasn’t easy. The long words made Bartolomé feel as if his tongue was in a knot when he tried to put the sounds together in the proper order. But the story of Don Quixote captivated him. He read on, page after page.
    â€˜He read,’ Bartolomé murmured, ‘day and night, and because he read too much and ate too little, the fluids in his brain dried out and he lost his reason.’
    Isabel gave a shout of horror. She’d been listening spellbound to the extraordinary story for an hour. Now she had her doubts. Could a person lose their reason through reading?
    â€˜Shut that book, Bartolomé!’ she cried.
    Bartolomé looked up, baffled. He’d completely forgotten that he was sitting on his sleeping mat. In his thoughts, he had been in that little town where Don Quixote had his house.
    â€˜Look, you’re all in a muddle. Put it aside. Joaquín will take it back tomorrow. We might not even have to pay any interest.’
    Bartolomé hugged the leather volume close. He wouldn’t let her do that to him. He needed the book. ‘It’s only a story,’ he said. ‘Somebody just made it up. It’s not necessarily true.’
    â€˜But if it is?’ asked Isabel. ‘Suppose you go mad. Is it not bad enough that you …’ She stopped.
    â€˜He can show it to Don Cristobal at the next lesson,’ said Ana into the silence. ‘He’ll know if it’s dangerous to read it.’
    â€˜Until then, you are not even to look at those pages! Promise me that?’ Isabel crouched down to