The Muse (15 page)

Isaac ran his fingers over the emeralds. ‘Where did you get this?'

‘A friend.' She kissed him on the mouth to stop him asking more. She'd never known her body could feel like this way, or that she could inspire a man to do such things to her.

He kissed her again, and Olive parted her lips and put her hands through his hair, the rusted railings hard against her back. They pushed into each other, kissing, kissing, kissing, as the old woman in the finca began again her plaintive music, and a figure watched them, silhouetted at the door.

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

9

O
live tried to sit up, but a lightning bolt of agony split her brain. Her mouth was a desert, her neck was lead. Lying in the mussed sheets, befogged, guts addled, scalp stinking of a thousand cigarettes, her hands flew to her body. She wasn't wearing any clothes. Jesus, where were her clothes? She winced to her left. Someone had folded her dress neatly over a chair; her stockings laddered and bloodstained on the soles, her fox stole swinging off the arm. It looked like a hunter's trophy, skinned and broached overnight, a dead glass eye in the head, those awful glued teeth. She touched her neck. The emerald necklace was still there, resting on her collarbone.

She heard the gunshot again – the church, the darkness, the fireworks, a rusting gate – had it been a dream? So much, all in one day. Far off, she could hear the telephone ringing. What if the civil guard were waiting outside, ready to take her away?

Isaac
. The kiss – how was it possible she had endured life until now without that kiss – how had she lived? He'd dragged her through the darkness to let a pistol off inside a church, and then he'd kissed her. She wanted another kiss from Isaac more than she wanted to breathe.

SHE FELT AUGMENTED, AS IF
a door, long hidden inside her, had been opened, revealing a sinuous corridor, and she herself was running through it. Since the moment she met him, this man had clung to her imagination. He had made her feelings enormous, the depths of her horizons doubling. For once in her life, Olive had been made to feel monumental. The nervousness of what might come next went hand in hand with a desire for him so extreme that she wondered whether even being possessed by Isaac would assuage it.

She hadn't noticed Teresa, at
the end of the bed, scanning the peaks and hollows of the sheets. ‘I have made you a bath,' Teresa said, looking quickly away in the face of Olive's nakedness.

‘Who was that on the telephone?'

‘No one.'

‘No one? Who was it, Tere?'

Olive saw Teresa hesitate. ‘I do not know.'

‘Are the police here?'

‘No, señorita.'

‘I'm never drinking again.'

‘There is a glass of goat milk by your head.'

‘I can't.'

‘There is a bucket by your side.'

Olive leaned over and looked into the bucket. Bits of soil from the garden were scattered in the bottom. She retched into it, wanting to expel the sick feeling, her eyeballs hard as rocks.

‘Señorita,' Teresa said, ‘my brother is going to show his painting today.'

‘Today?' Olive groaned, collapsing back onto the bed. ‘Tere – was there – has there – been any news today, from the village?'

‘Someone broke into the church last night. They shot the statue of the Virgin Mary.'

‘What?'

‘Padre Lorenzo is crazy,' Teresa went on. ‘He has taken her into the centre of the main square and he's shouting.'

Olive tried to speed up her thoughts. ‘Taken who?'

‘
La Virgen
,' Teresa repeated, in Spanish. ‘She was very old wood, very expensive. She was shot three times. They took her to the office of Doctor Morales. As if he could bring her back to life,' Teresa added, with a slight sneer. ‘Do you know what the men are asking, señorita? They are asking, who is the kind of man who puts a bullet through the tit of the Madonna?'

Olive said nothing, and closed her eyes. ‘My brother looks more sick than you today,' Teresa said.

‘Well, it was a good party.'

‘I know. I have been cleaning for four hours. Come, get into the bathroom before the water is cold.' Teresa stood at the side of the bed and opened out a huge bath sheet. Olive obeyed; Teresa wrapped her up and shuffled her from the room.

•

Outside, Teresa's seeds were growing well; tiny leaves emerging from the fertilized furrows, where back in January she and Olive had marched up and down. The cork oaks and sweet chestnuts had turned a deeper green, and the sun was a few degrees warmer. Although the flowers were not in bloom, and the air was still thin, Teresa could smell the departure of winter, the inexplicable awareness the body has of the change to the most hopeful of seasons.

She sat on the tatty green sofa in the front east room. Upstairs, she could hear Olive draining her bath. She thought of Adrián, how it was inconceivable someone so young should be dead. She thought of the Schlosses' mad party, of Isaac's anger, their surly father, the shot Madonna. Everything was so uncertain. And yet, with regards to today's unveiling, Teresa had never felt so sure. She'd asked her brother whether he would miss painting Sarah and Olive, but he'd ignored her, trudging off down the hill to fetch the table and chairs that Doctor Morales said they could borrow for the party.

This morning in the cottage, Teresa put her head round Isaac's door and told him that if he wanted she would take the portrait over and prepare it for a grand unveiling. ‘I'll put it on an easel in the front east room,' she said.

Isaac, flannel on face, lying in the dark of his bedroom, lifted it once, peered at her and said, ‘Fine. I'm glad it's done
.
But wait until I get there before you show them.'

TERESA HAD CHILLED ONE OF
the remaining bottles of Clicquot, leaving it out on the veranda overnight. All the windows had been thrown open to let fresh air into the corners where cigarette smoke clung. Stubborn patches of spilled sherry attracted columns of ants. Teresa crushed them with her foot, arranged the sofa and the other chairs in a semicircle around the easel, and draped a white sheet over the artwork. She put the champagne in a metal cooler and went to the kitchen. She had never felt so clear-­headed, nor had she ever felt a greater sense of purpose than today. The excitement for it almost made her feel sick.

Thirty minutes later, everyone was
gathered. Harold, the best recovered of the family, was in an impeccable suit. Sarah looked frail, a tremor in her fingers as she passed a champagne flute to her daughter, who looked green at the sight of it. Isaac was perched on the edge of the threadbare sofa, dragging deep on a cigarette, his foot jigging. This was his moment to shine – here, in the presence of the great dealer, Harold Schloss. Teresa saw his eyes meet Olive's, and the girl's smile was an open beam of pleasure. Harold was looking in puzzlement at his wife as to what this was all about.

Teresa wondered whether he had answered the telephone this morning, for she had vowed never to pick it up again.

Sarah rose to her feet. ‘Darling Harold,' she said. ‘Well done from all of us, for
such
a wonderful party. It seems, even down here at the end of civilization, you haven't lost your touch.'

Everyone laughed, and Harold raised his glass. ‘Now, as you know, things have been a little up and down of late,' Sarah said. ‘But we like it here, don't we, darling? And we're doing well. And I – well,
we
– wanted to give you a little present to say thank you. It's Liv and me, darling,' she said, pulling the sheet off the painting. ‘Mr Robles painted us – for you.'

Teresa swallowed the champagne she'd been offered, and a sick, irresistible tide of fear flushed through her, the bubbles filling her mouth, the metallic fizz agitating her blood. Isaac ran his fingers through his hair. As the sheet cascaded to the tiles, Olive's knuckles turned white on the arms of her chair. There was a small collective gasp.

OLIVE WAS IN DEEP DISLOCATION.
She couldn't understand what she was seeing. The painting was two-­thirds drenched in indigo blue, there was a glint of golden wheat, and two women, one holding her pot aloft in a shining field, and the other, curled in semi-­defeat, surrounded by her broken shards.

It was her painting. It was
Santa Justa in the Well
. She turned to Isaac; he, too, was staring in confusion. What was it doing down here – why wasn't it upstairs, hidden in her room? Olive looked at Teresa; the grim triumph on her face.

There was a sound of clapping. Her father was looking at her painting. Her father was
applauding
. ‘Bravo, Isaac,' he was saying. ‘Bravo. What you've
done
!'

Sarah frowned, hands on hips. ‘Well, it isn't quite – what I was expecting. But I like it. Which of us is which, Mr Robles? Do you like it, Harold?'

‘I've not seen something like this in a very long time. Liv, you look like you've seen a ghost,' her father said. ‘You're not upset that Mr Robles hasn't done you a society turn?'

Olive couldn't speak. All she could do was look at her own painting, her father pacing around it. ‘This is
wonderful
,' he went on. ‘I
knew
you had something in you, Robles. Lithography, my eye.'

Harold's voice was intense and warm; it was like this whenever a new painting was speaking to him
.
It was a silent conversation; the painting slowly heating him up, running round his mind – and Harold was working on it like a child might a boiled sweet, sampling its flavours, softening its corners, edging inexorably towards its core.

Olive felt as if she too was being honed away, soon to snap and disappear. ‘This is real. Oh, this is good,' her father was saying, and it felt like she was hearing him from the bottom of a well. ‘Look at the pot – and the deer. Oh, this is
good
! This is excellent.'

Isaac was staring at the painting. His eyes began to dart around it, as if the colours, the composition, the line might speak to him too. Was he angry? Olive couldn't tell. Like her, he wasn't saying a thing. She wondered where Isaac's painting was, whether he was going to speak up. She turned to see Teresa staring at her, her look of triumph now replaced with one of urgency.

‘Mr Robles, you're a star,' said Sarah, placing her hand on his arm. ‘Well
done
.'

Teresa nodded at Olive, her eyes wide – and in that moment, Olive understood. She knew, then, what Teresa wanted her to say –
That's mine. I did that. There's been a mistake –
although she could not understand Teresa's desire. She felt her mouth open, the words almost there, but then her father spoke.

‘We should take this to Paris,' Harold said. ‘I think this might be something a few collectors over there would be interested in. I'd like to act for you, Isaac. I'll get you a better fee.'

‘
Paris?
' said Olive, and then she closed her mouth.

‘What's it called?' Harold asked.

‘It has no title,' said Isaac.

Harold stared at the painting. ‘I think we should avoid any mention of Liv and Sarah in it, given that I might be selling it. How about
Girls in the Wheatfield
?'

‘Harold,' said Sarah. ‘This was a present for you. You can't just sell it.'

But Harold wasn't listening. ‘Perhaps
Women in the Wheatfield
is better.'

‘Poor Liv, painted curled in a ball like that,' said Sarah, draining her glass of champagne, and pouring herself another. ‘Mr Robles, you really are terrible.'

Isaac stared at Olive and Teresa. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I am.'

He got to his feet. The painting had caused an almost alchemical transformation in him. The new Isaac was solidifying, like smoke into gold, before their very eyes. He was a
real
artist
, something that they could all sense but not quite touch – however much they wished to.

‘Teresa,' he said, and Olive could hear the shake in his voice as he uncharacteristically stumbled over his English. ‘Come and help me in the kitchen. I brought the turnip you wanted for that soup.'

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

10

W
hat the
fuck
have you done?' Isaac hissed. He pushed his sister inside the kitchen, jabbing his hand between her shoulder blades.

‘I haven't done anything,' Teresa hissed back. ‘I can't believe you said that thing about a turnip—­'

‘Shut up. I had to think of something.' He closed the door. ‘Whose painting is that?'

Teresa stuck her chin in the air. ‘It's Olive's,' she said. ‘It's Olive's, and it's better than yours.'

‘
Olive's
?'

‘She paints every day. She got a place at art school and stayed here instead. You didn't ask her that, did you, when you had your tongue rammed down her throat.'

Isaac slumped at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Jesus. She put her own painting up there.'

Teresa's face flushed pink. ‘No, she didn't. I did.'

‘
You
did? Why?'

Teresa stayed silent.

‘Oh, Jesus. This is about me kissing her, isn't it? How petty.'

‘You promised you'd behave, you
promised
. You're going to break her heart. You sneaked in here—­'

‘And what else did you do but creep through the orchard with your chicken as an offering, like a bloody Indian to Columbus—­'

‘I help them, every day. They would be lost without me.'

‘You could be anyone, Teresa. You're just the maid.'

‘And you just cause trouble.'

‘Sarah Schloss
asked
me to paint her, so I did. And you might as well know. Alfonso has stopped my money.'

‘What?'

‘You heard – he doesn't like the “taste of my politics”. And so the money from Sarah Schloss was supposed to keep us going. I wanted to keep this professional, Teresa—­'

‘And you expect me to believe that?'

‘I've got more important things to worry about than some rich
guiri
with a taste for big parties—­'

‘What, like shooting your pistol in the church and getting into Olive's knickers?'

‘You're just a spy. A stirrer.' He stood up, his voice low and vicious. ‘You came to these ­people, Tere, because you knew how your life was going. You've been doing it since you were little. With a dad like ours and your gypsy mother – don't pretend to me you're some saint. Don't think I don't know where Olive's emerald necklace came from. I know all about your little box in the garden. But I left; I didn't say anything. And now what? What are we supposed to do?'

‘You're going to admit it isn't your painting,' Teresa said, pinch-­faced and shaken, ‘and give Olive the credit she's due.'

‘No, he isn't,' said a voice from the doorway. ‘He isn't going to do that at all.'

OLIVE HAD OPENED THE KITCHEN
door quietly, and had been listening at the threshold. Her expression was not easy to read. She looked incandescent – but with rage, or sorrow, or excitement, neither Isaac nor Teresa could easily tell. They froze, waiting for her to speak again. Olive moved inside the kitchen and shut the door.

‘Why did you do it?' she asked Teresa.

Tears sprang into Teresa's eyes. ‘I wanted – I wanted to—­'

‘She wanted to punish me. She saw us at the gate last night,' said Isaac. ‘Think of this little trick as Teresa's revenge.'

‘No! It is not revenge, señorita,' Teresa pleaded. ‘Your father should see how brilliant you are, how—­'

‘That's not your responsibility,' said Olive. ‘Tere, I trusted you. I thought we were friends.'

‘You can still trust me.'

‘How?'

‘I am sorry, I did not—­'

‘It's too late now,' Olive sighed. ‘We can't all just stand here like some mothers' meeting. They'll be wondering what's going on.'

Isaac ran his fingers through his hair again. ‘I will tell them it isn't mine, señorita. It is not fair Teresa should trick your parents. They have been good to her. And my own painting is ready. Teresa brought it over this morning.'

Olive looked thoughtful. ‘Where is Isaac's painting, Teresa? Fetch it.'

Teresa went into the pantry. They heard her dragging barrels across the tiles, and she came tottering out with the large canvas, propping it up against the wall before she pulled away the protective cloth.

Olive stared in silence. She and her mother were recognizable, but their eyes had been made gauzy, their lips had a generic redness. Behind their heads were strange nimbuses of light, and beyond that, a plain green background. There was no humour, no spirit or power, no exciting use of colour or line, no originality, no intangible magic. No hint of secrets, no play, no story. It wasn't terrible. It was two women on the front of a Christmas card.

Olive glanced at Isaac. He was looking at his own work, arms folded, a frown of concentration as he assessed his effort. What was he thinking? Was he pleased – did he think this was
good
? There was nothing wrong with the kind of art that Isaac had replicated – after all, why should everything be an intellectual gauntlet? It was easy on the eye, but it was juvenile. Her father would hate it.

She realized, in that moment, that despite her discomfort of sitting for a portrait, part of her had wanted Isaac to be really good. It would have been easier than him having no gift at all. Perhaps she was more her parents' daughter than she thought. It was always easier to admire someone with a talent, and pity was the path to indifference. Olive closed her eyes, resisting the potential damage to her heart that this painting, or Isaac's lack, might cause. She told herself that Isaac didn't deserve to face her father's disdain. When she opened her eyes, Isaac was looking at her, and she gave him a bright smile.

‘Isaac, you heard what my father said. He wants to take the painting to Paris. He wants to sell it.'

‘You see, señorita,' said Teresa. ‘I know you said you did not care for the recognition of the world – but look at what has happened. I am glad I took the risk for you—­'

Olive turned to her. ‘I didn't want you to.'

Teresa set her jaw. ‘Are you sure about that?'

‘Tere, enough,' said Isaac.

‘But – we must tell him, now,' said Teresa.

‘My father thinks Isaac painted
Santa Justa in the Well
, or
Women in the Wheatfield.
He wants to take Isaac's painting to Paris, not mine.'

‘But all you need to do is tell him that you painted it.'

‘But would it be the same painting?' Olive asked her.

Teresa frowned. ‘I do not understand.'

‘I'm not going to say a thing.'

‘You are not?'

The exclamations and murmurs from the front room could be heard through the kitchen door. ‘I don't think my father would have quite the same enthusiasm if he knew I'd painted it,' said Olive.

‘No,' said Isaac. ‘That is not true.'

‘How can you be so sure?' she said. ‘I want my father to go to Paris, you see. I want him to take it. It might be fun. I simply want to see.'

‘This is not right,' Teresa pleaded. ‘Your father, when you tell him – he will be surprised, yes – but then he will see your other paintings—­'

‘No.'

Olive held up her hand for silence, but Teresa ignored her. ‘You do not see your father. He will—­'

‘Oh, I see my father, thank you very much.' Olive's voice caught. ‘And my mother too. They believe it's Isaac's painting. And that's all that matters, isn't it? What ­people believe. It doesn't matter what's the truth; what ­people believe becomes the truth. Isaac could have painted it – why couldn't he have painted it?'

‘He could never have painted it,' said Teresa, and she stamped her foot.

Olive made a sound of frustration. ‘You're to blame for this, Tere. So you'd better be quiet.'

‘But I did not want for you to—­'

‘This is madness,' Isaac said. ‘This is
una locura
. My painting is here.'

‘Like I said, Isaac, it's just a bit of fun,' said Olive.

‘This is not a game,' said Isaac. I have my painting here—­'

‘Please, Isaac. Look, he might not sell
Women in the Wheatfield
. So it stays in the family after all. This will all be forgotten. Then you can give him your one.'

‘But what if he sells yours? What if he sells an Isaac Robles that has not been painted by Isaac Robles?'

‘If it sells – well, I don't want the money, and you
need
the money. I heard what you said about your father. If
my
father sells the painting, you could spend the money any way you wanted. New schoolbooks, trips out, food, equipment for your students, the workers.' Olive paused. ‘ “
What do you want in this life?
” Isn't that what you asked me, Isa? Well, I want . . . to be useful.'

‘Art is not useful.'

‘I don't agree. It can make a difference. It can help your cause.'

‘I cannot do this.'

‘Isaac. Take the painting in the other room. It means nothing to me.'

‘I don't believe that, Olive.'

‘Let me do something useful. Let me be needed. I've never done anything useful in my life.'

‘But—­'

‘I'm not going to admit that the painting in the front room is mine, Isaac. Not to my father, at least – and in this case, he is the only person who matters.'

‘But he has
praised
it. Teresa is right – I do not understand—­'

Olive drew herself up, her face pale. ‘Listen. I cannot tell you how rarely my father has this reaction. Let's not risk damaging that. Be the Isaac Robles that's out there now. Just one painting.'

Isaac said nothing for a minute. He had a look of misery, his mouth downcast. Next to him, Teresa was pulling nervously at her cardigan. ‘But it is not
his
,' she whispered.

‘It is, if I give it to him,' said Olive.

‘You will be invisible, señorita. You are giving yourself away—­'

‘I'm doing the absolute opposite of giving myself away. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be completely visible. If the painting sells, I'll be in Paris, hanging on a wall. If anything, I'm being selfish. It's perfect; all the pleasure of creation, with none of the fuss.'

Isaac looked between his own painting and the kitchen door – beyond which, down the corridor,
Women in the Wheatfield
was waiting on the easel, and Harold's exclamations could still be heard. The bottle of champagne Teresa had prepared popped, and Sarah laughed. Back and forth Isaac's eyes went, between two possible selves.

‘Do not do this, Isaac,' Teresa whispered. ‘Señorita, go in there and tell them that it is yours.'

‘Isaac, this could be our chance to do something extraordinary.'

Olive offered him her hand, and for a moment, Isaac just stared at it. Then he brought his own up to meet hers, and they shook. Isaac pushed through the door and lumbered clumsily along the corridor. When he'd disappeared into the front east room, Olive turned to Teresa, her eyes alight.

‘Take this upstairs, for me. And don't sulk, Tere. It's all going to be fine. Hide it under the bed.' She studied Isaac's poorly rendered version of her face. ‘Is that what he thinks of me?'

‘I do not know,' said Teresa. ‘It is just a painting.'

‘I know you don't really think that,' Olive said, with a smile.

If the smile was supposed to be a gesture of forgiveness for what Teresa had done, it did not lift her spirits. She watched as Olive turned away and skipped down the corridor, following Isaac's path. The door of the front room opened again. Alone in the kitchen, Teresa heard laughter, and the repetitive clinking of glasses.