The Muse (19 page)

 

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

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

13

H
er father's absence made it easier for Olive to see Isaac, and they met several times a week, usually in his cottage when Teresa was in the finca working and Sarah was taking her afternoon rest. For days afterwards, Olive could almost physically summon the memory of their meetings, how it felt when Isaac entered her – the indescribable sensation of making space for him as he pushed deeper, and what she believed was his utter bliss, mirrored by that of hers.

And yet, she never felt sated. Her appetite was unstoppable, a revelation; and she felt so happy that here was something she could summon whenever she wanted, but which never ran out. She felt that he improved her, he made her the woman she was meant to be. And afterwards, at night, she would lock herself in her attic, and paint. She was growing ever more confident, and saw Isaac as her key. This was not something Teresa would ever be able to understand – Isaac as essential to her development as an artist. Olive couldn't bear to look at Teresa's mournful face, that little scowl. It was an energy the opposite of him.

The olive trees, lined in serried swoops on the hillsides, were greening. Along the road, oranges were coming into fruit, and Olive scratched her nails on the hard skin, and made a scar on the early citrus. It was fresh, it was perfect, the world was fresh and perfect. What next to paint? What next to do? Everything was possible. She was now the Olive Schloss she was always supposed to be.

When she reached the cottage, Isaac was reading a letter by the wood burner in the kitchen. She walked towards him to give him a kiss, but Isaac held the letter out and stopped her path.

‘What is it? What's wrong?' she said.

‘This is from Miss Peggy Guggenheim.' He stumbled over the pronunciation of the woman's surname. ‘Read it for yourself.'

Disconcerted, Olive took the letter, sat at the table, and read.

Dear Mr Robles,

Harold Schloss gave me your address. Forgive my forwardness, but I do believe that in these matters, honesty of expression is invaluable. I hope that you, as an artist relatively new to these transactions, would agree. For I have no wish to be a faceless ‘purchaser' – your work has enlivened my wall, and I am enthralled.

Olive looked up at Isaac, her mind racing. ‘Oh, Isaac. How wonderful—­'

‘Read on,' he said.

When Schloss said he had something special to show me, I was dubious. Art dealers say this a lot to me, and I am quickly learning to develop a “sang froid” when it comes to such declarations. But Schloss was adamant; even coming to Paris specifically to show it to me. He said you were from the land of the Moors and the endless starlit skies, of Arabic palaces and Catholic forts, where blood is in the soil and the sun beats the sierra. Your dealer may sound a theatrical Viennese, Mr Robles, but I have come to entirely trust his opinion.

I am so delighted I agreed to meet. The enriching effects of your painting change by the day for me. My friends, who know better than me, call it a chimaera, a chameleon, an aesthetic pleasure and a metaphysical joy. I would rather say that
Women in the Wheatfield
is not an easy painting to categorize, and that this is a good thing. Whilst I admire your figurative stubbornness in a time of abstract shapes, this is not to say I think you are part of a reactionary, regressive force – far from it. You are up to something new.

The colors – where to start with your colors? I joked to Herr Schloss, “perhaps if we cut Mr Robles open, we will find a rainbow hiding inside?” But guard your hands, Mr Robles – I know we will only find out this rainbow through the process of more paintings.

The overall spirit of
Wheatfield
to me feels mythical and unbridled. Yet there is something fastidious in your animals, as if their lines have been rendered by a Renaissance master with a realist's touch – and the fact you have painted oil onto wood compounds this sense of tradition. It is both dream and nightmare, irreligious yet striving for some faith. Yet the colors of the women – their expressions, the sweep of the sky – they seem derived from a somewhat more modern soul.

This is just what I take from it, of course. You must do as other great artists do, and ignore all “opinion”. Anyway, Mr Robles: I love it; take or discard that as
you will.

Schloss probably told you that I am planning to establish a gallery in London next year, and I have your painting intended for the opening exhibition. I do not know if I shall be able to part with it for public consumption – I do not want to share it and for now, it hangs on my bedroom wall. There is a call to intimacy within it, a personal struggle and defiance that seems so essentially human – dare I say, so essentially
female
– which has come to beat inside me like an extra heart.

But I want to be a good collector, you see – and good collectors always share. I would love for you to see it on the public wall.

I will never make an artist explain himself to me, unless he himself chooses to do so – so I ask here no questions of impulses, process, your wishes for what may come. But here is my one request. Schloss has assured me that there will be opportunities to see more work, and all I ask is that you consider me a supporter. To wit: when it comes to showing you to the wider world, I would love to be your first port of call. The first of anything is so often the most indefatigable.

Yours, in admiration,

Peggy Guggenheim

Olive started to laugh, giddy laughter – the laughter of someone whose lottery ticket has just come through; her winner's mind already racing over the transformations of her life to come. ‘Oh, Isaac,' she said. ‘You've made a new friend. She
loves
it.'

‘She is not my friend.'

‘Come on, Isa. There's nothing to worry about.'

He went very still. ‘Is it true that your father has told her I have more paintings?'

Olive placed the letter slowly on the table. ‘I don't know. That's the honest truth. But it's inevitable he would – he's a dealer. It's half his job. He got Guggenheim – hook, line and sinker – and he wasn't going to let her go again without a little bait.'

He ran a hand over his face. ‘Did you know this would happen, Olive?'

‘No.'

‘Did you
suppose
it would happen?'

‘I didn't think about it.'

‘You didn't think about it.'

‘I – just knew I couldn't tell my father that it was mine.'

‘But why not?' He pressed his finger on the letter and she watched his skin turn white. ‘Would it not be easier than all this?'

‘Teresa put me on the spot. She interfered—­'

‘Mr Robles does not have any more paintings,' Isaac said, folding his arms. ‘That was the one painting he had. And now it's sold. And now there are no more.'

‘Yes, but—­'

‘So I am going to tell your father, the
dealer
, that I do not have time to paint. My work in Malaga does not give me the time for it.'

‘Peggy Guggenheim bought you, Isaac. Her uncle—­'

He made a sound of disgust. ‘Listen to yourself. Peggy bought
you
.'

‘Peggy bought
us
. Don't you see? We're together in this. Your name, your face: my work.'

‘Olive. This is very serious. There is no balance.'

‘Just one more painting. One more.'

‘I have not enjoyed this. I said yes, like a fool. I was tired, I was stupid. And now you are like a drunk, searching for the hidden bottle.'

‘Blame your sister, not me. I never wanted this situation, but here it is.'

‘You could have stopped it. You didn't want to.'

‘Did you give the money to the workers?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘And didn't that feel like you were doing something? Aren't we all supposed to make sacrifices – isn't that half your credo that you've been telling me since the day we met?'

‘And what sacrifice are you making, Olive? As far as I can see, for you this is a big joke.'

‘It's not a joke,' Olive snapped, pushing her chair back and facing him square-­on.

‘You have been behaving as if it is.'

‘Why do you and your sister think I'm so stupid? Do you know how many artists my father sells? Twenty-­five or six, last time I counted. Do you know how many of them are women, Isaac? None. Not one. Women can't
do
it, you see. They haven't got the
vision
, although last time I checked they had eyes, and hands, and hearts and souls. I'd have lost before I'd even had a chance.'

‘But you
made
that painting—­'

‘So what? My father would never have got on a plane to Paris with a painting he thought was mine. I've lived with that realization for years, Isaac. Years and years, before you and I met. When I came down here, I didn't know what I was going to do with my life; I was lost. And then I met you. And then your sister –your interfering little sister, who perhaps did me the greatest favour anyone's ever done, even though the truth of it is killing her – came along and changed everything. And I like it, Isaac, and I don't want it to stop. One day I might tell him – just to see the look on his face. Maybe that will be a joke. But not now. It's too late.'

‘Too late – for what? And please do not say it is because you want to carry on helping the Spanish working man. I do not think I can tolerate it.'

‘You were happy enough to take my money—­'

‘Peggy Guggenheim's money—­'

‘Which was probably double your annual salary. Do you think I truly don't care about what's happening down here?'

‘You may care. But it is superficial. You do not understand it at the heart.'

‘But
I'm
the one who can actually pump proper money into it, not you. And who says you're the expert?' She threw up her hands. ‘All right, Isaac, I'll tell you why I want to carry on – it
is
for me. But I can help some ­people along the way, at least. I want my paintings to be so valuable and so important that no one can pull them off the market and hide them away because – heaven forfend – they were painted by a
woman
. And it's not just that. I've seen what success does to ­people, Isaac – how it separates them from their creative impulse, how it paralyses them. They can't make anything that isn't a horrible replica of what came before, because everybody has opinions on who they are and how they should be.'

‘I am glad you are being honest. But it would still have been the same painting if your name was on it,' Isaac said. ‘You could have changed things.'

‘Oh, God, I could wring your neck. You're so naive – it wouldn't have worked out the same way at all. There'd be no flirty letter from Peggy Guggenheim, no exhibition in her new gallery on the basis of one painting, nothing like it. And it would take all my energy “changing things” as you put it, with none left over to paint – which is the whole bloody point of everything. The energy a man might use on – oh, I don't know, making good work – you want me to use on “changing things”. You don't understand, because you've lived your life as an individual, Isaac. And yet everything you do as a man is universal. So enjoy the glory, enjoy the money, and do it for me, because I certainly wouldn't have been allowed.'

‘A cheque from Peggy Guggenheim isn't going to change the political situation round here,' he said. ‘You are the naive one.'

‘Well I'd rather be naive than boring. What's wrong with the pair of you? I've given you this! You and Teresa are as bad as each other.'

‘My sister is angry with me,' he said. ‘She's right.'

‘Well she's angry with me too. We're hardly friends. It's a mess. But let's face it, when is Teresa not angry?'

There was a brief moment of unity, of levity, as they thought of Teresa and her scowling, her defiance, her sense of what was right, and her unorthodox ways of going about it. ‘I don't think she considered any of this when she put my painting on the easel,' Olive said. ‘She doesn't know me at all.'

Isaac leant back in the chair and exhaled the moment of truce. ‘No. It did not go according to her plan. But she still idolizes you. And I think she knows you better than you know yourself.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘That maybe, Olive, you didn't want your painting to be so secret after all.'

She stared at him. ‘
What
?
'

‘You let her into your bedroom. You showed her your paintings. Did you never wonder that my sister might skip ahead of you a few steps?'

‘I showed her my paintings as a
friend
.'

‘Teresa did not do this to you maliciously. Stop pretending that she has done you a harm.'

Olive slumped onto the table. ‘If you're so worried about your sister's feelings you should never have touched me in the first place. That's what's really bothering her. I don't know why.'

‘Olive, you came to me – you wanted . . . All right. How about we stop this, now?'

Olive lifted her head. ‘What do you want to stop?'

‘This . . .
lie
. I feel I am deceiving your father—­'

‘It doesn't matter about him. He's happy. He's delighted. He's sold a piece of art and he's cultivating the reputation of a very promising artist—­'

‘Who doesn't exist.'

‘But the Isaac Robles we created –
he
exists.'

‘We are going round in circles.'