Jessie Burton - The Muse

‘Teresa,’ Isaac 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.’

‘What 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 flushed. ‘No, she didn’t. I did.’

‘ You did? Why?’

‘You’re going to break her heart.’

‘Oh, Jesus. This is about me kissing her?’

‘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’d 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 lifting Olive’s dress?’

‘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 necklace came from. I know all about your little box in the garden. 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 to—’

‘She wanted to punish me. She saw us at the gate last night,’ said Isaac. ‘This little trick is Teresa’s revenge.’

‘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 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.’

‘I will tell them it isn’t mine, señorita,’ said Isaac. ‘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.’

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 was hard. ‘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. So you’d better be quiet.’