Jessie Burton - The Muse

Isaac regarded his sister, the new severity in her face. ‘You don’t fit here either, Tere,’ he said.

‘But you’re the one who put a bullet through the Madonna. You’re the one who’s spent his life teaching peasants their rights. You’re the one—’

‘All right. But you think they’re only going for men? You’d have to come with me.’

‘I won’t leave.’

‘Jesus, you’re as stubborn as the Schlosses.’

‘Well, we all know why they won’t leave. Because of you. If you think about it, Isa, you’re endangering them too.’

*

The British Consulate in Malaga had sent letters out to any of His Majesty’s registered subjects it knew of in the region. Wide-eyed, Teresa handed over the consul’s letter, which was addressed to Sarah. After a thin breakfast, bread being scarcer and the goat milk drying up, the Schlosses discussed whether they should stay or go.

The letter informed them that warships were waiting to take them off Spanish soil into Gibraltar — and on, if they wished, to England. The threat, it said, was not from these nationalist insurgents and their foreign troops, but from those on the Spanish far left, the reds — who might soon loot these British-rented fincas, and confiscate any private property.

Olive was determined that they should stay. ‘We can’t just leave when it doesn’t suit us. What sort of example is that?’

‘ Liebling ,’ said Harold. ‘It’s dangerous.’

You’re the one still driving into Malaga. We’re foreigners. They won’t come for us.’

That’s exactly why they will come for us,’ said Harold, pointing at the letter. That’s what the consul said.’

‘Liv’s right,’ said Sarah. ‘I don’t think we should leave.’

Harold looked at his two womenfolk in bemusement. ‘You both want to stay?’

Sarah got up and walked to the window. ‘London is over for us.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Harold. ‘Only two months ago, you were clamouring to leave.’ Sarah ignored him. ‘ I think,’ he said, that we should leave if it gets any worse, but invite Isaac to come with us.’

The women turned to look at him. ‘It’s my duty,’ said Harold. ‘He’s too valuable.’

‘Isaac won’t leave,’ said Sarah. ‘He’ll fight.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘It’s obvious. He feels great loyalty to this place.’

‘As do I,’ said Olive, still on the sofa, reaching over to light one of their dwindling supply of cigarettes. Her parents did not stop her. ‘Mr Robles isn’t a coward,’ she said, exhaling deeply, surveying them both. ‘But if you’re planning to take him, then quite frankly, you should take Teresa too.’

‘Has he nearly finished this Rufina painting?’ asked Harold. ‘I keep dangling the bait for Peggy, but have not been given any news.’

‘I do not know, señor,’ said Teresa.

‘You normally know everything, Teresa,’ Sarah said.

‘He’s nearly finished,’ said Olive. ‘It won’t be long.’

‘When you next go to Malaga, darling,’ Sarah said to Harold, ‘buy a Union Jack.’

‘What?’

‘I want to hoist the Union Jack. So whatever bastard comes along to shoot us up, they know that we are neutral.’

‘We’re hardly neutral, Mother,’ said Olive. ‘Have you even looked at the newspapers?’

‘You know I don’t like the newspapers, Olive.’

‘Unless you’re in them.’

‘Liv,’ said her father, a warning in his voice.

‘Well, she lives in a bubble. Our government has refused to get involved. So have the French. They’re saying that defending the Spanish Republic is tantamount to a defence of Bolshevism.’

‘They’re worried, liebling,’ said Harold. ‘They fear revolution, that the situation here will spread to France, up and up across the Channel, into Regent Street, along the Strand and the Pennine Way.’

‘Baldwin’s so scared of Hitler, he won’t do anything.’

‘I don’t think he is,’ said Harold. ‘The Prime Minister is buying time rather than German favour.’

‘Either way — where does that leave you, Mr Vienna?’ said Sarah. ‘Better for you — for all of us — if we stay in Spain.’

*

Rufina and the Lion was in fact completed, and Olive hadn’t painted anything since. She’d never experienced this lack of willingness to approach a canvas, and she didn’t like it at all — feeling useless and frightened by her lack of confidence. She didn’t want to connect it directly to Isaac’s lack of interest in her — she wanted to work independently of him, of any factor outside her own creative impulse — but it was proving impossible. She had begged Isaac to present Rufina and the Lion to Harold, but he wouldn’t do it. I’ve got more important things to worry about,’ he’d said.

‘But you could just hand it over. My father’s waiting. Peggy Guggenheim’s waiting.’

‘I do not care if the Pope is waiting,’ he snapped.

Olive started to feel that Rufina was clogging up her mind. Its power over her had become a reflection, not just of her relationships with Isaac and Teresa, but of the political situation that was swirling around them. Fear was stoppering her. She had painted it as a purge; now she needed it gone. When Isaac wouldn’t take it, Olive suggested that Teresa take the panel down to the pantry, out of her sight.

Teresa refused. ‘It is too cold in there, señorita,’ she said. It might be damaged.’

‘But I can’t paint anything now.’

‘ Tranquila, señorita ,’ said Teresa. ‘It will come and go.’

‘Well, it’s never gone anywhere before. What if that’s it ? What if it’s just been these paintings, and that’s it?’

One evening in early October, the Schlosses invited Isaac for dinner. He was quiet throughout, and afterwards Olive caught him alone, staring into the darkness of the orchard. She slipped her hand in his, but he did not take hers, his own resting there like a dead man’s. She tried to cajole him again, saying that surely he could do with more money for the Republican side, and that giving Harold Rufina and the Lion would be the ideal way.

‘The Soviets have promised us arms,’ he said. ‘We may lose Malaga. We may lose Madrid and half of Catalonia, but we will win the war.’

She leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re so brave,’ she said.

He seemed not to notice her kiss at all, as he ground the cigarette under his heel, ash smearing black on the veranda. ‘Teresa thinks I should go north. Our father is becoming more and more. . loud, about those on the left. I represent something that holds him back. He’s ambitious. Ambitious men do well in times like these.’

‘Will he hurt you, Isa?’

‘He will not get his hands dirty. Those days are over. But someone else might.’

‘Isaac, no.’

‘They’re bombing Malaga again. You should leave, Olive. You all should go.’

‘But we live here.’

‘Imagine if you stayed. You might never paint again, all because you wanted to be brave.’

‘If I was dead, I don’t suppose I’d much care. Besides, I haven’t painted a thing since finishing Rufina .’

He turned to her in surprise. ‘Is that true?’

‘Yes, that’s why I keep asking. I know it’s selfish, Isa, I know.’ She could feel a cry coming, but she swallowed it down. ‘Without you I’m stuck.’ He did not respond, and she turned away to the blackness of the orchard.

‘You don’t need me, Olive,’ he said, eventually. ‘You just need to pick up your brush. Why do you insist so much on involving us? Is it so that you can blame us if it goes wrong?’