Jessie Burton - The Muse

When both Sarah and Harold had passed out — Sarah on the sofa and Harold upright in the armchair, his whisky tumbler beginning to slip — Teresa set the glass on the floor and tiptoed down the corridor. She imagined Jorge, slinging her brother’s body somewhere in the woods, a shallow grave perhaps, no means of ever finding him again. She had to lean against the wall, ramming her hand into her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

Olive didn’t look like Olive any more. Mottled, eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar. Her teeth were visible, which made her look even more vulnerable. Teresa reached out to touch Olive’s arm, feeling how solid it was, now the blood no longer flowed. She touched Olive’s head, and felt dead herself — a dead person living, a ghost with flesh on her bones. She saw something sticking from the pocket of Olive’s skirt. It was the photograph from Isaac’s set; Olive and Isaac standing in front of Rufina and the Lion in the attic.

I promise you on my life , she said to Olive in Spanish, putting the photograph in her own pocket, I will not let this go unpunished .

But even as she spoke, a quiet voice within Teresa told her already how hard it would be to avenge their deaths. How can you battle with a shadow in your own village square? This was the worst of it; that in the face of this senseless waste, Teresa was powerless. There was nothing she could do to bring them back. The only thing she could keep alive was memory.

The next day, Sarah had come up to the attic as Teresa was finishing her packing. All Olive’s paints and sketchbooks were stowed away. All that was left was Rufina and the Lion , propped against the wall.

‘Is that it?’ Sarah had asked. ‘The next one?’

‘Yes.’

Sarah stood in front of it, saying nothing, drinking it in. Then she turned to Teresa, fixed her eyes on her, and said, ‘Teresa, what’s Isaac’s painting doing up here?’

‘Olive — was looking after it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sarah turned back to the painting. ‘I see.’ She walked towards it and placed her hand on its edge. ‘Well I’ll be damned if that Guggenheim woman gets it,’ she said, her voice breaking. This is for me.’

‘No, no, señora, it must go to the Guggenheim gallery.’

Sarah whirled on her. ‘Are you telling me what to do? ‘This is the last thing I have—’

‘Señora,’ Teresa pleaded.

Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

‘Nothing,’ said Teresa, putting the photograph behind her back.

‘Show me.’

Sarah grabbed the photograph. On seeing Isaac and her daughter, captured in what looked like a moment of happiness, she put a hand to her mouth and turned away, dragging Rufina and the Lion with her along the floor.

Teresa called down the stairs. ‘I think Isaac’s body is in the wood. Will you help me bury it—’

‘Shut up,’ said Sarah. She stopped, but did not turn round. Her hand came up and touched her straggly curls, and Teresa saw that she was trembling. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t help.’ She stumbled down the stairs.

To see the painting disappear with Sarah felt to Teresa as if her own strength was leaking away. But she could hardly wrench Olive’s painting out of Sarah’s hands. If she wanted to leave for England, for now at least there was nothing she could do.

Teresa tried to push these memories away, placing her chin on the handrail as the ship gained speed through the water. She wondered what Sarah was going to do with the painting and the photograph. The painting was in the hull, right now. Idly, she considered sneaking down and putting it into her own trunk. But it was too risky; she had to keep a low profile. The photograph would be easier to lift with light fingers — it was probably in Sarah’s purse. Was it that Sarah had wanted an image of Isaac, or of Olive? It was hard to tell, but either way, Sarah had clutched that photograph like a talisman. She was vaguely aware of other passengers behind her on deck, taking a walk before night fell.

‘Hello,’ said a man, breaking into her thoughts.

Teresa flinched, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she tugged the woollen hat she was using to cover her short fuzz of hair. She didn’t want to talk.

‘Bloody shame, isn’t it,’ he went on.

He was English; young and upright. Teresa saw his fingers on the rail; black hairs sprouting on each one. ‘Not good at all,’ he said. ‘I should have stayed, but I couldn’t. We had to close the consulate.’

Teresa turned: he had blue eyes and a stern face. He looked like something out of an adventure book. He was frowning, almost talking to himself. She noticed the shadows of sleeplessness on his face, but he was the one to ask her if she was quite well.

‘I am, yes, thank you,’ Teresa replied, in her best English. She looked over her shoulder. Harold and Sarah had not emerged from their berths. She didn’t want them to see her talking to anyone, but she wondered if they would by this point even care. Sarah had been insistent on going back to London, but Harold wanted to pick up the thread with Peggy Guggenheim in Paris. They were going to separate; Teresa could see it, even if they couldn’t. Olive was a shadow between them, a touchstone of guilt, recrimination and pain.

‘Why couldn’t you stay?’ she asked him.

‘The bombs. That, and other parts of Europe requiring our attention. But still.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t think it’s right.’

‘No.’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

She said nothing, and there was amusement on his tired face. ‘I see,’ he went on. ‘Like that, is it? I detect an accent though. Do you speak Spanish?’

‘Yes.’

Teresa could tell he was intrigued by her. In the satchel she had not let go of since leaving the finca, she had Olive’s admission letter from the Slade, and a telegram from Peggy Guggenheim expressing her impatience for the next Isaac Robles. Given that Harold had kept hold of her identity documents, these flimsy bits of paper were all Teresa had left. She touched the satchel, her guard down with tiredness, her mind hopping too quickly to hold her nerve. Picturing being thrown off the side of the boat for her failed impersonation, she gripped the rail harder.

‘Any other languages I should know about?’ the man asked, passing her his hipflask, which she drank from, hesitantly. She told him she knew a bit of German and at this, he became even more intrigued. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘England.’

‘Nowhere more specific?’

‘London. Curzon Street.’

‘Very nice. Family there?’

‘Parents.’

‘I see,’ he said, but he did not look convinced, and Teresa felt herself collapsing within. ‘And what are you going to do when you get there?’ he pushed.

Teresa suspected that Harold and Sarah, for their separate reasons, would be glad to see the back of her. They’d done enough, bringing her out of Spain to protect their respective secrets, using their daughter’s name to do so. Teresa knew she was already a nuisance they’d rather forget. She wasn’t sure how far she’d be able to push her luck.

‘I don’t know what I am going to do next,’ she said to the man, thinking there was no harm in fusing a true statement in the middle of her evasions.

‘I might be able to help you. If you’re willing to help me.’

‘How?’ she asked. Behind his head, the coast of Spain had by now completely disappeared.

‘Come to this address,’ he said. ‘Whenever you can. A Monday is best.’

Teresa took the small card he was proffering, and read the words Foreign Office, Whitehall, London . She didn’t know what that was, or how to get there, but she worried that if she confessed to this man, he would take his offer away. She tried to assess him; was it her body he wanted? It didn’t seem so, but then, she knew by now how false the English could be, how good they were at saying the opposite of what they really meant.