Although he bristled at the ease with which she thought she could buy him, he considered what a pleasure it would be to paint a face like Sarah Schloss. ‘Thank you, se?ora. I accept. But allow me to make this a gift.’
Her eyes closed in a brief pause of pleasure, as if she had always known he would assent. As much as Isaac disliked witnessing this, he admired her self--belief. He felt that he did not want to give her any assurance about her beauty. She clearly knew she had it in abundance.
Sarah smiled. ‘Oh, that won’t do. This has to be a transaction. How many sittings will you need me for?’
‘I think six to eight, se?ora.’
‘And should we do it here, or at your house?’
‘Whatever is easiest for you.’
Sarah leaned over the tray as she lifted a glass of lemonade and handed it to him. ‘This is your sister’s recipe,’ she said. ‘It’s better than any I’ve had elsewhere. What do you think her secret is?’
‘I leave my sister’s secrets to her, se?ora.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Sensible. I think it should always be like that – everyone’s happier that way. I’ll come to you. Harold is in and out all the time, and I don’t want him getting suspicious.’
‘When is his birthday, se?ora?’
‘His birthday?’
‘This is not a present for his birthday?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘It’s just a surprise.’ She lifted her glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to my painting.’
OUTSIDE HER BEDROOM, OLIVE STOPPED her hand on the old wrought--iron handle and faced Teresa. ‘Remember,’ she said. ‘Keep this to yourself.’
Teresa nodded. She could hear her brother and Sarah talking down below. Olive pushed down the handle and let her in.
They were in an unexpected atrium of thick gold light, a huge space that ran along at least half the span of the house, with exposed beams, splintered with age and cracking plaster. Teresa blinked, adjusting her sight, the dust in the shafts of honeyed daylight swirling in Olive’s wake. Isaac had been in this house before, running round it like a mad boy, but Teresa had been too young, and so she hadn’t known such a room existed.
She stood rigid at the door, looking furtively around for whatever it was that Olive had been hiding up here. She could not smell an animal, nor hear any muffled cries; she could see only travelling trunks, a messy bed, clothes on a chair, books piled up in towers. It was the type of room she dreamed of for herself.
‘Shut the door, nincompoop,’ Olive said.
‘Nincompoop?’
Olive laughed. ‘I didn’t mean it. I just – I don’t want them to hear us.’
Teresa was uneasy. Olive was supposed to be the fish out of water, walking round in her socks. But now, standing by the window on the other side of the room, Olive looked so different. She had walked into the sunlight straight--backed, certain of herself, her arm resting gracefully on the sill, lost in thoughts that Teresa didn’t have the ability to reach.
‘Teresa,’ Olive said. ‘Close the door. Come over here. I want to show you something.’
Teresa obeyed, as Olive knelt down under the bed and pulled out a very large, flat piece of wood. When she lifted it up and turned it round, Teresa’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Madre mía,’ she said, and laughed.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘You did this?’
Olive hesitated. ‘I did,’ she said. ‘It’s called The Orchard. What – do you think?’
It was one of the most extraordinary things Teresa had ever seen. Some of Isaac’s paintings were pretty decent, but this one, this one, stood before her like a . . . person. It was not a case of thinking, it was a matter of feeling. The painting in its power overwhelmed her.
Her eyes darted all over it. She felt saturated. Who painted like this, a nineteen--year--old in her school pyjamas? Who knew such colours, who could take the land she had only just arrived in, and turn it into something better, and higher, brighter than the sun that flooded the room? For surely, this was the finca and its orchard, reimagined in a riot of colour and dancing shapes, identifiable to Teresa but so essentially changed.
Isaac had talked on occasion about art, about famous painters and what made someone stand out from the rest. Novelty, he always said, makes the difference. It was the fact that they were unlike the rest. You can be a brilliant draughtsman, he said, but that means nothing if you’re not seeing the world differently. Teresa looked at Olive’s painting again, and felt almost a wave of pain run though her. This wasn’t just a case of novelty. This was something else, beyond words, an elusive power that was too much for her to comprehend. She didn’t know if she believed in God, but she knew this girl was blessed.
‘You don’t like it,’ said Olive, her mouth thinning to a line. ‘I knew I should have worked more on those fruit trees. And perhaps there should be figures in it—-’
‘I like it,’ said Teresa. They stood in silence before it. ‘Is – this what you do, se?orita?’
Olive considered the question, laying the painting on the bed as delicately as one might a lover. ‘I got into art school,’ she said. ‘I sent my pictures and I got a place.’
Teresa’s eyes widened. ‘But you are here?’
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘But you have un gran talento.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘If I had the money I would buy your painting.’
‘Would you?’
‘I would be proud to have your painting on my wall. Why are you not at the school?’