She looked at him in confusion, and then she understood, rearranging her face into humility, still hearing the echo of the woman’s hopeful voice, her panicked breath when she realized Harold wasn’t on the other end.
‘I am sorry, se?or,’ she said. ‘I wanted to speak to my aunt in Madrid.’
They fixed their eyes upon each other and Harold released her hand. He walked round and sat in his chair, opening the breech of the rifle. ‘All you had to do was ask, Teresa.’
‘I am sorry, se?or,’ she repeated. ‘It will not happen again.’
‘Good. All right. Off you go.’
She was at the door when he spoke again. ‘Where is my wife?’ he asked her, and Teresa turned back to face him, fear bursting in her stomach.
‘She is at the market, se?or.’
‘At six in the evening?’ Harold locked the rifle and pushed back his chair.
Teresa pinched herself through the pocket of her apron. ‘Yes. But she wanted to visit the church after.’
‘The church?’
‘Yes. La iglesia de Santa Rufina.’
He laughed. ‘You know Mrs Schloss is not well, Teresa. If she keeps wandering off like this, you must tell me. Keep an eye out for her.’
‘An eye out?’
‘Keep watch for her. Wait here until she comes back. And when she does, tell her I’ve got work in Malaga. She’ll understand.’
‘Sí, se?or.’
‘Is Olive with her, at the church?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad they’re spending time together.’ He laid the rifle on his desk. ‘Teresa, I want your opinion.’
‘Yes, se?or?’
‘Do you think the villagers would like us to hold a party?’
Teresa imagined that a party held by the Schlosses would be the most glamorous thing any of the villagers had ever seen – and she would be in the centre, organizing it. They wouldn’t mock her after that – no more gypsy slurs or bastard comments. The power of Harold and Sarah Schloss would reflect in glorious technicolour – on her. ‘I think it would be wonderful, se?or,’ she said.
She hurried back to the kitchen to see to the stew, and heard Harold pacing in his bedroom, the stop--start of his feet as he moved back and forth from his closet to try on several outfits. He reappeared in a beautiful wheat--coloured suit, with a blue shirt underneath, which set against his dark hair and made him look incredibly refined.
His motor car revved and when he was gone, Teresa felt heavy again, burdened by Harold, bist du es?, by the secret they both knew he had entrusted her to keep. He had left a trail of cologne. A sharp, umbery echo of dark leather chairs and darker corners.
?
When she returned to the cottage, Isaac was packing away his paint materials in his bedroom. In the kitchen, a sheet was over the painting, as he would not allow anyone to see it before it was completed. Sarah had left, but Olive lingered at the table. She looked tired, and Teresa watched out of the corner of her eye how her hands moved constantly, her eyes darting from corner to corner. Teresa could not marry this urchinous twitcher with the stately, confident artist up in her attic. She wondered if Olive had painted anything new, and whether she’d be permitted to see it.
‘Your father asked where you were,’ Teresa said. ‘I told him you had gone to the church of Santa Rufina with your mother.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In the village square.’
‘My mother doesn’t know about this.’ Olive rose to her feet. ‘I’ll have to get to her before Daddy does.’
‘He’s gone out,’ Teresa said.
Olive’s face fell. ‘Of course he has.’ She sat back down.
‘Are you enjoying being painted?’ Teresa asked.
‘I don’t think I make a very good subject. My mother loves it, of course.’
‘Your father will be very happy to see it.’
‘Maybe. If it’s any good. Isaac won’t let me look.’
‘Your father – he tells me he is going to have a party.’
Olive groaned. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘Don’t you want a party, se?orita?’
‘You haven’t been to one of my parents’ parties. I think I’d rather visit the church.’
She was in an irritable mood, and Teresa wondered quite how badly the portrait session had gone between Olive and her mother. All Teresa could conclude was that whilst Sarah was born to be watched, Olive was more of a watcher.
She walked to the counter, fetched an onion and a knife, and began to chop. ‘Do you know the story of Santa Rufina?’ she asked, hoping to distract Olive from her gloom.
Olive gazed towards the darkness of the corridor, where they could hear Isaac moving around in his room. ‘No.’
‘It is a story about two sisters,’ said Teresa. ‘They were Chris-tians. They lived in Seville, in . . . la época romana?’
‘Roman times,’ said Olive.
‘Yes. They made pots and bowls. The Romans wanted them to make pots for a party. A pagan party. But the sisters said, “No, no we won’t. Our pots are our own.” And they broke the mask of the goddess Venus.’
‘Goodness me.’
‘They were arrested. They threw Justa down a well. And Rufina – they made her fight a lion.’
Teresa noted with pleasure how Olive had stilled, listening to her story, as the shadows threw black dancers up the walls and the onion sweated in the pan.
‘A big lion,’ she went on. ‘A hungry lion. En el anfiteatro. All the -people watching. But the lion did not want to fight. He sat, he did not move. He would not touch her.’
‘What then?’ whispered Olive.
‘They cut off her head.’
‘No.’
‘And they threw it down the well to meet her sister.’
Olive shivered. ‘That’s awful.’
Teresa shrugged. ‘I like the lion.’ Her eye was caught by Isaac standing at the door. ‘He knows the value of peace. He keeps his place.’
‘Maybe he didn’t like the taste of bony girl,’ Isaac said. Olive turned to him. He folded his arms and fixed Teresa with a look. ‘Telling stories again, Tere?’
‘She’s a good storyteller, Isaac,’ said Olive. ‘Imagine waiting down in the darkness whilst your sister faced a lion. Imagine holding her head in your hands; the rest of her, disappeared. What happened to Justa?’
‘She died of the shock,’ said Teresa.