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, se?orita,’ 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.’
‘I’m not going to say a thing.’
‘You are not?’
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 caught. ‘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, Tere. So you’d better be quiet.’
‘But I did not want for you to—-’
‘This is madness,’ Isaac said. ‘This is una locura. My painting is here.’
‘Like I said, Isaac, it’s just a bit of fun,’ said Olive.
‘This is not a game,’ said Isaac. I have my painting here—-’
‘Please, Isaac. Look, he might not sell Women in the Wheatfield. So it stays in the family after all. This will all be forgotten. Then you can give him your one.’
‘But what if he sells yours? What if he sells an Isaac Robles that has not been painted by Isaac Robles?’
‘If it sells – well, I don’t want the money, and you need the money. I heard what you said about your father. If my father sells the painting, you could spend the money any way you wanted. New schoolbooks, trips out, food, equipment for your students, the workers.’ Olive paused. ‘ “What do you want in this life?” Isn’t that what you asked me, Isa? Well, I want . . . to be useful.’
‘Art is not useful.’
‘I don’t agree. It can make a difference. It can help your cause.’
‘I cannot do this.’
‘Isaac. Take the painting in the other room. It means nothing to me.’
‘I don’t believe that, Olive.’
‘Let me do something useful. Let me be needed. I’ve never done anything useful in my life.’
‘But—-’
‘I’m not going to admit that the painting in the front room is mine, Isaac. Not to my father, at least – and in this case, he is the only person who matters.’
‘But he has praised it. Teresa is right – I do not understand—-’
Olive drew herself up, her face pale. ‘Listen. I cannot tell you how rarely my father has this reaction. Let’s not risk damaging that. Be the Isaac Robles that’s out there now. Just one painting.’
Isaac said nothing for a minute. He had a look of misery, his mouth downcast. Next to him, Teresa was pulling nervously at her cardigan. ‘But it is not his,’ she whispered.
‘It is, if I give it to him,’ said Olive.
‘You will be invisible, se?orita. You are giving yourself away—-’
‘I’m doing the absolute opposite of giving myself away. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll be completely visible. If the painting sells, I’ll be in Paris, hanging on a wall. If anything, I’m being selfish. It’s perfect; all the pleasure of creation, with none of the fuss.’
Isaac looked between his own painting and the kitchen door – beyond which, down the corridor, Women in the Wheatfield was waiting on the easel, and Harold’s exclamations could still be heard. The bottle of champagne Teresa had prepared popped, and Sarah laughed. Back and forth Isaac’s eyes went, between two possible selves.
‘Do not do this, Isaac,’ Teresa whispered. ‘Se?orita, go in there and tell them that it is yours.’
‘Isaac, this could be our chance to do something extraordinary.’
Olive offered him her hand, and for a moment, Isaac just stared at it. Then he brought his own up to meet hers, and they shook. Isaac pushed through the door and lumbered clumsily along the corridor. When he’d disappeared into the front east room, Olive turned to Teresa, her eyes alight.