?
Rufina and the Lion was in fact completed, but 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, se?orita,’ she said. ‘It might be damaged.’
‘But I can’t paint anything now.’
‘Tranquila, se?orita,’ 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?’
‘No.’
‘If I had half your skill, I wouldn’t care who loved me.’
She gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s what I thought too. But I’d rather be happy.’
‘Being allowed to paint is what makes you happy. I know that about you at least.’ She smiled. ‘I like you, Olive,’ Isaac went on. ‘You are a very special girl. But you are so young to be thinking of for ever.’
Olive swallowed again, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘I’m not young. You and me – why can’t this be for ever?’
He waved his arm towards the darkness. ‘War or no war, you were never going to stay here.’
‘You don’t see, do you?’
‘What don’t I see?’
‘That I love you.’
‘You love an idea of me.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
They were silent. ‘I have been useful to you,’ he said. ‘That is all.’
‘What is it, Isa? What’s changed?’
He closed his eyes and shivered. ‘Nothing’s changed. It’s always been the same.’
She pounded the veranda sill with her fist. ‘You should want to be with me. You should—-’
A muffled explosion from beyond the valley silenced them both. ‘What the hell was that?’ said Isaac, looking at the horizon.
‘Teresa said they’ve started to bomb bridges again. Is it true your father is helping them?’
Isaac eyes were so dark with anger, she moved back. ‘I need to go to Malaga,’ he said.
‘At midnight? What use will you be now?’
‘More useful than standing here.’
‘So that’s it, is it? Us?’
‘Our ideas of what this is have always been different. You know that.’
‘What am I supposed to do with that painting?’
‘Give it to your father. I must deal with my own.’
‘What do you mean? I won’t give up on this—-’
‘You’re mixing things up, Olive. You’re frustrated you cannot paint—-’
She grabbed his arms. ‘I need you. I can’t paint without you.’
‘You painted before me.’
‘Isaac, don’t leave me – please.’
‘Goodbye, Olive.’
‘No!’
Isaac stepped down the veranda and walked towards the orchard. He turned back to the house, his face half--illuminated by the moon. Behind her, Olive could sense her mother had appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Where’s he going?’ Sarah said.
‘Suerte,’ Isaac called over his shoulder, before slipping between the trees.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Sarah.
Olive could feel her tears coming, but she refused to let her mother see her cry. ‘It doesn’t matter.’