The Muse by Jessie Burton Page A

ever been to London, Mr Robles?’ she asked, turning to where he sat on her left, pouring coffee into his small white cup. ‘Do you smoke? Would you like an almond?’
    â€˜Yes, I do. And no – thank you.’
    â€˜Please, have one of mine. Harold snaffled some in Malaga. He’ll only smoke German ones, so that’s all we’ve got.’ Sarah fiddled with the box on the table and pulled out a cigarette; her wrists were burdened with bangles, and they clinked together noisily. Isaac removed the cigarette from Sarah’s proffered fingers and lit it himself.
    â€˜I have not been to London,’ he said, weighing the city’s name with something like awe. London in calligraphic letters, Henry VIII, the Tower, Middle Temple. Olive’s London was not like that – it was a lonely walk through St James’s and along the Mall to the National Portrait Gallery to see her favourite Holbein; a penny bun at Lyon’s on Craven Street after, or a stroll through Embankment Gardens. That was what she missed – certainly not the other London, the stifling cocktail chit-­chat, women’s over-­rosied flesh, the lemon tang of Trumper’s wet shaves fresh on older men; red acne rashes of boys down from Oxford, with nothing much to say.
    â€˜London’s all right, I suppose,’ Olive said, intending to sound jokily arch. ‘The ­people can be ghastly.’ Her mother flashed her a look.
    â€˜I have been to Barcelona many times,’ Isaac said. ‘And Madrid.’
    Olive thought of their travelling trunks upstairs, the wooden brackets shiny from handling by so many porters, labels from Paris and Buenos Aires, Marseilles, New York; peeling like old skins the Schlosses had shed. She could barely remember any of it now, and nineteen felt like ninety.
    â€˜But you have you always lived in Arazuelo?’ Harold asked him.
    â€˜Yes. I am a teacher in Malaga.’
    â€˜What do you teach?’ Sarah asked.
    â€˜Lithography,’ he said. ‘At the San Telmo School of Art.’ Olive stared hard at her plate.
    â€˜Harold’s an art dealer,’ Sarah went on. ‘Kokoschka, Kirchner, Klimt, Klee – all his. I swear he only sells artists whose surnames start with a K.’
    â€˜I admire Kokoschka,’ Isaac said, and Olive sensed her father become alert.
    â€˜Herr Kokoschka painted blue fir trees in Olive’s nursery in Vienna,’ Sarah said. ‘Mr Robles, your English is excellent.’
    â€˜Thank you, señora. I taught myself,’ he said. ‘I have English acquaintances in Malaga, and I practise with Teresa.’
    â€˜Do you paint, or only print?’ asked Harold.
    Robles hesitated. ‘I paint a little, señor.’
    â€˜You should bring me some of your work.’
    Generally, Harold was allergic to ­people who said they painted. Whenever a hopeful artist got wind that Harold was a dealer, they always misjudged it. Sometimes, they displayed aggression, as if Harold was withholding something which they were specifically entitled to – or they offered a simpering humility that fooled no one. But here was Herr Schloss, asking this young man for his work. Olive was used to how it was when his attention was caught – how he would dog, cajole, flatter, act the father, act the pal – whatever it took, hoping he would be the one to uncover next year’s genius. It always hurt.
    â€˜What I paint would not interest you, señor,’ said Isaac, smiling.
    Harold tipped up the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
    Isaac looked serious. ‘If I have the time, I will show you. Thank you, señor . ’
    â€˜The time?’ said Harold. Olive’s skin tingled.
    â€˜When I am not at San Telmo, I am occupied with the workers’ union in Malaga. I teach them how to read and write,’ said Isaac.
    There was a pause. ‘Does your