The Olive Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  It had taken a lot to convince Fabio to accept the offer from Gustav Lehmann, the creative director of the Vienna State Opera House. Fabio – a Milanese by birth – had been loath to leave La Scala. But the pair had been enticed with the promise of a new ballet, created especially for them. It was to be entitled The Artist and was based on the paintings of Degas, with Fabio in the title role and Helena portraying his muse, ‘The Little Dancer’. The ballet was due to be premiered at the start of the spring season, and she and Fabio had already met with the young French choreographer and the rather avant-garde composer. It was to be a modern piece, and the thought of the new challenge sent shivers of excitement running through her.

  And now, she admitted to herself happily, there was something else here in the city that sent her spirit soaring . . . she had fallen in love.

  She’d met him just a few weeks ago in the public gallery attached to the Academy of Fine Arts, where she had gone to see an exhibition. She’d been frowning at a particularly lurid modern painting entitled Nightmare in Paris, unable to make head or tail of it.

  ‘I take it the picture doesn’t meet with your approval.’

  Helena turned towards the voice to find herself looking into the deep-set, grey-green eyes of a young man standing next to her. With his tousled auburn hair curling over the collar of his faded velvet jacket and a silk cravat spilling carelessly from the open neck of his white shirt, he had immediately reminded her of a young Oscar Wilde.

  She pulled her eyes away and concentrated instead on the slashes and squiggles of bright red, blue and green paint on the canvas in front of her. ‘Well, let’s just say, I don’t get it.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Although I shouldn’t be saying that about the work of a fellow student. Apparently this piece won a prize in last year’s degree exhibition.’

  ‘You’re a student here?’ she said in surprise, turning to face him once more. His accent was obviously English, what her mother would call ‘cut-glass’, and she guessed he was probably just a few years older than her.

  ‘Yes. Or at least, I will be; I start a master’s degree at the beginning of October. I’m obsessed with Klimt and Schiele, hence choosing Vienna as a place of study. I landed here three days ago in order to find an apartment before term starts, and to brush up my rather rusty German.’

  ‘I’ve been here for three weeks, but I still don’t think my German is getting any better.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘You’re from England too?’ he asked, staring at her so intently that she found herself blushing.

  ‘Yes. But I’m working here at the moment.’

  ‘What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I’m a dancer with the Vienna State Opera.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way you hold yourself. From an artist’s point of view, you’d make the perfect subject for a sitting. You may know that Klimt himself had a particular fascination with the beauty of the female form.’

  Helena blushed further, not knowing how to reply to such a compliment.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to walk with me around the rest of the exhibition, would you?’ he continued, changing the subject. ‘It always does us artists good to hear the unvarnished views of an impartial observer. And after that, I could show you some of the masterpieces in the permanent collection. More my style, and I’m guessing more yours, too. Oh, I’m Alexander, by the way.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Helena,’ she said as she shook it, thinking about whether she’d accept his invitation. She normally refused approaches from men – of which she received many – but there was something about Alexander . . . and she suddenly heard herself saying ‘yes’.

  Afterwards, they had gone for coffee and spent two hours happily discussing art, ballet, music and literature. She’d learnt that he had graduated in History of Art from Oxford, then, after trying his hand as a painter back in England – and, as he put it, only making enough to buy new canvases – he’d decided to further his qualifications and experience by studying in Vienna.

  ‘If the worst comes to the worst, and the paintings don’t begin to sell, a master’s in Fine Art should at least get me an interview at Sotheby’s,’ he’d explained.

  She had agreed to meet him for coffee the following day, something which had quickly become a regular habit. He was alarmingly easy to spend time with, with his quirky sense of humour that found the funny side of most things, and his ready laugh. He was also highly intelligent, with a brain that worked at lightning speed, and was so passionate about the arts in general that they often found themselves involved in lively debates over this book or that artwork. Alexander had regularly begged to paint her, and eventually she had given in.

  And that was when it had really all begun . . .

  Arriving for her very first sitting at his apartment-cum-studio, which was right at the top of an old house on Elisabethstraße, she’d knocked on the scuffed door with equal sensations of trepidation and excitement.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he’d greeted her, ushering her inside.

  Helena barely suppressed a smile as she took in the general chaos in the room, which was nestled in the eaves of the building. Every inch of every surface seemed to be covered in pots of brushes, tubes of paint, piles of books and a variety of used glasses and empty wine bottles. Canvases were stacked against the walls, and even against the wooden frame of the double bed in the corner. An easel sat beside the large, open window.

  ‘Before you say it, I know it resembles the set for a production of La Bohème,’ he said with a grin, noticing her bemused expression as he made a fruitless effort to tidy up. ‘But the light in here at sunset is simply wonderful.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s the perfect garret for a penniless artist,’ Helena teased him.

  ‘That’s me,’ he agreed as he tipped a pile of clothes off a chair, then fiddled about positioning it and checking the angle of the light. ‘Now, sit there.’ Helena did so, and Alexander perched himself on the low windowsill with a sketchbook and pencil in hand. He then directed her to adopt different poses. ‘Rest your arm on the back of the chair . . . no, try it behind your head . . . put your other hand under your chin . . . try crossing your legs,’ and so on, until he was satisfied. Then he began to sketch.

  After that, Helena had visited Alexander’s apartment every day after morning class. They’d drunk wine and laughed and chatted together as he’d scribbled away, and she’d felt relaxed and carefree in his presence, in a way she’d rarely done before. On the fourth occasion she’d sat for him, he’d suddenly tossed aside the sketchbook with a sigh of frustration.

  ‘Much as I love having you all to myself in here, it’s just not working.’

  ‘What’s not working?’ she asked him, her heart skipping a beat.

  ‘The picture. I just can’t seem to get it right.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alexander. Maybe it’s me. I’ve never done this before and I don’t know what else to do.’ Helena rose with a sigh. Her body felt stiff from holding the pose, so she absentmindedly began stretching her limbs.

  ‘That’s it!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘You shouldn’t be sitting still . . . you’re a dancer! You need to move!’

  The following day, having been ordered by Alexander to meet him at the Schiller Park in front of his apartment building wearing the simplest dress she had in her wardrobe, he had asked her to dance for him.

  ‘Dance? Here?’ Helena looked around at the dog walkers, picnickers and couples strolling arm in arm.

  ‘Yes, here.’ Alexander insisted. ‘Take your shoes off. I’m going to sketch you.’

  ‘What should I dance?’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘I need music.’

  ‘I’d hum, but I’m tone deaf,’ he said, pulling out his sketch pad. ‘Surely you can hear the music in your head?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Then Helena, who spent her life jet
é-ing across vast stages in front of packed audiences, stood in front of him like a shy five-year-old.

  ‘Imagine you’re a leaf . . . like the one there that’s just blown off that chestnut tree,’ Alexander encouraged her. ‘You’re floating on the breeze, heading in no particular direction . . . just happy to be free. Yes, Helena, that’s perfect,’ he smiled, as she closed her eyes briefly and her fragile body began to move. He sketched quickly as her arms lifted high above her head, and she started to turn and bend and sway, as light and graceful as the leaf she was imagining.

  ‘Wow!’ he whispered as Helena sank to the ground in front of him, oblivious now to the passers-by who had paused to watch her exquisite display. He moved towards her, taking her hands to help her to her feet. ‘My God, Helena, you are incredible. Simply incredible.’

  His fingers reached out to brush a leaf from her hair, then trailed down her cheek before tipping her chin up towards his face. They gazed at each other, before, very slowly, his lips moved towards hers . . .

  After that, it was inevitable that they had found themselves returning to his apartment. They had made love in a glorious pas de deux of their own, reaching a passionate crescendo as the sun set over the rooftops of Vienna.

  And now here she was, on her way to meet him after class at one of their favourite cafés in Franziskanerplatz, a charming cobbled square just a few minutes’ walk from the theatre. She couldn’t prevent her heart beating a little faster as she spotted him sitting at a table outside.

  ‘Angel, you made it.’ Alexander stood up as she walked towards him, then clasped her gently by her slim shoulders as he drew her towards him and placed a tender kiss on her mouth. As they sat down and a waiter came over to take her order, Helena heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Helena, cara!’ Fabio called out as he walked across the sunlit square towards them, his floating gait and turned-out feet giving the observer a clue as to his profession. He was flamboyantly dressed as always, today in a yellow linen suit and chocolate-brown suede loafers. His much-lamented thinning hair was covered with a Panama hat set at a rakish angle, and he had a camera slung round his neck. ‘I thought it was you.’

  ‘Fabio, how lovely.’ Helena rose and kissed him on both cheeks, but as she drew away she frantically signalled to him with her eyes, indicating that this really wasn’t a good moment. She had casually mentioned Alexander to Fabio, but didn’t feel ready to introduce them yet. Predictably, Fabio wasn’t to be deflected.

  ‘So, Helena, are you going to introduce me to your . . . companion?’

  ‘Alexander, this is Fabio, my partner – in dance, that is – Fabio, this is Alexander.’

  ‘Hello, Fabio,’ Alexander stood up to shake his hand. ‘Won’t you join us?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Thank you, I will, but only for a short while. I have just bought this camera, so today I am playing – how you say in English – the tourist.’

  Helena sighed inwardly as Fabio made himself comfortable and snapped his fingers imperiously to summon the waiter. She supposed the two of them had to meet some time; she’d just have preferred to have decided for herself when that would be.

  She studied them as they talked, squirming in embarrassment as Fabio interviewed Alexander like a protective father. Helena was about to protest at his near-interrogation when Fabio, perhaps sensing her irritation, swiftly changed the subject and began to ask Alexander about his work as an artist.

  ‘My course hasn’t begun yet, but in the meantime there’s so much inspiration here in Vienna,’ Alexander ventured, smiling at Helena and laying a hand on her arm.

  ‘That is very true. I, too, wish to have memories of this beautiful city in the sunshine, hence today and the camera. Perhaps I should start with the two of you?’ He picked up the camera and angled it at them.

  ‘Fabio, really, do you have to? You know I hate being photographed,’ Helena pleaded.

  ‘But you are both such charming subjects, I cannot resist! Come now, smile for me, cara. You too, Alexander. I promise it won’t hurt.’

  Fabio began to snap away, directing Alexander to put his arm around her, and making such outrageously flattering remarks that they were soon both laughing along with him. When he had finished, Fabio stood up, took a last sip of his wine, then tipped his hat to them. ‘I wish you both a pleasant afternoon. And I will see you tomorrow, Helena, for our first rehearsal. I hope you will be taking the early night to prepare for it.’ With a wink at both of them, he wandered off across the square and out of sight.

  Fabio broached the subject of Alexander the following day as he and Helena went for lunch after class.

  ‘So, this man, Alexander . . . are you serious about him?’ he questioned her.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. We enjoy each other’s company,’ she answered cautiously.

  Fabio flicked his wrist dismissively. ‘Helena, cara, it is written all over your face that you are already in love with him. And while I understand you do not wish to discuss the details with me, I can tell that you have already consummated your passion.’

  Helena blushed furiously. ‘So what if we have? There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?’

  Fabio gave a dramatic sigh, wiped his mouth with his napkin and sat back in his chair, surveying her shrewdly. ‘Of course not. But Helena, you are sometimes such a bambina in the ways of the world that I worry for you. What do you really know about this man?’

  ‘Quite enough, thank you,’ said Helena defiantly. ‘He’s a very talented painter, he makes me laugh, and—’

  ‘But did you not notice,’ Fabio interrupted, ‘how little detail he gave when I questioned him about his background? He was evasive with me, for sure. I will be blunt: there is something about him that I do not trust. Call it the natural instinct of one man about another. I believe he is a player. And has something to hide. It is there in his eyes. They are . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘Shifty.’

  ‘Fabio! For goodness’ sake! You met him for half an hour! How can you make such an assumption?’

  ‘Trust me’ – Fabio tapped his nose – ‘I am never wrong about the men.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were jealous,’ she said crossly, rising from her chair and throwing her own napkin onto the table. ‘Besides, it’s really none of your business. So if you wouldn’t mind, I don’t want to discuss it any longer.’

  ‘So be it.’ Fabio merely gave a sanguine shrug. ‘Have it your way, cara. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Helena smarted from Fabio’s comments for the next few days, and maintained a cool demeanour with him as rehearsals for the new season began in earnest, but he pointedly didn’t bring up the subject again. She had to admit that Alexander didn’t divulge much detail when he talked of his life back in England. She knew he lived in a small cottage somewhere in the south of England, and that his wealthy parents had disowned him over his refusal to get a ‘proper’ job. She did wonder once how he was managing to fund an expensive art course in Vienna, and had asked him the next time she’d seen him. He’d replied that he’d used the last remnants of his trust fund, and that this degree course was ‘shit or bust’ – as he’d put it.

  She tried not to let Fabio’s comments cloud her happiness. He was just being overprotective, that was all. And since she could never stay cross with him for long, they soon slipped back into their usual easy relationship.

  Helena and Alexander continued to see each other as often as possible. Things were made more complicated by the fact that Helena was very busy with the ballet company, and Alexander’s course had finally started, with a full schedule of lectures, seminars and after-class assignments.

  Never before had she met anyone with whom she felt she could truly be herself. And he seemed every bit as smitten as her, leaving little notes for her to find when he’d left her apartment, writing poems and constantly telling her how much he loved her.

  As the bond between them grew deeper, Helena couldn’t help beginning to
tentatively imagine a future with him. Even though Alexander never brought it up and was decidedly vague about his plans once his course was finished, she found herself dreaming that he might perhaps stay in Vienna when it ended the following summer. Or perhaps she could even return to England and the Royal Ballet to be near him, if Fabio would agree.

  After all, how could they possibly be parted now?

  It was as they lay in bed together in her apartment, while a chill autumn wind rattled the old windows, that he told her he was going back to England the following morning.

  ‘I have a family problem that I need to go and sort out. With any luck, I should only be gone for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘But how will you spare the time from your classes at the Academy?’ Helena asked, propping herself up on her elbow and looking down at him, puzzled. ‘The academic term’s in full swing. Can’t it wait until the Christmas recess?’

  ‘Not really, no. There are some . . . things that I need to deal with over there.’

  ‘What “things”, Alexander?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll be back before you know it, angel, I promise,’ he added as he kissed her.

  He refused to be drawn further about what the problem might be, and Helena had to be satisfied with the fact that he wouldn’t be away for long. They made love with particular passion that night, and she dropped off to sleep feeling replete and content.

  As it turned out, Helena had very little time to miss Alexander’s presence in the days that followed. She was heavily involved in rehearsals for the imminent productions of L’après-midi d’un faune, La Fille mal gardée and La Sylphide, as well as spending two afternoons per week working with the choreographer and composer of the new ballet, The Artist.