Vidor breathed in, breathed out, feeling absurd. But the weight of her hand on his belly was comforting, and at last the rustle and chatter in his head began to recede. In spite of the calming effect of this silly exercise, he had little belief it would provide him with the artistic impulse he lacked. If a Michelangelo was indeed coiled inside him like a snail, they had yet to meet.

The clouds broke, and sunlight streamed into the room, that diamond-sharp light so peculiar to the Alps, though a close cousin to the intense shimmer of the high desert. A camel caravan, plodding through the dunes, flashed before his eyes. But that was absurd. He’d never been to the desert. A city boy, he’d known little of life outside the bustle and noise of the streets. Women laden with purchases from the market stalls. Dusty alleys. The clatter of donkeys’ hooves on the sun-baked stones. He closed his eyes. No, that couldn’t be right. There were no donkeys in Budapest. It was the old familiar dream come to life. The strange nocturnal visitation he’d been having off and on for years. A desert plain baking in the noonday sun. A flat blue sea winking on the horizon. Wooden carts rattling through the streets, sour with dung and sweat, punctuated by a melodious wail, summoning the workers from the fields as the sun slipped below the mountains.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked to find himself alone in the room. When he turned to the easel, he started. A drawing, executed in chalk, aglow with the shades of ochre and umber. To the left, the sea was a hard slash of blue on the horizon. To the right, a range of sand-coloured hills faded into the distance. A lone figure, head bent, his face in shadow, gazed at the sea. What was this? He picked it up, intending to tear it into pieces when Isabelle appeared from nowhere and plucked it from his hands.

‘Let me have a look. Why, it’s wonderful.’ She beamed, as if he were a child who’d made a handprint in clay.

Vidor squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t…’ He had no memory of making the sketch. And where did such a scene come from? ‘I’ve never been to the desert.’

‘When the muse awakens… ’ She gave him a mischievous look. The beads on her necklace clacked as she pinned his drawing to the wall. ‘You do not mind? When the sky is grey, your beautiful drawing will remind me of a holiday I once made to the Sinai many years ago. We rode camels in the desert with a Bedouin as our guide and slept under the stars. In the morning, the sand glowed like gold in the rising sun. Just like your painting.’