Lisa Gherardini

by Luis López Nieves

after “Lisa di Noldo,” translator: Michael Wooff

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

I had just told Lisa about Garibaldi and the unification of Italy, which she could scarcely believe, and was about to tell her about Che Guevara and the history of Latin America, but she suddenly got to her feet, startled, and took me by the hand.

“It’s getting light. You can go. Come. Come.”

Once again she led me by the hand through dark galleries. She was moving quickly, almost running, repeating from time to time that we needed to hurry so that the staff didn’t see us. We finally reached a room where enough light was coming in under the door to be reveal Lisa’s exquisite face.

“When I get as far as this, the sun comes out. Beyond this door you will enter a hall where the lights are on. You’ll still need to go another hundred yards to get to the exit, which is closed. You’ll be able to leave only if the guards open it for you. Be careful. And don’t forget me,” she said in a low voice, “don’t forget me.”

She looked at me with that famous expression that I won’t describe as millions of people have tried to and failed for the last five hundred years. There was happiness in her face, but also sadness. Then, in a matter of seconds, on impulse and without planning to, I took the step that was to mark me for the rest of my life: I kissed the most famous mouth in the world.

Lisa did not reject me, but neither did she embrace me. For a woman of her time, it is not easy to kiss a man the first night they meet. There are still women like this in the world, and I had already known some. Because of this I recognized the reaction of a woman who wants to, but mustn’t, or who thinks she wants to, but isn’t sure. I sustained the kiss while she acquiesced in it passively, but without pushing me away.

When I detached myself, I lowered my eyes and was silent for the first time all night. That famous forever smile, that extraordinary question mark of which so much has been said in the world, had vanished. Now I had before me a shy face blushing. I raised her chin with my finger. She looked into my eyes with her own tearful ones and there was no more need of words. She squeezed my hand.

“You need to go. They’ll be able to see me.”

All of a sudden she took my hands in hers, kissed them several times and ran till she lost herself in the darkness of the salons. Near me, behind the door that led to the illuminated hallway, I began to hear voices and footsteps. The guards were starting to take up their work posts. The time had come for me to go and to tell the guards about my accidental incarceration.

I opened the door and went no more than two paces; the harsh light of the hallway dazzled me. Blinded, disconcerted, I covered my eyes with my hands. I heard the shouts of the staff taken by surprise, the manly commotion of the guards in pursuit, the strident screams of the alarm. Several security guards were running towards me. Suddenly I felt a strong blow to my back and fell prostrate to the floor. A hard knee pinned my neck to the ground, and I lost consciousness.

Why? Why the blazes did I not stay in the Museum with Lisa? Why did I not run after her in the darkness? Why did I walk away that day like a coward? There are decisions, taken on the spur of the moment, that stay with you for the rest of your life.

The French police, with the pertinacious help of my embassy, finally convinced themselves that I was not a thief and let me go. They sacked the incompetent guard who had announced in the washroom in a loud voice that the museum was closing, but who, through undue haste or laziness, had not checked all the cubicles or put the light out as he was supposed to.

From the first day I came out of jail, I started to visit Lisa, but it was not the same. We were not alone. I could hardly see her owing to the grotesque gathering of stupid tourists who were always exclaiming the same thing: “She’s so small!” At times I would look at her for hours without moving and I thought to detect a slight wink, a swift greeting, but the tourists were saying the same: “She looks as though she’s smiling at me, Mummy.” “Look, Dad, wherever I go, she follows me with her eyes.” Unbearable! Crazy people, all of them.

I decided I would not abandon Lisa. I ordered my lawyers to sell all my worldly goods and to send the money to Paris where I bought an apartment. I hired a French lawyer, transferred the administration of my stocks and shares to here and ended up by cutting all the threads that tied me to my homeland. In Paris I would enjoy economic well-being and total freedom to be with my Lisa.

I visited her every day, from early in the morning till the Museum closed. I imagined conversations with her, spoke to her with my thoughts. At first the situation was tolerable: I would suffer short panic attacks, of course, but would always return to hope, to blind hope. Nevertheless, during my fifth month of being in Paris, I was starting to despair for real. I needed more. I was no longer able to share my Lisa with that pack of fools that talked nonsense and imagined — they were raving lunatics — that my adored one smiled at them. They were insufferable!

I do not know, I truly do not know, what would have happened to me if she hadn’t taken the initiative. I was starting my sixth month in Paris and I got to the Museum early as always, although I was quite depressed. I stopped in front of my beloved to bid her good day as usual before the great crowd of fools arrived, but I was left open-mouthed when Lisa’s face suddenly assumed a pleading expression. Her facial movement was very clear. There could be no doubt that she was imploring me to come back.

It was not my imagination, for the scarce spectators also realized that something had happened to Lisa’s face. There was a noticeable murmur and several exclamations of fear. Within a few minutes several security guards and curators had turned up, to whom the tourists explained that La Gioconda’s beautiful smile had, for a few moments, changed to a supplicatory expression. I did not need more. No more was needful to me. It was obvious I had neither imagined it nor was I going mad. Lisa needed me.

That was the first night I endeavoured to hide myself at closing time. I tried everything. I sat down in the far corner of some little-visited salon, stopped behind a statue, hid in a mezzanine, but always a guard arrived and told me I had to leave because they were closing.

Moreover it has to be said that the first thing I tried was the same washroom in which I had stayed behind the first time, but the replacement for the guard who had been sacked carried out his tasks with the excessive zeal of a new starter. One night, in a cubicle, I managed to climb on a toilet seat, but the guard opened each of the doors one by one and made sure that there was no-one in there.

This torment lasted going on for six weeks. I kept Lisa company during the day and indicated by discreet gestures that I was getting there, that she should be patient. At night I made a new attempt which I could never make too obvious, because I ran the risk of being arrested for attempted theft, in which case as a prisoner I could never return to see Lisa. I could not leave her alone, so that each manoeuvre on my part needed to appear accidental, as it had been the first time.

Finally, one night, a new strategy came to me, somewhat more risky than the previous ones. At closing time, I went to the washroom I had been in that first night, which had five toilets and five cubicles. I went in the third, bolted the door and put my feet on the toilet seat. A few minutes later the guard arrived and shouted from the entrance: On ferme maintenant. Sortez, s’il vous plaît. (“We’re closing now. Please vacate the premises.”)

He went to the first cubicle and opened the door with a push of the hand. The door banged against the wall and returned to close itself. He did the same with the second door. When he knocked on the third door, which he did not open, I took advantage of the noise to slide under the partition wall to enter the second cubicle. I quickly climbed up on the toilet seat. The guard, irritated, asked in a loud voice if there was someone in there. Then he went under the door, undid the bolt and opened it.

I took advantage of this sudden activity to slip under the partition wall in order to enter the first cubicle. Now very annoyed, the guard came out with a phrase I interpreted as “bloody practical jokers” though I cannot be sure as he said it very quickly. He took up his task where he had left off, pushed the doors to cubicles four and five, went back to the entrance to the washroom, put out the lights and departed.

I stayed there for thirty minutes without moving, in a crouching position on the first toilet seat, stiff with fear. I had to be sure there was no-one left in the Museum’s galleries. Eventually, when I thought that there was no more danger, I left the cubicle and turned the light on. I washed my face with cold water, combed my hair and left excitedly to look for my beloved Lisa, but I did not need to. She was waiting for me in front of the door with her famous smile and her arms crossed.

“What took you so long?” she reproached me affectionately.

The best known lips in the world and the least known body, both were mine that night, the most glorious night of my life. I told her that I loved her. She replied in a faltering voice that she did not want to live a day more without me. I’ll say no more. We spent the night like this, interspersed with declarations of love, anecdotes on our six months of separation and the story of Che Guevara that I was finally able, between caresses, to tell to my curious Lisa. I will not give any more details.

I was kissing the back of her neck, which, like the rest of her body, smelt of rural landscapes and flowers, when suddenly, alarmed, she took me by the hand and almost shouted:

“Dawn’s here, my dear. You need to go. Come on. Come on.”

We got to our feet and she tried to lead me by the hand to the exit. But I refused to move.

“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m staying with you.”

“No. No. What are you saying? They’ll find us.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m staying.”

“They’ll harm you. They’ll take you away. And then you’ll be far away from me and I won’t be able to stand it.”

“Then think of something quickly, for I will not leave your side.”

“Darling!” she exclaimed in desperation. “They’re coming in! They’ll be here any minute!”

I kissed her passionately, held her in my arms and repeated that I would not leave her.

“There is one possibility, darling. It might just work,” she said, pulling me by the hand. “Come on, quickly. Follow me. I have an idea.”

“Where are we going?”

She tugged my hand and, without saying another word, we entered into total darkness.

Lisa and I are now living happily in Paris in the Louvre Museum. During the day, of course, she belongs to humanity but, at night, she belongs to me. Contrary to what certain fatheads think, it is indeed possible to live just on love. For years now, like her, I have not lacked food. We feed each other as all I need is her presence, her fair conversation and her gentle and placid caresses. And I never tire of exploring that exquisite body that Leonardo had the genius to conceal from the world under a black dress and a dark veil.

They come to contemplate my beloved Lisa every day from every country on earth. A few galleries higher up in the remote room dedicated to Italian tapestries of the Renaissance, no-one had noticed that, in the tapestry called “The Banquet,” sitting just next to the splendid golden tray encrusted with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli, there is a new guest who does not have the face of a Florentine or an Italian. As long as no-one who works here notices it, I’ll be safe.

Proceed to Challenge 926...