Night Bird

Paris, 1954

There are things in the world that can’t be explained with rational thinking or scientific logic. Sometimes, there are phenomena that baffle the mind, and no matter how hard we try to rationalise the irrational, we will never arrive at a rational conclusion. That is precisely what happened to Étienne Dubois in the spring of 1954 when he secured a part-time job as a security guard at the Louvre.

Étienne Dubois was a man of scientific reasoning. He took the part-time job as a security guard to help fund his final year at the University of Paris, where he was pursuing a degree in Physical and Natural Sciences. An incident on the second night of Étienne’s shift as a security guard changed not only his life forever but also his understanding of the probable and improbable world in which we live.

The incident I refer to concerns the wife of a Florentine merchant, Lisa Gherardini, and a painting in which she is the subject. The painting is known in French as La Joconde and in Italian as La Gioconda. But you, and everyone else in the world, know it as the Mona Lisa.

“Now that you’re leaving the Louvre, my boy,” Juliette Dubois said from her armchair, her face adorned with anti-aging cream and cucumber slices over her eyes, “will I ever meet this night bird of yours? The mysterious Lisa that you’re very much in love with?”

Étienne glanced over at the replica 16th-century portrait painting that he had hung on the wall above the fireplace some six months previously. To the surprise of many, Leonardo da Vinci’s original masterpiece was smaller in size than most well-known classic works of art, measuring only 30 x 21 inches. Étienne had hung the portrait a week after starting his job as a security guard at the Louvre. “I’ve told you many times, Mother, you’ve seen my night bird many times, even before I started work at the museum.”

“You’re just like your father,” Juliette huffed. “You speak in riddles. Why can’t you just answer a question like a normal French boy?”

“Who dictates what is normal and what is not, Mother?” Étienne got up from his chair and kissed his mother on top of the head.

“I dictate it, my little boy,” Juliette blindly reached out for her son’s hand and squeezed. “Mother knows best. Remember that.”

“How could I ever forget?” Étienne picked up his satchel that held a studying notebook and snacks for the night.

“Tell Lisa I’m going to miss your stories about her,” Juliette said as her son opened the door to leave.

Étienne glanced at the portrait painting once more. “I’ll tell her, Mother. Don’t leave the face cream on too long; I fear I may not recognise you when I return,” he chortled as he left and closed the door.

“Cheeky,” Juliette jokingly chided. “Just like that wastrel of a father of yours.”

Igor Moreau was sixty-two years old, portly, with a shock of white hair and a prominent nose that adorned his pox-marked face. He had been a security guard at the Louvre for nearly thirty years and was adamant that he would never retire. He often said those in charge would only escort him off the premises in a wooden box. Of all the fellow security guards he had worked with over the years, it was Étienne he was fondest of. Étienne was a good boy with good manners, always taking care of his appearance. Igor often remarked that Juliette Dubois, a single mother, did a noteworthy job of raising her son.

“Ah, the traitor arrives for his final shift,” Igor turned in his chair, his face stuffed with a croissant filled with strawberries and cream.

“Traitor’s a tad extreme, Igor,” Étienne said as he placed his satchel on his desk. “Also, didn’t the doctor tell you to lay off the pastries?”

“The doctor’s a fool,” Igor waved Étienne’s concerns away. “He’s German too. I take what they say with a pinch of salt.”

“Didn’t he tell you to lay off the salt too?” Étienne grinned as he sat down in his chair.

“Very funny, school boy,” Igor stuck out his tongue in protest.

“University boy, actually.”

“I used to like you, Dubois. I’m starting to change my mind.” Igor ate the final piece of croissant and belched with delight. He then stood and wiped flakes of pastry from his mouth and chest onto the floor.

“Thanks for that, Igor,” Étienne moaned. “I’ll have to sweep that up later.”

“It’ll give you something else to do,” Igor shrugged. “Talking to that painting of yours isn’t good for your mind.”

“She’s not my painting, Igor.”

“Then how come she only comes alive for you?”

“I have no idea. I’ve asked you plenty of times to stay behind and see for yourself.”

“I like it when she stays in her painting. Less hassle that way.”

“Hassle?”

Igor tapped his temple. “Good night, university boy. Don’t be a stranger and come say hello at some point. It’ll have to be during waking hours though. No more late night visits to converse with La Joconde.”

“I know,” Étienne said sadly. “I know.”

Étienne ate the last of his beef and tomato baguette before placing his notebook (now filled with three more pages of scientific musings that would help structure his dissertation to pass his degree) aside. He checked his watch. A smile of pending excitement formed upon his face as it was nearly 1:00 a.m. That was the time when the painting of Lisa Gherardini, his Night Bird, came to life. Why did she come to life at 1:00 a.m. and not 12:00 a.m.? Or why didn’t she come to life at 10:00 a.m. in the morning? He didn’t know. Lisa didn’t know. They would never know. It would remain a mystery just as much as the unfathomable reasoning behind Lisa coming to life at all, never mind at 1:00 a.m

As usual, Étienne found his Night Bird sitting on a wooden bench, admiring Jacques-Louis David’s The Coronation of Napoleon. The huge oil painting, which measured a dramatic 33 feet by 20, depicted the coronation ceremony of Napoleon Bonaparte at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris on December 2, 1804. It also captured the moment Napoleon crowned Josephine, his wife, as Empress.

“Every time I look at this painting, I see something different,” Lisa remarked to Étienne as he sat down beside her. “And I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat on this bench and looked at it.”

“Did you ever meet Napoleon?” Étienne surprised himself with the question, realising he had never asked Lisa before.

“Did I come to life for him, you mean?” Lisa continued to admire Louis-David’s work. “No, I didn’t. I toyed with the idea once or twice. Not that I have real feelings, but I had a strange inkling it wouldn’t be in my best interests to do so.”

Étienne was stung by Lisa’s words—that she didn’t have real feelings. He knew she was right, but he nevertheless wanted her to feel the same way about him that he did about her. “How many people have you come alive for?”

“After all these months of conversation, you finally ask me a question I thought you would have asked me the first time around.” Lisa turned her attention to Étienne. Her brown eyes were mystical and endless. “Is it because this is the last time we shall speak?”

“Will it be the last time?”

“You know it will be, Étienne,” Lisa lay her hand on his. “And the answer is two. That’s how many people I’ve come alive for.”

“Leonardo and me?”

“No.” Lisa smiled as she tapped Étienne’s hand. “Not Leo, but his favoured student Francesco Melzi. He was convinced that Leo had made a pact with the devil and sold his soul to give me life. But I don’t have a life in the sense of yourself or Francesco. I don’t breathe, I don’t feel pain, I don’t get hungry, and I don’t have emotions. If Leo made a pact with the Devil to give me life, he was given a bad deal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I do,” Étienne said, wounded once more by Lisa’s words.

“Have I said something to offend you, Étienne?”

Étienne lowered his head and nervously fidgeted with his hands. “My mother called you my Night Bird.”

“That sounds romantic,” Lisa chuckled. “Is she wondering when you’ll bring me home to meet her?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “She’s most persistent. I have told her that she’s met you before, but she chastises me for talking in riddles.”

“Ah, the replica of me that you hung above the fireplace.”

“That’s the one.”

Lisa contemplated Juliette Dubois’s remark as she let her gaze fall upon The Coronation of Napoleon. “You’ve fallen in love with me, haven’t you, my dear Étienne?”

“Is it that obvious?” he laughed sheepishly.

“You’re a rational man, Étienne. How can you fall in love with something that’s not real?”

“We’re having a conversation, Lisa. You’re real. You’re not a figment of my imagination.”

“I’m real in a false sense. Not in the real sense,” Lisa sighed deeply and rested her hand on Étienne’s. Her hand was neither warm nor cold. It was neither light nor heavy. It was just so. “I’m a painting of Lisa Gherardini. She had real feelings, emotions, beliefs, and a real body. I have none of them. I only represent the shell of her. I am nothing more.”

“Yet you talk like a real person,” Étienne replied harshly. “That makes you real.”

“Hit me,” Lisa took Étienne’s hand to strike her.

“No,” he said as he immediately pulled away from her grasp.

“I won’t feel a thing. You know this. You could stab me, strangle me,” Lisa paused for a few moments. “You could kiss me or make love to me, but it wouldn’t matter, Étienne. I wouldn’t feel a thing, physically or emotionally.”

Étienne could feel his eyes becoming moist. “Then what is the point of you being alive? What is the point of the conversations that we’ve been having?”

“The point of me coming alive is either a curse or a wondrous activity of sheer extraordinary events that can never be explained,” Lisa said. “Regarding the conversations we’ve been having, have you enjoyed them?”

“More than anything!”

“Have they made you feel good?”

“Yes, of course they have.”

“That’s the point then, isn’t it?” Lisa shrugged. “You’ve grown up a lot in the last five months or so.”

“It seems a one-way relationship.”

“You’re putting a term to something that doesn’t require it. It’s not a relationship we have. It’s not a friendship. It’s something a lot more and something a lot less. And words won’t define it, Étienne.”

Étienne slowly nodded that he understood. “I’m going to miss you, Night Bird.”

“Miss who? The painting of a woman called Lisa Gherardini you never met? That seems irrational and unhinged, my dear Étienne.”

“Rational but irrational,” Étienne laughed.

“Enough of our philosophical musings,” Lisa announced playfully. “Have you completed your dissertation?”

“I have.”

“So I finally get to read it,” Lisa teased.

Étienne opened his satchel and took out his notebook. “I’ll go for a walk around the museum whilst you read it.”

“Take your time,” Lisa said.

Étienne got up from the bench as Lisa began to read his notebook. As he was about to walk away, he turned and looked at her. “Night Bird.”

“Yes,” Lisa said, engrossed in Étienne’s words.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Ugh-uh,” Lisa said. “Thank you too, Étienne. Now, go. I want to read in peace.”

Étienne Dubois visited the Louvre Museum every year on the same day until his death in 1987. He spent most of his time standing before the Mona Lisa, admiring her and her alone. He swore that her eyes grew larger and her smile widened whenever he was there. Most of the Louvre’s visitors thought Étienne was strange for the way he stood and gawked at the Mona Lisa with a smitten look upon his face. However, Étienne didn’t mind their stares and whispered comments. To him, Lisa was his Night Bird, and she would always remain so.

Étienne’s heart broke in 1956 when the Mona Lisa was placed behind protective glass after an incident where she was damaged by acid thrown by a vandal. He knew from that moment on that the painting of Lisa Gherardini would never come to life again. This realisation made him sad but also, paradoxically, a little happy. Even if such feelings seemed both rational and irrational, they were profoundly true to him.