Mona Lisas eyes

It is Sunday morning, and the streets are almost empty. Some early risers are gathering around the coffee wagon in the city square, or perhaps they are the late-night party goers on the way home after a night out. This is a city that never sleeps, not even on an early Sunday morning. Well, some places are dimmed down allowing the night staff to carry on with their work in privacy. The Art Gallery is one of them. It is the time when the cleaners are busy wiping the shiny parquetted floors and dusting the leather furniture making the rooms look nice for the Sunday visitors. The paintings are dusted, and the portraits look back into the big rooms, all ready for the masses to arrive. The Louvre is the world’s largest museum hosting some of the finest works in the world. The rooms are big and some more popular than others. Salle des États is one of them. This is the home of Lisa Gherardini, or Mona Lisa as she is better known. People come from all over the world to see this famous painting and as they stand in front of it admiring the brush works by the ingenious artist Leonardo da Vinci, her mysterious smile shines back at them and leaves them with a sense that they, for just a split moment, can take part in her secret. But there is so much the viewer never gets to know about this mysterious woman, who in her presence on that wall can see into their souls. She has been there for a long time now, her eyes have met theirs as they look at the painting, not knowing that she also was looking at them.

We were there, just before nine, with our “skip the que” tickets that we had booked long in advance in Australia and paid over one hundred dollars for. We were not going to waste any of our precious time here in Paris standing in queues. But there was a queue outside of the queue, so to speak, and we found ourselves standing there, nevertheless. I looked at Bruce. He looked bedraggled after last night. It was him that wanted to see that late night performance. A French vaudeville act. Half-naked women and men singing and dancing until long after midnight. And then there were the drinks at the bar, something we just had to participate in because while in Paris…. The taxi took the long way home and the fare we paid could have bought us a couple of nights' stay at a nice hotel back in Sydney. But this was all part of the game. Bruce coughed. The double shot black coffee had not woken him, and he was getting irritated.

- There is nothing we can do. We just must wait here! Patience Bruce, I said. Patience.

I was trying to reassure him it would be worth it in the end, but he was not so sure.

- Look, I know all about this painting and all I’m saying is do you think it makes sense to stand in a line like this to see a painting?

- Well, you if anybody, will regret it when you come home if you decide to leave now. I am staying and that’s all there is too it.

Bruce, being an art teacher, had not only promised his students to take extra note of this painting but he also wanted to study the technique that Leonardo Da Vinci was famous for. It was just not the right time.

- Pass the water bottle.

He drank and I knew what would happen next.

- Where are the toilets?

There was some re-shuffling in the queue before we finally got to the door. I was getting excited as were the rest of the people in the line. All except for Bruce who had given up his enthusiasm by now and was longing for another double shot of black coffee.

The door opened and it was almost as if we were about to enter a rock concert or an early morning sale at one of the department stores. People pushed and rushed in.

She looked at the couple in front of her. He looked so worn out and tired. It must be hot out there; she could see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. Had he not been sleeping at all? She was trying to guess his age. He was not old and looked older than he really was. Thirty-five perhaps. Dark hair unruly as if it had not seen a brush for a long time. A beard with a few grey hairs matching the ones by the side of his face, making him look distinguished. He was handsome without being fashionable in his black shorts and white T-shirt. The way he looked at her, his head tilted to one side, and then to the other. Like he was trying to work out how she had ended up there on that canvas. He squinted, raised his thumb as he was measuring the distance between her mouth and her forehead. She liked that. It was almost sensual. His dark eyes met hers and for a split moment she thought she could see a spark flying between them. Yes, there was fire in his eyes and there was color like he knew that she knew. And then it was gone, and he was looking back at her lips again. Always looking at the lips, trying to read the thoughts behind her smile. She waited for him to come back and look in her eyes again. He did, but this time there was something sad in the look and they did not quite reach hers. She saw the colors and brushes like it was him who had painted her. Had he seen what was behind her smile? He said something to the lady beside him. He stepped aside and the woman came closer. She was excited and full of life. Oh, yes, she was tired, her eyes were a little dimmed and there were crow lines at the edges. But her face was happy as she continued to study every inch of her and when she reached the eyes, she drowned for a second in the deep brown. She was alive again. The couple had lit the spark inside her and made her feel alive again. She was part of it all now. The woman looked into her eyes for a long time, and she could see oceans and forests and she knew she came from a long way away. She was gone. They were both gone. She felt herself missing them already but there was no time for that now.

The old man moved closer. He looked through the horn-rimmed dimmed glasses that could do with a clean and she saw the deep lines under his eyes. He squinted as he leaned forward. It was hard to see his eyes clearly through those dusty glasses, but she distinguished a pale blue color almost on the border of no color and she knew he was going blind. She remembered him, he used to come on Sundays, but that was a long time ago. She had wondered what had happened to him. And now he was here again, looking pale and frail and behind it all there was a black wall. She knew he did not have long to live. He moved his lips to a crooked smile when he watched hers, almost as if he knew that she knew. His secret was hers and the pleasures she had given him in time were forever lasting, in this life and the next. They said she was immortal. The sadness came over her as he moved away, turning, and blowing a kiss. She knew she would never look into his eyes again.

The little girl with the mother could not stop talking. Her eyes flickered from here to there and there were times when she was more interested in stroking her hair than looking at the painting. Her mum nudged her side and whispered something. She could not hold the look in the child’s eyes long enough to read her thoughts and it was only when the mother stepped in front she could look into a pair of deep brown eyes where the sky met the mountains. She instinctively knew she came from a mountainous area and judging by the clothing it must be far away. She had wisdom and sadness, and the little girl did not understand. Was that a tear in the mother’s eye? Or was it just an illusion? Was she really looking into her, and could she see her as she was, not as a painting? Her eyes did not move, she held her look steady and surely there were snow peaks on the mountains. She could feel herself flying above them all, looking down at an endless mountain range and she know if the woman did not look away soon, she would drown in her eyes. She looked away.

- You know it really was an experience. I really felt something, like she was alive behind that canvas and that all that paint is just an illusion.

Bruce stirred the coffee.

- It was almost sensual, don’t you think?

- No, I would not say sensual, but it made me happy in a way I can’t explain.

It was true. We had seen the famous painting, but it was more than that. It was as if the painting itself had a life of its own and that we as observers were let in for a brief moment to the life and the secret world behind that famous smile. We did not want to put more into this moment, but there was something unexplained about it all. I refrained from buying a fridge magnet, tea towel, hat, or a t-shirt with the face on it. Why cheapen something wonderful. We moved on. Paris was waiting.

He sat in his favorite chair by the window. He did not look out; he did not look anywhere. He just closed his eyes, and a familiar soft smile came to him. A smile he had seen so many times. He could take a deep breath now, and he did. His last breath.

She closed the door behind the sleeping girl and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She listened to the boiling kettle, it reminded her of the snow melting on top of the mountains and rolling down in a tight stream to the village, she felt homesick. Imagine being a bird, flying over the landscape and watching it from a bird’s eye. But it was not a bird’s eye that was looking back at her from the glass door. It was the eyes of a painting she had seen today.

She looked out into the darkness. Eyes and faces stayed with her. She wondered if they knew that they had let her into their world, and that she could see into their souls. She wondered if they would ever know. Mona Lisa smiled as she waited for the Night Guard. Rembrandt was always a good friend, as were so many in the gallery of souls, watching the crowded thoughts come and go over the many years.