The Mountain of Light

As his painting slides out of the crate, the Maharaja, Duleep Singh, opens his large brown eyes. Several white-gloved conservators carefully grip his frame and ease him onto the wall. Duleep freezes while the livings are there. A dozen men and women stand before his painting as the conservators gently adjust the security features behind the frame.

A warm, dry breeze blows through the silk gathered at Duleep’s waist. He feels the breeze, but the fabric remains still. It never moves while livings are present outside of the frame. The artist painted him in the warm climate of his beloved India, a desert landscape on a bright day. The weather is warm but pleasant, just as the artist imagined it.

His painting is in an enormous galley, a soaring space with clean white walls and tinted skylights. Duleep looks around the gallery, trying to find her. He spies her hanging on the wall across the enormous room. She is the galley’s focal point. She is more attractive in the painting than she ever was in life, resplendent in a red dress with a royal blue sash. Fastened to the red fabric under her pale décolletage is the treasure of his once great kingdom, the Kohinoor, a brooch pinned to her chest.

Duleep grips his saber, his knuckles tightening in rage. He has waited for years for this, more than he can count. They are finally having an exhibition of the great royal portraitist Franz Xaver Winterhalter that sycophant of a man, more interested in flattering the rich and famous than artistic integrity.

The livings hang the other portraits, carefully placing them around the expansive space. A long white case spans the room's length, and the curators cautiously unpack miniatures and put them under the glass. They place small cards next to each.

The sun lowers in the sky, and the curators filter out. After one final inspection, the last woman leaves. She dims the lights as she goes. The security guards watch her exit, then retreat to their room to watch video feeds that fail to capture what happens next.

Duleep adjusts his stance and shakes himself out. Dangling earrings bump against his cheeks. He picks up his saber and tucks it into his thick green belt. He steps out of the painting, raising a knee to step over the frame. His soft silk slipper slides on the marble floor as his foot touches down.

The figures in the other paintings start moving and stepping out into the dimly lit gallery. Mustachioed men in military dress uniforms march crisply out of their frames. They walk to the paintings of beautiful women who wave and smile shyly. The women reach pale arms out to the men who guide them out. Yards of plush velvet and silk pool around the dazzling women. They are more attractive than they ever were in real life. Pimples and wrinkles are erased; fat and flaws are concealed. The aristocrats gather in small groups, chatting excitedly.

They all wait for her. Albert leaves his painting and approaches Queen Victoria with a deep bow. Another sycophant Duleep doesn’t know approaches from the other side. The Queen reaches two pale, plump hands out of the painting, and each man takes one. They help her climb out, lifting her over the edge of the oval frame. Red fabric drapes around her in waves of vibrant color. The diamonds in her crown glitter in the low light.

The people of her court bow and curtsey in a rippling wave. Even the small children, who have hopped spritely out of their paintings, bow clumsily. Duleep bows with the rest. As they rise, he edges closer to the front of the group. Someone retrieves a chair from a painting, which they place behind her. The Queen sits, and Albert takes his place behind her.

Some line up to pay their respects while others mill about chatting. The children play at the room's edges, sharing toys and games. Duleep waits in line, staring at the jewel on her chest with a simmering rage.

“This is a wonderful gallery, don’t you think?” a pretty socialite in front of Duleep says. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but I’ve been stuck in a man’s bedroom for the last twenty years. The things I’ve seen, you can’t even imagine.”

“That must have been quite shocking,” Duleep replies with a frown. Over a dozen people are between him and Victoria, and he worries that he won’t make it to her before they return to their paintings.

“Before that, I was in a portrait gallery in a castle in Switzerland,” the woman continues. “That was nice because there was plenty of company, but alas, the family fell on hard times, and the art is always the first to go.” Duleep nearly growls in frustration as a couple slides into line before the woman.

“Madame,” he gestures to the line in front of her.

“Oh yes, of course,” she pouts and turns away. She steps forward and begins chatting with the couple.

Duleep watches in frustration while Victoria greets her many children first. The rest of the court shakes out vaguely in order of importance. As a former royal, he could have precedence over them, but as a ruler without a kingdom, perhaps not. So, he waits and chats with the others until he finally reaches her.

He bows deeply, his saber jutting behind him as he bows.

“My Dear Maharaja,” Queen Victora says in a little voice. “It is so good to see you after all these years.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty,” Duleep bows deeper. “You look very well. Your glow is absolutely angelic.”

“You are as charming as always, Duleep,” the Queen blushes deeply. “Please sit next to me and keep me company.”

“It would be my honor,” Duleep sits beside her, careful not to tread on her voluminous skirt. Victoria promptly ignores him and turns to the subsequent admirers. Duleep waits quietly. He has a plan but needs to be near the Queen to implement it. After an hour, a military man runs into the gallery, medals clattering on his chest.

“They’re coming!” he shouts. Time slows as the people in the gallery scramble back to their paintings. Victoria stands and turns toward her painting. Albert steps up to her right side and extends a hand. 

“Allow me, Your Majesty,” Duleep takes the Queen’s left hand and helps her step onto the chair. He and Albert reach under her arms to lift her into her frame. With his left hand, Duleep reaches across her and grasps the brooch. The enormous diamond is cool under his grasp. He yanks, and it comes off with a snap. His loose sleeve snags on her necklace, but he frees it with a jerk of his arm.

The queen’s lips form a surprised oh, and she makes an astonished chirp. Duleep pushes her into her painting, and she tumbles over in a flurry of silks. Albert turns and looks down at the enormous diamond in Duleep’s hand.

“You thief!” Albert shouts as he reaches for Duleep. Duleep pushes the man in the chest and then takes off, running toward his painting. If he can reach it, he will be safe.

“You are the thieves!” Duleep shouts over his shoulder as he runs across the gallery. Two men lunge at him, but he dodges them and rolls under the case in the middle of the room. His large saber clatters against the floor. The diamond cuts into Duleep’s palm, but he gets up and keeps running. Another man grabs at Duleep, but Duleep punches the man hard in his chin, and the man falls. Duleep jumps over him and reaches safety. He leaps just as two other men dive at him. They miss, and Duleep slides safely into his painting, the diamond clutched in his hand. The balmy wind hits his face, and the bright sunshine warms his skin. Duleep pants as he looks down at the jewel in his hand. The others stand outside shouting and raging, but they cannot come in. The livings are coming, and they must get into their paintings. Duleep returns to his stance, his saber prominently propped in front of him. The guards walk past, oblivious to the difference in the two prominent paintings.

After the guards leave, Albert and his men gather outside Duleep’s painting. They rage, shout, and shake their fists, but they cannot come into his world, and they know it. Duleep isn’t sure why the diamond could enter with him, except that it belongs there. He ignores the men, sometimes lying down to nap in the sun, sometimes walking to the palace in the background. He pins the Kohinoor to his turban and leaves it there to taunt them with its shining brilliance.

The curators are at a loss as to what happened. They test the paint in each of the paintings and reveal it to be appropriate to the original works. They look at the security videos, but they see nothing unusual.

It is seen as the greatest prank in art history. Some call it a protest, some call it vandalism, but in the end, Queen Victoria’s dress is conspicuously missing its most famous piece of jewelry, and the Maharaja Duleep Singh’s turban sports the most famous diamond in the world.

Some people say they also see a satisfied smile playing on the Maharaja's lips, but then again, that could have been there before.