When Mona Lisa was little, she had a red currant bush. It was Mona’s dad who decided one day, he was standing in the living room, and looked from Mona Lisa to the garden to Mona Lisa, who was, small and pale, sitting in a corner with a book on her lap, and he said loudly, as he pointed out the window: That is Mona Lisa’s red currant bush. Mona Lisa looked up. What? she said. From that day on, she waited for the red currants to ripen. She could sit in the garden for hours waiting. But nothing happened. First the snow had to melt, then the bush had to produce small white flowers, and then the tiny green berries had to swell, which then had to grow and get big, and transparent. Will they never get ripe? she asked her father. And her father said yes. They will turn bright red and gleam in the sun, her father said. But will they still be transparent? she asked; she liked the white, transparent berries. To an extent, her father said. Mona Lisa was impatient. If they’re not going to get any bigger, just change color, and when they’re red only be transparent to an extent, why can’t we just pick them now? But her father was firm. Why do you absolutely want them to be transparent? Because it’s nice, Mona Lisa said. Whatever the case, they’re too sour now, Mona, he said. But as he turned to go back to the house, Mona Lisa reached out quick as lightning and picked a white red currant, popped it in her mouth, and chewed. And behind her father’s back, who was now walking up to the house at a leisurely pace, Mona Lisa made a face and opened her mouth and dribbled, more than spat, the berry out as quietly as she could.
* * *
But finally, one warm July day, it had happened. The family came home from their holiday in Sweden, and all the berries were sparkling red and to an extent transparent. Mona Lisa leaped out of the car in only her shorts, stopped in the middle of the garden when she saw the gleaming red bush, clutched her hands in front of her chest, and said: Oh! Then she spun around, ran into the house to get a bowl, and ran back. It was with a mixture of celebration and trepidation that she nipped off a red berry, put it in her mouth, and chewed. It was fresh and acidic, Mona Lisa was overwhelmed, she lifted her hands to the heavens and closed her eyes. Then she picked, in almost ecstatic concentration. The bush was a triumph.
* * *
Suddenly she felt something tickling her thigh. She looked down and saw a huge man sitting there. She was gripped by fear. She tried to brush him off. But the man would not budge. It looked quite ridiculous: a huge man sitting on little Mona Lisa’s thigh. Mona Lisa screamed and ran around the garden, in an attempt to get the man to fall off. But it was as if he was nailed there. It felt like it would never end, that she would run around the garden with a man nailed to her thigh forever, she started to run toward the house: Daddy, Daddy!
* * *
Her father removed the man with a pair of pliers, squashed him flat and threw him out to the cats, then comforted the howling Mona Lisa. After that, she wanted nothing to do with the red currant bush, and left the others in the family to do the picking.
* * *
That was all a long time ago. Right now, Mona Lisa is crossing the road at a zebra crossing in a dark and cold town, the streetlights are lit and it’s late October, or thereabouts. She is forty-one and she’s trying to get a man out of her head, but she can’t. In Mona Lisa’s head there remains, as though nailed there: a mouth that is the softest mouth, not big, but good, dark hair that is the softest, darkest hair, a pair of hands, a back, a pair of eyes that are the lightest, bluest eyes ever. And more: the ears, neck, chin, throat, shoulders, arms, chest muscles, nipples, stomach, cock, thighs, kneecaps, lower legs, buttocks, and foot soles of this man, who is actually more of a boy, not particularly tall, one of her pupils, in fact. A young, wise person she has slept with habitually, but now she wants him out of her head, and not to sleep with him anymore. It has to stop. She loves him, he doesn’t love her, I don’t just want sex! thinks Mona Lisa, that’s not what I’m like, she is not a modern, liberated woman, she just wants to be loved. She crosses the road and is miserable. The streetlights illuminate her face, and it’s a sad face.
* * *
A man comes cycling by on the other side of the road. Mona Lisa follows him with her eyes, she’s seen him before, he’s been in some ads that she’s seen at the cinema, for instant soup, and otherwise she’s seen him roller-skating around town, wearing a string vest, high on something. But now he’s on a low black bike, and she thinks he’s beautiful, he’s shaved off all his hair except for a ponytail that he’s constructed into a tiny tower on the back of his head with the help of some string, and he’s wearing the strangest clothes. And his eyes follow Mona Lisa as he cycles by. And at exactly the point where the two paths they’ve chosen through town intersect, a smile spreads over their faces, at the same time, it’s as if their faces open, and they are astounded. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but under the next streetlight, we see that the sadness in Mona Lisa’s face has softened. In fact, we could even say that for a moment, perhaps, she was happy.