I held my breath more than once as Rudee negotiated the pretzel-like streets of Montmartre, around the beautiful Sacre Coeur church on the hill, and careened toward the rue de Rivoli, where the Louvre was located. Magritte sat in meditative silence in the back seat so we didn’t speak, but I could hear the agitation in Rudee’s breathing. We approached the museum through the Carousel de Louvre, past the posh shops, now closed, that lined the way.
A mere nod from Magritte eased us past the museum security and various other authorities on the way to the second floor. The policeman’s leisurely pace allowed me to check out the extraordinary art as we passed, but it was the vastness of the place that awed me. I knew from French class that it had been a fortress, once housing royalty and all their wigs and stuff, but you could comfortably play Quidditch in the high-ceilinged halls.
As we approached the Denon wing of the museum and the room that had been Mona Lisa’s home for many years, I could feel the tension rising. We were greeted by the director of the Louvre, Blaise Roquefort, a small, intense man in an elegant black suit wearing a scowl that would make Mona stop smiling if she were there. He nodded to Magritte, eyed Rudee with suspicion, and treated me to the briefest of lip curls, as only the French can do.
He spoke through clenched teeth. “This is supposed to be impossible, Magritte. I don’t have to tell you the level of security that surrounds this cursed masterpiece. She is protected like the Crown Jewels or the American president. She’s never alone.”
Magritte nodded sagely as they approached the famous painting.
“When I took over, this great institution was a mess under DeFaux. There was a strike, the windows of the pyramid were filthy. And they were serving Belgian wine — no offence, Magritte — in the cafeteria. Belgian!”
Magritte arched a sympathetic eyebrow. Roquefort was trembling now. “The flaw ... the alteration ... this distortion was discovered by a ...” His nose twitched like he’d discovered something stinky in the back of the fridge, “… a teenager.”
He didn’t say “no offence” to me. Oh well. I found myself reacting like I was seeing the original, not a supreme fake. It’s so small; she’s not really smiling; what’s going on behind her — the usual observations. At this point Monsieur Roquefort crumbled like a delicate blue cheese.
“Magritte, I will be crucified by the art world. I have had this job less than three months. It is my life’s dream. Arghhh.” With this, the director buried his head in his hands and wept uncontrollably.
Rudee and I looked at each other uncomfortably, and he shrugged. Magritte approached the case, still guarded by a pair of expressionless guards, and extracted a magnifying glass. He was having a Sherlock moment.
A series of mmm’s, ahh’s, and ooo’s were followed by a couple of ah ha’s and one prominent “Zut alors!” An astounded “Mon Dieu!” finished off Magritte’s observations.
“Incroyable! Mes amis, come and have a look.”
Roquefort continued sniffling in the background as we huddled around phoney Mona.
“What is it, Monsieur Magritte?” I whispered, aware of the seriousness of the moment.
“Look at La Joconde’s right wrist. What do you see emerging from the sleeve of her garment?”
“Her arm, Magritte!” Rudee said excitedly, before his expression clouded. “But what else would it be?”
“Oui, but look again. There is the hint of something shiny on her arm.”
We all leaned in together, noses pressed to the glass protecting the painting.
“Cool!” I said before realizing the complete inappropriateness of this observation. “She’s wearing a watch.”
“So, Mona Lisa was not timeless,” said Rudee, sounding very pleased with himself and rendering my comment forgettable.
“Ah, but the wristwatch did not exist in Renaissance Italy.” Magritte raised his eyebrows. “A Swiss invention, I believe, a Monsieur Patek Philippe in the late nineteenth century. Although the French, typically, have disputed this claim, preferring to point to a Louis Cartier, who developed a watch for an associate who was working in the early aviation industry.” Rudee looked ready to go Vesuvius on Magritte, who continued his droning aside. “Of course, even if Leonardo is credited with inventing the first clock with separate hour and minute mechanisms, using springs rather than weights, the wristwatch, which I should mention was only for women at the time, came a good four hundred years after da Vinci created the exquisite wrist of La Joconde.”
He’d totally lost me, so I turned my focus to Mona’s four-hundred-year-old wrist. “A Fossil!” I observed, a little loudly.
“No, ma petite,” Magritte chuckled patronizingly, “although I admire your interest in palaeontology, a fossil would customarily be remains that had been around for at least ten thousand years, and this bauble is considerably more recent.”
“No, I mean a Fossil watch, a Stella mini. They’re really cool right now, or chouette as you guys say; my friend Penelope is really hoping to get one for her birthday.”
Monsieur Roquefort did one of those wet, snuffling sobs with a little squeak at the end. It echoed off the walls of Room 6. We ignored him and continued to stare at Mona’s new bling.
Magritte pursed his lips in deep contemplation and Rudee shook his head, confused. “Well, for flying out cloud.”