Mona Lisa

 

 

The first time I saw Gioconda, I fell in love with her. It was an indistinct, misty autumn. In the distance, the contours of trees and smooth lakes faded away, as sometimes happens in paintings. A light mist that clouded our faces, rendering us vaguely unreal. She was dressed in black (the fabric, however, transparent), and I think someone told me she had lost a child. I saw her in the distance, as happens with apparitions, and from that instant I became extremely sensitive to anything that had to do with her. She lived in another city, as I discovered. Sometimes, to alleviate her sorrow, she took short strolls. Immediately - sometimes quite slowly - I discovered the things she favored. I conjured up her pleasures even without knowing them and, with that rare ability of someone in love to notice small details, I endeavored to surround myself with objects that would please her, like a meticulous collector. For want of her, I became a collector, seeking solace in things related to her. For someone who loves, nothing is superfluous. Giocondo, her husband, was engaged in a dispute with a painter, as I found out. He was a prosperous and crude merchant, enriched by trading in textiles, and like those of his class sought to surround himself with valuable things, though he would chaffer over their price. I quickly discovered the name of the city where they lived. It was a melodious, sweet name; I was surprised, because I should have guessed it. A city of water, bridges, and little windows built many centuries ago by merchants, ancestors of Giocondo who, in order to compete with the nobles and bishops, had hired architects and painters to enhance the city’s beauty, like a lady might do with chambermaids. He lived in an old refurbished palace, the facade of which he had had inlaid with gold. But my informant drew my attention to the most beautiful thing about the palace’s facade: a small landscape, a watercolor protected by a wooden frame, depicting a countryside. At the center of the landscape, a vaporous lake where a barely insinuated skiff rose above the water. ‘That, I am certain, must have been commissioned by Gioconda,’ I thought to myself.

I must confess that since I laid eyes on her, I have slept little. My nights are full of commotion, as if I had drunk too much or ingested some innervating drug. When I go to bed, my imagination unfurls, febrile and disorderly. I work out ingenious projects, formulate thousands of plans, my ideas buzzing about like drunken bees. The excitement is so acute that I break into a sweat and scurry to begin different tasks, these, in turn, interrupted by others until daybreak when, exhausted, I fall asleep. I awake confused, recalling little of what 1 had planned during the night. I feel depressed until the image of Gioconda returns some meaning to my days and makes me happy, like a secret possession (I am not a bad draftsman and I confess I have made some sketches of her face, based on my recollection of the first time I saw her).

I have completely neglected my wife - how could I explain to her what has happened without betraying Gioconda? I no longer share her bed and I endeavor to spend all my time away, lost amid the woods tenuously drawn in the autumn mist. The faint woods and the lakes I conjured up the first time I saw Gioconda and that now accompany all my images of her. One falls in love with certain places relentlessly associated with the beloved and strolls among them, alone but intimately accompanied.

I endeavor to obtain information about the city where she lives; I fear some unexpected danger may stalk it. I imagine terrible catastrophes: volcanic eruptions, tidal waves, fires, the insane acts of men - the cities of our times rival one another in aggressiveness and envy. In my mind, I aim to hold back the waters of the rivers that cross her city, and I take the opportunity to stroll with her across bridges - those delightful, intimate, moist wooden bridges that creak under our soles. (I must confess that the first time I saw her, enraptured by the beauty of her face, I did not take notice of her feet. What gaps there are in our power of observation! Nonetheless, it is not impossible to reconstruct them, based on the perfection of other lines. I realize that this harmony is not always humanly possible, but what is surprising about her is precisely the harmonious, serene, incremental development of her features, such that, from a fragment, the whole can be imagined.)

The passage of time does not concern me. Only too well do I know that her beauty, endowed with a certain diaphanous quality, an inner grace that transcends the progression of months, the passing of autumns, will withstand it. Only terrible harm, the intervention of an assassin’s hand, could disturb that harmony. And Giocondo does not worry me. Engaged as he is with his financial transactions, indifferent to any type of value that cannot be hoarded in a well-guarded coffer, his relations with her are as superficial as they are harmless. Which, to a certain extent, spares me from jealousy.

For some time now, I have been miserly. I save in every way I can so as to set aside enough money to make the journey I have dreamed of. I have stopped smoking and frequenting the tavern, I do not purchase clothing, and I am extremely vigilant with regard to the upkeep of the house. Whatever small repairs are necessary at home I do myself, and I make use of all those things squandered by dissolute men who are not in love, probably because they no longer dream. I have painstakingly studied the ways to reach that city and am certain that shortly I will be able to set out on the journey. That dream fills my days with intensity. I make no attempt to communicate with Gioconda. I am certain that when I saw her, she did not take notice of me, nor would she have taken notice of any man. She was overcome with sorrow and her eyes looked without seeing, contemplating, if anything at all, things that were of the past, things hidden in the still lakes where I continue to conjure her up. When my wife questions me, I answer in vague terms. It is not a matter of simply keeping my secret: the most heartfelt things almost never withstand translation into words.

But I know, I am certain, I will be able to find her. Somewhere in the city, her unmistakable features await me. As for Giocondo, he seems to still be engaged in a dispute with a painter. He doubtless does not want to pay for a canvas or, if he is owed something, plans to throw the painter out of his atelier. Giocondo has the insolence characteristic of the rich, and the poor painter has to make a living. My informant explains that the feud has gone on for close to three years and that the painter has sworn revenge. What would my Gioconda say about all this? Despite the reputation women in that city have for being nosy, I am certain she is wholly unaware of her husband’s affairs. The loss of her child is still recent and she is unable to find solace. Attempting to entertain her, Giocondo hires musicians who sing and dance in the garden, but she seems not to hear them. Gioconda, mournful notwithstanding her decoiletage. Regrettably, I am not a musician. If I were, I might have access to your castle. I would play the flute like no one has ever played it before, conjuring up the lakes and woods where you stroll in autumn, lakes seemingly suspended above which a skiff sometimes rises. I would compose verses and sonatas until you gently, almost unwillingly, smile, as if offering a small reward for my efforts. Oh Gioconda, that smile would be a vague acknowledgment, confirmation of your having heard.

I have arrived in the city of bridges, of circular lakes and misty woods that disappear on the horizon amidst placid clouds. I have walked the narrow, winding streets with their fluffy dogs and markets brimming with golden fruit and silken fabrics. Everywhere the peddling: the oranges shine; fish just plucked from the sea; the merchants’ offers buzz; avid buyers scrutinize gold vessels, acquiring carefully set, sumptuous jewels, feuding over valuable pieces. The streets are damp, and in the distance a serene forest is outlined.

Forthwith, I sought someone with information about the Giocondo family. It was not difficult: everyone knows them in this city, but for some reason, when I questioned people, they wanted to change the subject. I have offered money, the few coins I have left after the journey, but this is a prosperous city and my fortune small. I tried with traders who courteously offered me cloths and products from India, and then with the gondoliers, who take passengers from one part of the city to another. I should say that one of the most lively pleasures to be enjoyed here is that of traversing certain regions in those delicate, slender crafts (which they adorn in fine taste and treat with the utmost care, as if they were precious objects); they glide beneath the wooden bridges, scarcely stirring the green waters. Finally, a young man, whom I chose for his humble appearance but intelligent gaze, agreed to inform me. He revealed something terrible: the painter that Giocondo had hired and with whom he had been feuding for years decided to seek revenge. He painted a slender mustache on the lips of Giconda, and no one has been able to remove it.