Picture This

Sometimes I wonder if they’re ever going to leave. It doesn’t feel like it. There’s always at least five or six of them dillydallying in front of the bulletproof glass, cameras in hand, ignoring the announcement that the museum’s closing. 'Just one more photo' they whine, or 'I’m going to remember this moment forever', something annoying like that. I never return their smiles, just jangle my keys and herd them towards the exit.

It’s blissful once they disappear, their footsteps echoing along the hallway. I settle down in my leather chair, close my eyes and take a little nap. It’s not a bad gig really. Getting paid to snooze.

I probably shouldn’t say that out loud. I wouldn’t want my boss to hear. One time Pascal caught me taking 40 winks beneath the statue of Hercules. Said I was snoring so soundly the entire collection of Roman artifacts could’ve been stolen from under my nose. I doubt it. Who’d want a load of broken old pottery.

Anyway, long story short, they moved me. Put me in here and said all I had to do was keep an eye on one painting. Asked me if I could make it through a night shift without falling asleep. Honestly.

So, it’s just me and her. Moaning Lisa. Well, that’s what I call her. Famous for her smile apparently. What a joke. I’ve seen jollier looking folk at funerals.

I try to ignore her most days. Her eyes freak me out. It feels like they’re following me round the room, like I’m the one being watched. C r e e p y.

Oof. Footsteps. It’s probably Pascal checking I’m awake. I pace along the far wall and wave at my boss when he sticks his head round the door. Phew, he’s gone. I’m probably safe for another hour or two. Time to sit down, take the weight off my feet. My chair has never looked more inviting.

As I trudge across the room, I glance at the painting, catch sight of her sullen face and growl: “Cheer up love, it might never happen.”

The smirk dies on my lips. It isn’t possible. It isn’t. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear she sticks her head out of the frame and narrows her eyes.

“I’m so sick of everyone telling me to cheer up. If only you knew the half of it,” she hisses.

I stagger backwards, crushing myself against the wall and clawing at my collar. That’s it. No more drinking at work. Not absinthe anyway. Probably best just sticking with the wine.

“I’m Lisa. Who are you? Apart from the guard who does a lousy job of protecting me.”

I shake my head, trying to wake from this nightmare. This can’t be happening. A painting can’t talk. I’m being set up. This has Pascal written all over it. Paying me back for…

…. But now she’s peeling herself out of the frame and sliding through the pane of glass. Why isn’t the alarm going off. What the hell is happening.

“So, are you going to tell me who you are?” she asks, shaking the creases from her dress and holding out her hand.

I struggle to reply, my mouth flapping opening: “It’s Kevin,” I squeak.

“Kevin? That doesn’t sound very French.”

“My mum’s English.”

“I’m so sorry. How awful for you.”

“What?”

“Anyway, you accused me of looking miserable,” she says stomping across the room, her black dress swishing on the wooden floor. She flumps down in the chair, my chair, and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. I hope she’s not going to light one in here. The museum has very strict rules about smoking.

“You’d be miserable too,” she says, placing a cigarette between her lips. “If you had to sit still for 16 years. 16 years. That’s how long he took to paint me. And do you know what the worst bit is?”

I shrug my shoulders. I have no idea what the worst bit could be. I have no idea about anything right now.

“He didn’t even make me look pretty,” she roars, bashing her fist down on the chair. “All that time and he gave me sickly yellow skin and a swollen neck. And just look at my hair. Jesus.”

I shuffle from foot to foot, trying to think of something to say. I can’t believe nobody’s heard all this racket or smelled the cigarette smoke. Surely Pascal will return and…

“… And do you have to keep opening and closing your mouth,” she snaps, blowing smoke in my face. “It’s most unattractive.”

I take a step back: “Do you do this often?”

“What?”

“Climb out of the picture frame.”

“Every night or at least when you’re on duty. You never notice because you’re too busy napping. I don’t know how you can sleep when there’s so much to see.”

“You’ve seen one painting, one moldy old statue; you’ve seen them all.”

“I doubt you’ve ever looked. Not properly,” she says, jumping to her feet and grinding her cigarette into the wooden floor. “Come on, let’s go.”

I recoil when she grabs my hand and pulls me towards the wall. Hello. The door’s over there. What does she think we’re going to do, just magically…

… Oh my god, I just walked through a wall. I don’t believe it. She tuts when I keep glancing over my shoulder, her grip tightening on my hand. We glide along the hallway, ducking in and out of rooms, finally pausing in front of a painting. I can’t get excited. It’s just some bloke lounging on a rock. Clearly fancies himself though. He’s bare-chested and showing off all his muscles. I bet he blow dries his hair. Looks the type.

“This is Bacchus. Leo painted him too. Eventually.”

“Leo?”

“Leonardo da Vinci,” she sighs. “Lovely bloke. Such good fun, or he used to be. We’d gossip for hours. Couldn’t make a cup of tea to save his life though, and he was a bugger for sitting down and finishing his work.”

The man in the picture winks. Winks.

“See you Friday Bacchus,” says Lisa, dragging me away, and whispering in my ear: “He hosts weekly parties in the basement. Such a riot. So much wine. I don’t go every time, my liver can’t take it these days.”

We’re halfway along the corridor, when Lisa yanks my arm and pulls me into the Sully Wing. We dive behind the door, and she presses a finger to her lips. We both hold our breath watching two security guards amble past laughing. I’m surprised they didn’t hear my heart hammering in my chest. That was way too close and…

“Watch out, Kevin.”

My hands fly to my face. There’s a deafening crunching sound from above and a marble sculpture swivels on its stand lunging in our direction, gnashing its teeth. I leap out of the way, crashing onto the polished floor.

“Oh Venus,” sighs Lisa, shooing her away.

“It’s Ms. de Milo to you,” snaps the statue, still scowling and hissing.

“So much for being the Goddess of Love,” says Lisa, helping me to my feet. “She’s so touchy. All you have to say is ‘can you give me a hand’ and she completely loses it. Still, she’s armless enough.”

“Don’t you mean harmless?”

“No,” says Lisa, turning and calling over her shoulder. “See you Friday Venus.”

We pause in the hallway, Lisa checking left and right. It’s silent. No footsteps tapping along the corridor. Not a security guard in sight. Perhaps I’m not the only one to sleep through my shifts.

Lisa pushes back her sleeve and checks her watch, biting her lip: “We’ve probably got just enough time to check out the Michelangelo Gallery. I love the Italian artists the best. Looking at their work makes me feel a little less homesick.”

She gulps, tears trickling down her cheeks. I shuffle backwards, shoving my hands in my pockets. I hate it when women get emotional. Does my head in. I hope she’s not going to start wailing. I don’t think I could stand it.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I ended up in France?” she sniffs.

She glowers when I pull a face and shrug my shoulders.

“Well, I’ll tell you. Leo betrayed me, that’s how,” she spits. “He was offered more money for my painting by King François I and that was it. He beetled off to France for work. Never returned to Italy. And do you know what the worst bit it is?”

I shake my head. I have no idea what the worst bit is, but I’m pretty certain she’s going to let me know.

“We never got our money back, even though my husband paid for the picture up front. I tried contacting Leo several times, but he wouldn’t return any of my letters. I heard on the grapevine he’d gone all snooty, started calling himself Leonard. Idiot. Anyway, I suppose it’s all in the past now.”

It doesn’t sound like it’s all in the past. I can’t believe she’s still holding a grudge four centuries later. Women. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost half past five. Have we really spent all this time wandering round the museum. That’s crazy. We’ll need to get back soon. Pascal always checks the rooms at six on the dot. I point at the clock and Lisa gasps, grabbing my hand.

“Hurry, we need to get a move on,” she pants, taking the stairs two at a time. “I wasn’t moaning about living in France by the way. I don’t hate it here. Not at all. The wine’s great, I just miss the pizza from back home.”

We crash through the door, and I’ve only just settled into my chair when Pascal appears in the room, flanked by four other guards. His cheeks are bright red, his mustache twitching.

“Kevin,” he bellows, jabbing his finger at me. “You’re in big trouble. I’ve been reviewing last night’s security footage. Not only did you take a nap, but you also disappeared for several hours. Look.”

He spins the laptop round and all of us stare at the screen, watching me pace up and down, completing circuit after circuit of the room. Pascal growls and fast forwards through the CCTV footage, but it’s just more of the same.

"Weird,” says Pascal, shaking his head. “I could have sworn, I mean. I guess I owe you an apology, Kevin.”

“No harm done,” I whisper as Pascal sweeps out of the room. Trust me. I couldn’t be more surprised either. I was certain I was for the chop. My eyes flick to the painting behind the glass. Lisa giggles and winks. I’ve no idea how she fixed that mess. What a woman. I don’t care what anyone says. She’s got the most amazing smile.

NOTE:

I’d like to point out that no priceless paintings or artifacts were damaged during the writing of this story. Apologies are probably due to The Louvre, Leo(nardo) and Moaning Lisa though. Thanks to Rachel Deeming for throwing down the gauntlet and challenging us to write in all the different Vocal communities this year. Not sure I’ll make all 48 because then I’d have to change my bio from 'world class' to 'partial' procrastinator and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Anyway, thanks for reading and Happy New Year!