with the Mona Lisa
We have a special — and quite unexpected — guest today, the famous — or should that be infamous — Mona Lisa.
Lisa, if we may be so informal as to call her that, is the subject of a new book by Christopher Angel titled The Mona Lisa Speaks (Over The Edge Books, April 2013 trade paperback and ebook formats).
Here is what she has to say about the book, in her own words …
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So I have been told that I am a key character in a new novel — one that imagines my actual theft from the Louvre in 1911 as a current happening, in this age of computers and advanced electronics. The author's first mistake is to make me a key character, rather than the only character. This author, who I'm sure holds no candle to the brilliance of my creator, Master da Vinci, who always could excel at anything he wanted, wastes his time writing about some Canadian computer programmer who falls in love with a French woman, and steals me to save her life. While that bears some parallel to what actually happened in 1911, I just don't understand why his author would focus on the musings of some mere person, when he could have filled many books with my brilliant inner voice and astute observations.
Furthermore, I am told that, in this novel, I am taken out of the Louvre, and replaced by a so-called “perfect” copy. I may not be that familiar with all these current inventions (I'm sure Master da Vinci would understand them better), like computers and scanners and 3-D printers, but I can tell you one thing — there's no way a machine could replicate the love and care Master da Vinci took with me. It's just not possible. A true connoisseur would see the copy for what it is immediately. Technology is no substitute.
I will give this author some credit — since it's true that I will never tell any of you what actually happened to me during the time I was out of the Louvre from 1911-1913, I suppose updating this story and adding in some imagination might make sense. That is my secret, and the thief who stole me is now dead, and took the secret to his grave with him. So, the imaginings of an author are as close as you'll ever get to the truth.
But here is my biggest concern — I am so tired of people trying to cloak themselves in my fame and brilliance. I am told that this author came up with the idea after coming to the Louvre himself, and being underwhelmed with my quality in comparison to the other paintings in the Louvre, and wondering why I was so famous. He did some research, and discovered the story of my theft in 1911, which only added to my fame. But I think this reveals more about the author than it does me. He must be a man of poor taste, because it should be obvious why I am so famous — it is because of my beauty. His smile has surely not beguiled generations upon generations, as mine has! He's probably one of those philistines who was surprised when he first saw me, because "I was so small." As if genius has anything to do with size!
I was going to ask you, if you come to the Louvre, to start reading me this book. But upon deeper reflection, I just can't bring myself to hear these slanderous lies. So, perhaps you will do me the favor of reading it yourself, and reporting back. Yes, that's the best solution.
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Chapter One
I WAS RIDING A VÉLIB' — ONE OF THOSE one-speed grey bikes you can rent from racks all over Paris with a simple swipe of a credit card. A lot of Parisians use them to commute to work, and while it was a nice walk from my apartment on the Île Saint Louis, smack dab in the heart of the city, to the Louvre, that morning I was running very late for the staff meeting because my Skype call with Dad had gone long. He was sick — hopefully "just" arthritis, but I feared the "c" word — and I was trying to convince him to leave his perch in the remote boreal forest to see some doctors down south. It was important, but the last thing I wanted was to further annoy my coworkers, who already resented having a young Canadian programmer there doing what they saw as their national duty — upgrading the computer systems for their prized museum.
So, I pedaled as fast as I could along the banks of the Seine, savoring what few moments I had on the the world's most beautiful bike path. Notre Dame and the Île de la Cité on the left, the cobblestone pathways of the Marais up above me on the right. Moments like this had been all too rare in the past month since I had arrived. Which meant I all the more hungrily lapped up the scenery as I sped down the path. It was awesome to be here, considering I had grown up amidst the pine trees and the long, dark winters of Whitehorse, in the Yukon. And we didn't even live in the city — but out about forty-five minutes away, which just as well could have been in the middle of the Arctic tundra for how isolated it was. You didn't just walk outside to go play with the kids down the street — you had to get in the car, or if it was winter, the snowmobile, and drive fifteen minutes to the nearest house.
And then I saw her. Even from a few bicycle lengths behind, I knew she was beautiful: it was the grace of her movements and the curve of her back as revealed by the straps of her backpack which pressed upon her elegant but understated French clothing. Without a conscious command, my feet started to pedal faster, and my neck craned forward. I had to see her face. But, she was fast too. I strained to reel her in, as slower riders got in the way. I was worried that we would shoot right by my "exit" to the Louvre — a short, steep cobblestone hill that delivered me almost to the front door of my office. Was I really going to risk being even later to my meeting?
Then, she sensed that I was following her and turned back to glance at me. She was much more than just a pretty face. It was her smile that captivated me. While eyes are commonly held to be the window of someone's soul, in my experience a person's smile says more about their personality. You can't fake a genuine smile, the kind that shows joie de vivre, that promises laughter and companionship and genuine interest in other people. Her smile had all this and more. It was sexy and down to earth and pleasant, and also, just a little bit mysterious. I wanted to ask her out for a coffee right then and there, and find out who she was and how she saw the world.
But, before I could say anything, she laughed and said, "Jouez" — French for "game on." Then, she really dug into her pedals. I thought, "Why not? We only live once." The race was on, but she had a good head start. I dug deep — but could only match her pace. I saw my exit ahead and was prepared to skip it, but then was pleased to see her veer off and start to climb up the steep hill. Like the Tour de France riders who specialize in mountain pursuits, now was my chance to catch up with her, and still make my meeting. I stood up in the seat and pedaled hard, coming alongside her. She smiled again at me, but she was only playing with me. She pedaled harder, and pulled away again on her Vélib'. I was straining for breath. The short hill ended, and we shot out into the traffic in front of the Louvre. Now, I was praying for a red light. But I wasn't going to be that lucky this morning. She crossed the intersection, and moved along with the busy traffic. Then, I felt something in my peripheral vision — I turned to see a mother with a baby in a stroller. We were on a collision course. I swerved, narrowly avoiding them, then had to correct again to avoid taking on a Peugot car.
She pedaled on. While the past month had been the most sedentary of my life, I was still in decent shape from the summer's backpacking trip back home — my last major trek before I joined the working world. But, she was in great shape, and pulled ahead. I was desperate to catch up, and stood again in my seat. That's when I first noticed the motorcycle. It slowed down right alongside her. Both the driver and passenger wore helmets and black leather jackets, strange on this humid summer morning. Then, I noticed that the motorcycle didn't have a license plate, which was also weird. Before I had time to contemplate anything more, the passenger of the motorcycle clamped onto her with one arm, pulled out a switchblade with the other, and hacked away at the straps of her backpack.
She immediately figured out what they were doing, which was unfortunate, because she was not the sort of person who was going to back down from a fight. She yelled angrily, and tried to push the motorcycle away. The driver of the motorcycle corrected his steering, while the passenger kept his grip on the backpack. She screamed, as the force of the attack pulled her and the Vélib' down. She hit the street with a sickening crunch, her arm and backpack caught underneath her. The motorcycle skidded to a stop, the passenger leaped off, and the knife came out again as the thief went after the second strap. A few bystanders stopped and stared, not sure what to do.
That's when I was finally able to catch up with her. I jumped off my bike, letting it clatter to the sidewalk, and yelled out in my best approximation of a French accent, "Arrette, police!" Then I clamped my hand on the backpack, and yanked it away from the robber. That caught the attacker by surprise — he froze for a moment. My next thought was, 'what if this guy hates the police and would like nothing more than to knife an unarmed, undercover officer?' I saw a glint of sunlight from the blade and got ready to evade an incoming thrust — my instincts going back to the time I mistakenly cornered that mother black bear and her cub and got away with a torn t-shirt.
But instead, I heard the knife click shut, as he whispered to the driver, "Vas-y, vas-y," and the bike revved and they were off. I was left standing above a moaning woman, in a cloud of motorcycle exhaust, holding her backpack. I quickly knelt down and asked her, in fractured French, if she was OK. She picked up that I was a native English speaker, and replied, "My arm, I think it's broken." Her subtle French accent was sweetly mellifluous. But her broken arm looked pretty horrific — it was bent near the wrist in a nasty, unnatural angle, and dangled limp as I helped her to sitting. Even that action made her yelp in pain. I scrambled back to my bike, and retrieved my suit jacket. I turned it into the world's most beautifully tailored sling, which took the pressure off her arm, and she was able to catch her breath. Finally, a police car pulled up, and the officers pushed through the growing, gawking crowd. One of them checked out her injuries, while the other asked for witnesses, which had the effect of quickly disbursing the crowd. The kneeling policeman smiled at me, and said, "Monsieur, votre femme serra d'accord."
And then my French totally failed me. All I could mumble was, "Ah, non … oui. She's not my wife. I am a Canadian. I witnessed the attack." The policeman looked at me suspiciously. The injured woman spoke quickly in French, fighting back the pain. I only understood the words "Bon Samaritain," which I knew meant, "good Samaritan." That satisfied the policeman, who turned back to me and said, "D'accord. You will need to make ah … qu'est qu c'est … un statement."
An ambulance arrived in a clatter of sirens and two paramedics sprung into action. "Of course," I replied. And then I made my third impulsive decision that morning. I climbed into the ambulance alongside her. The policeman looked at me in surprise, still trying to figure out our exact relationship. I simply told him, "I can make my statement at the hospital, yes?" He nodded, and the ambulance doors slammed shut. Inside the ambulance, she looked at me in surprise and concern: "Oh no, are you hurt too?"
"No, but you have my suit jacket there, what choice do I have?" I pointed to the makeshift sling. At that moment, I had the first inkling that she was very special. How many people would be concerned about somebody else in a moment of such pain and shock?
I'd had a few broken bones in my youth, mostly from over-ambitious tree-climbing, and I knew how much pain she was enduring.
She nodded, and through gritted teeth said, "Thank God. I would have felt terrible … After what you did … My name is Mathilde. Mathilde Theroux."
"Robertson Ross. Everybody calls me Rob." I smiled at her. And she managed a brief smile back before the ambulance hit a bump, jolting her pain back.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Christopher Angel
A professional filmmaker, Christopher's most recent movie as a writer/director is This Is Not A Test, a satire about domestic terrorism that aired on Showtime. He was nominated for an Emmy for his work on James Cameron's documentary Expedition Bismarck and won a student Academy Award for his short film, Mr. October. Christopher received his BA from Yale University, where he was a Humanities major, and an MFA in film-making from the University of Southern California.
You can learn more about the author and his book at TheMonaLisaSpeaks.com. You can also find him on Twitter.
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The Mona Lisa Speaks
Christopher Angel
Brilliant and confident Robertson Ross, an outdoorsy Canadian computer expert hired to update the Louvre's security system, falls in love with Mathilde, a classic beauty and cultured Parisian art dealer. But, when he discovers that she's deeply in debt to Jacques Renard, a powerful and dangerous lord of the French criminal underground, he has to embark on the risky and thrilling theft of the Mona Lisa to save her — and their unborn child.
Rob's biggest problems actually begin after he successfully steals the Mona Lisa and replaces her with a perfect copy. Facing betrayals at all turns, he needs every bit of his intelligence, cunning, courage, and computer skills to stay alive & reunite with his true love.
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