Da Vinci in Love

by Maysam Yabandeh

  Da Vinci in Love

  by

  Maysam Yabandeh

  A True Story.

  Chapters:

  The Poem

  True Love

  From India with Love

  The Painting

  The Revelation

  Her

  Mona Lisa Smile

  (c) 2019 Maysam Yabandeh

  The Poem

  They wouldn’t return your salute, don’t bother.

  Don’t you see the heads are thrust in collars?

  It is freezing cold!

  Even if you do extend your hand in affection,

  Reluctantly they would stretch out theirs from cozy pockets.

  For it is winter.

  So why bother?

  “That was it?” she asks him with a disappointed face.

  “Well, yeah, don’t you like it?”

  “No, no, sure, absolutely,” Silvia responds, “I mean, doesn’t a poem suppose to rhyme or something?”

  This slaps Leonardo in the face, very hard. He cannot believe his ears. He has stopped breathing. It is as if the time has stopped. He is no longer in his body; he is high in the sky, looking down on the whole situation, and trying—very hard—to make some sense out of it. Here he is, the greatest poet alive—at least this is what he thinks of himself—standing right before her, baring his soul, revealing the most profound truth about the life itself, in most delicate form imaginable, and there she is, just a woman—granted not bad-looking—trying to fit the masterpiece that is generously presented to her into jingles! Looking for rhymes? F***ing rhymes?!!!

  The time resumes again. Leonardo let all the breath out at once, takes a deep breath, and says with grinding teeth: “The meaning, the core, the emotions are—”

  “What the fox say, Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow! Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow!” Silvia’s cell rings. ‘What Does The Fox Say?’ is the ring tone.

  “Where are you now?” she answers the phone. “I am next to this giant red car. Pete is talking to me.”

  “Leo,” Leonardo jumps in.

  “What?”

  “My name is Leo.”

  “Yeah,” she responds with a dismissive tone, and turns her face away.

  “Can you see me now? I am waving my hand,” she says on the phone.

  “What the fox say? Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho! Hatee-hatee-hatee-ho!” The song is heard from away, and it is getting louder and louder. Michele in his duchy sports car is approaching. The song is played from the even douchier loud speakers of his car.

  “Where is my sugar? Theeeere she is,” Michele says the cheesy, played-out line.

  What an untalented, illiterate, fake piece of sh**, Leonardo thinks. “Cannot even make up his own lines. I bet cannot even say a full sentence.” His shirt has most of the buttons unbuttoned. Hairy bastard, Leonardo thinks. He has a piece of fabric artlessly wrapped around his neck, might have meant to be an ascot. A giant ‘Giorgio Armani’ sticker is still on the side of his sunglasses. I bet it has fallen off multiple times, but he has used superglue to stick it back there, Leonardo thinks.

  “Why are you so late? I am f***ing bored,” Silvia asks while jumping on the front seat. Her big breasts bounce up and down. Is she wearing a bra? Leonardo wonders.

  “Sorry babe. Traffic,” Michele responds dismissively. He is not even trying to sound genuine. His hand is on her knees, perhaps even up her short skirt; not quite clear from where Leonardo is watching.

  “On a Tuesday?” she asks rhetorically. She had gotten very close to his face, staring right into his eyes to make him feel at least a bit guilty.

  “Give me some sugar,” is all he responds, stealing a kiss from her. She rushes to her purse to reapply the thick red lipstick on her lips.

  Michele, out of words, steps on the gas pedal, and drives away quickly to wrap up the conversation part of their date. The car is gone, but the exhaust’s thick smoke has remained, and spreads all over Leonardo. He coughs as he watches the car driving away, with Silvia in it.

  His backpack falls off, and a couple of his books fall out on the ground of the parking lot. He takes a long look at them; they look a mile away from his reach. He reluctantly leans forward to pick them up. His head feels heavy. He grabs the backpack, but does not get up. The gravity invites him to fall, and he finds no reason to resist.

  He sits down on the ground in the middle of the parking lot, staring at the direction that Silvia left with Michele. He hugs his knees, rest the side of his face on them, sighs, and says, “Why bother?”

  The same pose in the church…

  True Love

  Leonardo, sitting on the church floor, is hugging his knees. The side of his face is resting on them.

  He raises his head, looks up, and finds a Jesus statue on a cross. He keeps watching it for a while. Jesus’s head is way down, like he is about to give his life for the people’s sin. That is the most poetic moment of Jesus’s life, Leonardo thinks. Leonardo looks back, and finds the church benches all empty; no people, no audience. He turns his look back to the Jesus statue, lonely and uncelebrated. Leonardo sees himself on the cross. We are so alike, he thinks. I get Him, He, the ultimate poet, must get me too.

  Hopeless from everything else, Leonardo prays, for the first time in his life.

  “Lord, you made me the great artist I am now! And you witness that I did nothing but celebrating your glory through art. My art is, however, unappreciated, so am I. I am not shallow like them to pray for fame, as true art will never be popular with the masses. But… but I wish there was at least some of your sheep who understand my art, and me through it, even a few would suffice, may be at least one. Lord, give me that one.”

  “Sure, I’ll give it to you, one you said, right?”

  Leo is shocked. His unbelieving eyes stare at the Jesus statue. Jesus’s head seems to be up now, looking directly at Leonardo.

  “Over here Son!” A 50-ish-year-old monk with a round, cute belly is responding. “Ha ha, just messing with ya.” Leonardo, however, doesn’t seem to appreciate his humor.

  The monk continues: “It always boils down to one damn person, doesn’t it? Oh, sorry, did I say damn? I retract.”

  “What is your name Son?”

  “Leonardo.”

  “Leonardo, you remind me very much of Giuseppe. You know what happened to him, right?” The monk impatiently waits for Leonardo to say no.

  “No. I don’t think I have met Giuseppe.”

  The monk, quite satisfied, sits with an open posture on the stairs in front of Leo, between him and the Jesus statue.

  “Giuseppe was a fine young man, like yourself.” The monk starts delivering his well-rehearsed lines.

  He was not exceptionally handsome, tall, or rich, but he was fine. This fine man fell in love with a gorgeous, beautiful girl, as we all do, named Fiona. Fiona, however, was not an easy girl. Many were after her, and she knew damn well how precious she was. Yet, she saw something in Giuseppe, something special, something that made him distinct from the others, so she led him on. Days, weeks, and months passed by, and Giuseppe wouldn’t stop telling her of his love for her and how pure and true it is and that he doesn’t want anything in this world but her.

  One day Fiona said: “Alright, let’s see how true your love is. I will be yours if you could stand in front of our mansion for 100 days and nights. I will see you from my bedroom window, and I will send you a goodnight kiss from up there every night. In the morning of the 100th day, if you are still there, I will know for sure that your love is true, and I will be yours, for all days to come.

  “What did Giuseppe say?” Leonardo asks.

  “He said yes, at once,” the monk responds.

  He didn’t even think for a second. All he cared about was t
o prove his love to Fiona, and he didn’t care how big are the challenges that were placed before him, for he was truly in love. He went to the back of her father’s mansion, stood beside the wall, and stared up at Fiona’s window. The sun was scorching, but he didn’t mind; he just passionately stared at the window, all day long. The night came, Fiona was back home, and Giuseppe watched her through the window. Fiona changed her clothes, and danced to a cheerful music, as Giuseppe was joyfully watching her through the window. Before going to sleep, Fiona came to the window to check if Giuseppe is still there, and there he was. Fiona smiled, blew a kiss down to him, turned the light off, and went to her queen-size bed, alone. Giuseppe leaned back to the wall as he was standing, and dreamed of Fiona.

  Tomorrow morning, Fiona, well rested, got off the bed, looked outside, and found Giuseppe still standing there, eagerly looking through her window. The days passed by, one after another, and Giuseppe stood by her window through wind, rain, snow, cold, and hail; every single night impatiently waiting for Fiona to appear in front of the window; Fiona before going to bed would check if Giuseppe is still there, and would blow him a goodnight kiss; until Day 99.

  It was a lovely day, not too cold and not too hot. The sky was clear and blue, inspiring hope. Throughout the day, a refreshing breeze blew through his hairs, kissed him on his tired forehead, and reminded him how beautiful life is. A big, genuine smile had surfaced on his face. The joy was coming from somewhere deep within him. The night came, and Fiona came to the window, and saw Giuseppe still standing outside but with a big smile on his face. He must be excited about tomorrow, the 100th day, she thought. She blew him a goodnight kiss, turned off the light, and lay on bed thinking how to greet Giuseppe tomorrow morning, on the last Day. Giuseppe, the big smile still on his face, turned away from Fiona’s window, and went back home.

  “What?!” Leonardo exclaimed, shocked to his very core.

  “True story.”

  “Why?! There was only one night left. Why did he give up?”

  “How would I know?”

  “What?! Then what the… If… Then why are you even telling me the story?! This makes no sense, no sense at all.”

  “Not a fan of subtle endings, huh? Alright, then I have just the right story for ya.”

  “No, no no. No more stories from you, please! Can I just be alone?”

  “Alone, like the great Zhong Fu?”

  “Who is Kung Fu?”

  “Zhong Fu, only the wisest monk in the whole China.”

  “Oh no,” Leonardo sighs.

  “Listen up. It’s a true story. Krishna, a young Maharaja Kumar in India fell in love with Anushka…”

  From India with Love

  Krishna, a young Maharaja Kumar in India fell in love with Anushka, a beautiful Daandia dancer he met during Dussehra festivals. He could not stop thinking about her, day or night. He was obsessed with her. He would dress up as farmers so people don’t recognize him, and would sneak into parties just to get a chance to watch her dancing. This goes on and on for weeks until he finally gathers the will to reveal his love to her. That evening, he took a bath in the holy river, burnt the finest incense to perfume himself, put his fine royal clothes on, rehearsed his lines, and went outside the town where Anushka’s folk had camped. It was already dark when he reached their tents. He didn’t know which tent is hers though. He stood by aside in the dark, watching the tents for a while. Finally, he recognized her coming out of the largest tent. Krishna, half excited half terrified, approached her. He could not imagine living if she rejects him. He was near the Anushka’s tent that he feels someone’s hand tapping on his shoulder.

  “Can I help you?”

  Krishna turned, and saw a giant, scary guy with a big imperial mustache covering half his face.

  “Yes. I mean no, thank you. I am meeting a friend here, there, in that tent.”

  “That is my tent. Who is your friend?” The giant guy didn’t sound friendly. Krishna swallowed his spit, and said: “Not… Not a friend exactly. She is a dancer, Anushka is her name.”

  “What do you want from my daughter?” The giant guy said angrily as he got closer to Krishna. His mouth was half-open, and his teeth were shining out. They looked sharp and pointy. Krishna felt that Anushka’s giant father might devour him any second. He wanted to swallow his spit, but his mouth was as dry as the Thar desert.

  “Ma… Ma… Marriage, intention marriage, if your permission.”

  “Wait a minute, I think I know you. Aren’t you the son of Maharaja Arjun?” Anushka’s father took a friendlier tone.

  “Yeees, yes I am.” Krishna felt a bit safer, and continued more confidently. “And I mean nothing but respect for your daughter. I am truly in love with her. I want to marry her.”

  “Young man. I am afraid we are from Shaivism sect.”

  “Good, Great!”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Me? No. My parents, Maharaja and Maharana,” Krishna said with pride, “are from Shaktism.”

  “Well, there is your answer, young prince. This is the line that even royalty can’t cross,” Anushka’s father said, and left Krishna.

  “But… But I am in love.”

  “Too bad,” Anushka’s father replied without turning around. There was no sympathy in his voice. He reached his tent, and met Anushka at the entrance. Anushka looked back, and noticed sad Krishna standing there, dazed and confused. This was the first time that Anushka saw Krishna. She smiled. Her father held her hand, and forcefully turned her towards the tent. She obliged. She put one step into the tent, but then paused a bit. Her father insisted with a gentle push on her back. She turned her face back, and took a last look at Krishna. Krishna’s eyes were full of tears. She disappeared into the tent, and he fell to his knees; his forehead hit the ground, and he started crying his eyes out. Frogs from the nearby lake, and his cry were the only audible voices in that darkest night.

  “What did he do?” Leonardo asks the monk.

  “What could he do? Religion was in the way. With the right power one could bend the laws of physics created by God, but no one, no one can mess with the laws of religions instated by men.”

  “So he just gave up?!”

  “Well, he tried, and God knows he tried hard. He cried for a week, nothing, fasted for a month, nothing, took refuge in a temple for a year, nothing. He got weak, skinny, and bearded, yet he was still in love as much as he was the first time he saw Anushka. Nothing could drive her love out of Krishna’s heart, for he was truly in love. His parents, worried that they might lose their only son, desperately turned to the eldest Hindu monk in their kingdom.”

  “Was him Kung Fu?” Leonardo asks impatiently.

  “No,” the monk chuckles at Leonardo’s naivety, “and it is Zhong Fu, Zh, Zh. This monk was legit, but he was no Zhong Fu. Zhong Fu was the real sh**; did I say sh**? Sorry, I retract. The elder monk told them about him though.

  ‘Go East, young man.’ the elder monk said, ‘where the wisdom lies.’

  He told them that Zhong Fu is the greatest Buddhist monk since the Buddha himself, nobody has seen him in the past 200 years, and the legend says that he is living on top of the tallest pillar in the magical Zhangjiajie mountains in China.”

  “If anyone knows how to save your son, that would be Zhong Fu, the legendary monk,” the elder monk told them.

  Desperate to have their son saved, they dispatched him to China, to look for Zhong Fu. Krishna climbed over the Himalaya mountains in Tibet, passed through the notorious Tibet desert, which he barely pulled through, until he reached the magical standing pillars in Zhangjiajie. He found the tallest one, stood by it, and realized that he cannot even see where the top ends. It was as if the pillar reaches above the clouds, directly to the skies. As frightening climbing the pillar was, Krishna was passionate to find his answers, and no fear could have stopped him.

  He started climbing it with his bare hands. A snake bit him, an eagle attacked him, and he was about to fall off three times, but he
kept going since he had no fear of death; life meant nothing to him without Anushka. As miraculous as it was, he eventually managed to reach the top of the tallest pillar, alive. He was exhausted, and so he passed out right there at the edge of the pillar.

  He woke up feeling that something is poking him. He opened his eyes, and found Zhong Fu, the legendary monk, right above him, blocking the sun. Zhong Fu looked like a thousand years old: a big hunchback, all hairs white, and eyebrows so bushy that they covered the eyes like curtains. His beard was so long it was almost touching the ground.

  “You are late!” Zhong Fu said.

  “You were expecting me?!” Krishna is stunned.

  “Ask me your question, in your own words.”

  Krishna sat up, and got into Seiza position to show respect.

  “Anushka is my impossible love, and yet I cannot get her out of my heart. I feel like she and I are the only people in this world, and if she is not with me, I will be all alone.”

  “I actually know what you mean. I am myself pretty lonely up here. Have you tried masturbation?”

  “What?!!!” Krishna was all shocked and shaken.

  “What?!!!” Leonardo is all shocked and shaken. “What is wrong with you?! What the hell are you talking about? Who do you think you are talking to? I am an artist. I plow my heart day and night. I bare my soul to figure the ultimate truth. I am an artist. I form cultures, I recreate human, I… I…”

  “Eye, eye, ear, nose; you are all from the same face to me. Sorry, Okay?” the monk tries to calm him down; “People don’t come here, unless they are dying or in love. You are young, so I thought you were having woman issues. Same recipe always works for them all—well, almost always. Sorry, alright? You are different, I get it now. I didn’t know you are an… artist you said? Really?”

  Krishna nodes. He is still breathing angrily, but his rage seems to be settling.

  The monk genuinely feels bad about what happened, and wants to make it up to him. He continues: “Unfortunately, I don’t have an artist story to tell—”