Tales of the Diaspora: Burning The Mona Lisa -Part 01

“Once upon a time. On a planet called Earth all the humans lived together. They could do terrible things, and they could do wonderful things. They loved and feared and thought themselves safe. They were masters of their world,” the old woman began. The light was only just beginning to fade and the fire was already burning bright. The humans sat around it, and listened. They all knew the story, they had heard it many times around this fire or that fire, year after year. But this was the way it always began. This was how it was meant to be and so they listened to the story that began it all.

​

Once upon a time, while the rest of humanity was saying goodbye, Simon Glassmen stared at the Mona Lisa. For the first time since its construction the Louvre was truly empty. No curators carefully worked, no army of security prowled, no throng of guests pored through the halls. They all sat up with parents and children and spouses. They made love with wild abandon or prepared with shaking hands the means to end things early if they weren’t chosen. They all clung together even as they got ready to separate… because they had to separate. No one waited for Simon, no one to sit up with and stare at their phones or talk over better times, just a cold empty apartment, and a cold empty museum, empty except for the ghosts. The museum was full of ghosts.

A ghost of a child pressed himself against the glass guarding the painting, listening to an old museum guide. The old man described how The Mona Lisa had been painted again and again, how Da Vinci had carried her with him his whole life. In his quite voice he opened a world of obsession, perfection, transcendence, a world of masters who loved their craft and brought the beauty of heaven into the world. The child was hooked.

“What is it that makes her so special? Why did they get so obsessed?”

“Why young man? Because it is what gives us meaning. Without a meaning our lives are nothing, we are no more than animals. But if we have a meaning, if we have a great work to do, then we are something else, then we go on forever. You see her there smiling at us. A human hand made her, made something truly beautiful; if we can do that, perhaps, despite our cruelties, humanity is worth it.” The old man was looking off into the distance, rubbing his wrist with scared hands, but the ghost of the boy didn’t see. He stared and stared at the painting. He kept staring until he was drawn away by his parents, but it was too late: the ghost was in love with her. In love with all she represented.

There was the ghost of a young man, who stood a little further back from the great painting. The young man had big dreams. He was newly arrived in the great city, the city of his destiny, and he knew he would take it by storm. He stared up at the master’s work and failed to see the painting entirely: all he saw was his own bright future laid out before him. He would paint and paint in a freezing apartment, swept up in a whirlwind of creativity, until that fateful day when the luminaries of this city would recognize his genius. He would carry on passionate and stormy affairs of the heart, and take all the pain and ecstasy they caused and render it on canvas. He would speak to the minds and the hearts of the people of the world and one day his work would hang here in the Louvre. Next to the masters he loved so well. Her smile seemed to egg him on.

But the young man had to pay his bills and his day job left him too tired to paint, too tired to do anything but go out late into the evening with his coworkers and drink away the night. Now there was a different ghost who stood behind the young man. He was older more tired and fatter. He looked up at the Mona Lisa and saw in her smile an accusation, a gloat. She seemed to say to him, “You think you were the first to look upon me with such dreams? Do you know how many young men have stared and imagined themselves my master? Foolish boy, go back to work, your place will never be here.” And so he did, his day job became his job and his easel was left to gather dust in his apartment.

The fourth ghost stood staring at her with wide eyes, as though seeing her for the first time. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his hand and waited for his interview. This ghost had come home one day from his job. Had followed his routine and then, decided he would paint; nothing special about that day, just a whim. He carefully prepared the paint, touched it to the canvas and felt something release inside of him. He painted all that night, painted as he had once dreamed he could. He didn’t paint well, he was out of practice, but he painted truly with the kind of wild abandon he had always sought. It seemed that each stroke of the brush tore a great gash in his boring life and his long empty days. The next day he applied to work at the Louvre. He could not rival the masters, he knew that now, there was some peace in that realization, but he could sing their praises.

The last ghost stood nearest Simon. They looked ever so much alike. This ghost was speaking to a group of tourists from a far off land. He began as he always did, as the old man had, in the old way. “Once Upon A time.” He told them of the painting of the Mona Lisa. And of the man who made it. He spun the tale out: adding and subtracting details, getting louder or softer in moments of revelation or adventure. The tourists hung on his every word, spellbound. Even the other ghosts turned to listen to him. No, not him, they weren’t drawn to him but to the painting he described. He could not be a master but he could frame their work, he could stand near to it and tell the uninitiated about its splendors, about the meaning it gave to humanity. He was so happy, so happy that they crowded close, so happy to be in the place sounded by art and light and life. He could not make the fire of human connection for himself but he could stand near it. This was his calling, his path. He would spend his brief time standing next to the great works, praising them, guarding them, sharing their wonder with the world. It was a far smaller but far kinder dream. When this last ghost looked upon the Mona Lisa he saw the rightfully unattainable that most high, the glory of art, the triumph of man, in a curved lip.

But the Glassman of flesh saw only the end, and he wondered if in her smile he could see fear, or regret or bitter sorrow. He had always feared the end in the vague way he always feared being hit by a car or cancer. He had read papers full of dire predictions for years; about climate damage and war, famine and crime. He had learned to ignore, learned not to think too much. He had learned to be afraid of what people were capable of and then learned to hide that fear in apathy and work. Yet when the end came it was not borne on the back of the evil that men do. The end came from above and it was so far beyond them that all they could do was hide.

In the space around earth two great ships tore each other to pieces. They were fighting a war, such things happen in wars. But their corpses filled the earth’s orbit with debris. Terrible weapons fell and exploded in the atmosphere, discharging their radiation into the people of earth. Fuel and coolant rained down poisoning the world, and of course the debris, the never-ending debris, a billion meteors waiting to tear human civilization apart. A thousand things were tried all failed. The water could not be drunk, the food could not be eaten and everyday more and more pieces fell to earth killing people and hopes and cities.

And the worst was still to come, the earth was about to pass through the largest debris field of all, the one that would blacken the skies for a thousand years, the one that would drop a hundred chunks big as the one that killed the dinosaurs. It was the end.

Until the refugee ships came. They came with a message of mercy, a message of rescue broadcast to every speaker in the world. They were strange things, not like spaceships at all, not the way Glassman had imagined spaceships. He hadn’t spent much time imagining spaceships but he was surprised that among the profusion there weren’t at least some that looked familiar, that looked like something a human would design. They were all different shapes and sizes and without being told he could tell that they were built by different minds. Most were as different from each other as they were from what a human would make, a great hodgepodge of strange and frightening vessels. The ships settled all over the world. On every continent, in every country, they settled, but there were still far too few of them. Not enough room on the ships. Not for everyone, not for nearly everyone.

The ships had landed that morning and now, in 5 minutes, his phone would go off. He knew what the message would say. 250 Million could fit on the ships, 7.25 billion would stay. He would be among the ones who stayed, of course he would, he knew billions of people across the world were praying to whatever they turned to when all the lights of the world went. They prayed that their children or spouses or siblings or friends or selves would be picked, that the right name would be picked by the great lottery of survival. But not Simon. No, he stood alone in an art museum saying goodbye to paintings. He didn’t deserve to live, not like they did. They all knew what it was to live to spend a life doing, all he could do was stand here and praise those who had done, who had lived long before he was born. He didn’t begrudge them their survival. It was right, he accepted it. He was no part of a future, he had never even been part of a present. He was a man of the past standing in the cold museum with his ghosts. He stared up at the Mona Lisa; she smiled down at him. The only comfort he would get at the end of the world. The only comfort he told himself he needed. He was almost at peace, he was dwarfed by the museum made small by its size, it would be a magnificent tomb.

His phone went off.

He was chosen.

He stood in silence, numb. He had been picked; there was no reason, of course. He knew that intellectually. Knew the lottery was purely random. But it still shocked him, shocked him to the core. He had been teetering at the precipice at the end of his life, ready to take the last step into oblivion, eyes wide open head held high, only to discover that the ground went on. His future would continue, it had to, the rescuers had made it clear that there would be no substitutions, no giving away a spot. He would be saved. But why? What had he ever done to deserve to be one of the chosen survivors? He looked where he always did for answers, to the painting before him to the smile that had captivated generations, and in a moment of inspiration he understood. He was asking the wrong question! It wasn’t what he had done. It was what he would do. He knew why he had been picked, he would save her. He would save the soul of humanity the art that gave it meaning. Simon Glassman would save the Mona Lisa.

The Paris ship was a strange thing. It looked almost like a huge wedge of cake or pie balanced seemingly precariously on its point. The balance was even more disturbing because the ship leaned about 20 degrees. It looked at all times as though it were going to fall. The hull of the ship looked like the skin of a pineapple or a strange lizard. It wasn’t lit from any place that Simon could see, but the whole thing was easy to see and distinct even in the dark. He was lined up with the rest of the chosen. They stood in the warm summer air and stared ahead. Some wept; others spent their time with loved ones who were not chosen. Parents comforted children, and Simon clutched the wooden painting case that contained humanity’s soul.

All around the line of the chosen were the silent crowds. Those who would be left behind. Some looked on with envy and longing at the line, some looked on with anger, some with fear. Simon wasn’t sure which group worried him more. The line was moving slowly forward. To get to the ship they had to pass through a strange gate in the fence that had been erected around the ship. The fence was guarded by soldiers, their faces grim and sad and hard. They had volunteered to keep order as some escaped, to ensure that the lucky few got on the ships and got away without interference from the unlucky many. It was a horrible job.

At the gate stood an alien. He had seen this one before, on TV, or at least one of the same species. It looked like a pillar of translucent flesh, but with a strange melted quality like a stalagmite, or a candle after years of use. He could see within its body strange shapes that he assumed must be organs. The creature had limbs that contracted in and moved out from its body. How many he didn’t know. He thought this one was wearing some kind of environmental suit; its body was more obscured then the one that had been on TV. He was just close enough to hear it speak. It was speaking in French. Its voice sounded strange: it was a woman’s voice, a nice voice, but clearly synthesized. He thought that the little black disk, imbedded in what he couldn’t help but think of as her face, was probably making the sounds.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, you did not win the lottery, please step out of line.” Her voice was pleasant but flat, emotionless.

“Please, my daughter needs me.” The woman was pleading: she had tears on her face and was clutching the hand of a girl no more than six or seven.

“She can have my spot.” It was a man holding the girl’s other hand.

“She cannot: the rules of the lottery are clear, they prevent chaos and violence. You may not use another’s spot.”

“Please, our daughter needs her mother, it’s…”

The woman angrily brushed him away.

“No, no, you won, you should go, but please, what harm could one more person do?”

“I’m very sorry, but we have carefully calculated the number of humans that this ship can carry; we filled as many slots as we could. This is the only way. Please step out of line or I will ask your soldiers to move you.” The men who stood around the alien stared down the woman, their hard cold eyes still red. Before she stepped out of line she kissed the man and the little girl, then back straight she walked away from the line, her steps only faltering once as she went to join the ranks of the un-chosen.

The line moved on.

The Alien took one look at Simon’s phone and waved him through. Its arms were much clearer up close and he was sure she… it was wearing clothing.

“Thank you, so much, could I ask, what’s your name?” The alien looked at him, or at least he thought she did; he assumed that the deep black and green spot was an eye of some kind.

“The best translation would be, The Scent Of A Maroon Flower, Growing From The Skull Of A Tyrant. Thank you for asking, please proceed.” He did, one plodding step at a time, toward the entrance of the ship. An oddly shaped hole of deeper darkness against the craft’s strange clarity. He only saw the beginning of the madness. He looked back when he heard the gates of the compound begin to close, but he was already at the mouth of the ship, already being pushed forward by his fellow survivors who had seen what he had. The mob, the unselected came at the gate in a great rush. He didn’t know how it started, but it did, and they all came screaming to be let on. They were warned, once, and then the soldiers began to fire. The last thing Simon saw of earth was the great tide of people torn apart by the crying soldiers. In that moment he thought back to the old man rubbing his wrist and looking at the painting. “If we can do that, perhaps, despite our cruelties, humanity is worth it.” Simon clutched the Mona Lisa’s case tighter to his chest and turned away from the horror of earth and into the darkness of the ship.

Simon had expected the pillar creatures but the Aliens that came for them were very different. They were big about six to seven feet tall when standing but much bulkier than a human. Their skin was an odd off-white and looked thick and hard. Their faces were almost humanlike but with very small black eyes a longer jaw and tiny ears. They had no hair on their heads but they did have mustaches of a sort, though he thought they looked more like whiskers. At first Simon thought that their strange movement was because of their weight, they were enormously fat, but he quickly noticed their strange short legs with the too large feet. Their hands were also obscenely large for their bodies, and it appeared that only the last few inches of each finger could move independently. It was hard to tell much else as they were wearing thick clothing. Simon had been expecting uniforms but the creatures wore a hodgepodge of hides, skins and what looked like rubber but was faintly red. The only thing they wore in common were cloaks or coats of white fur.

The humans still in the entry chambers huddled together. Others were being led away by several of the big creatures. One of the aliens stepped forward. He spoke to the gathered humans. He had a device he spoke into that translated his words; his actual voice before the translation was hard to listen to. A series of deep thrums punctuated by painfully high pitched shrieks: it reminded Simon a bit of whale song, but much faster and more complex.

“Human, earth people, you are weak, very weak, and small, weak and small and lost. It is a fishless thing” The voice coming from the translator device was flat and mechanical, nothing like the beautifully rendered voice of the pillar creature. It was strange too, because it seemed like there was great feeling of some kind in the aliens face. Simon couldn’t for the life of him tell what that feeling might be but something was moving him. “You have been crawling in dirty places, free from rising things and now, you are to be eaten by falling things, by the idiots and the slug eaters.” He paused, and looked around. Simon didn't know what to say or do, the other people around him were mubling, afraid, confused. After a moment the Alien resumed. “We are not great healers, we are not saviors, but we heard of your deaths, and so we came. We are asked by the saviors to help save and we come. It is a great crying we see below and we are full of the goodness of life to help you run from it. You will follow to where you must stay.” Again he put down the device and looked at the humans. Some tried to smile at him but if it meant anything to the Alien he didn't show it. Finally the alien turned and walked away with that strange awkward gate out of the room. As the alien left Simon saw the others reach out to touch him and thrum low. It must mean something but he had no idea what it might be.

Then they were herded around the ship. The inside of the ship was relatively well lit with a kind of blue white that felt chilly. Actually the whole ship was cold, like stepping into a walk in freezer. Which at least was good for the protection of the treasure he carried in the case. The walls were either a dark metal or some kind or blue white glass. Simon got a distinct impression of age from the inside of the ship. The walls and floor, especially in the large corridors were scuffed and scared, in a few places there were glass panels missing or patched, and he thought he saw some kind of mold growing in the corner of the room that he was horrified to learn was the bathroom. The ship was wet too, the walls were always damp to the touch and everywhere there were huge tanks. On of the survivors in Simon's group asked the alien who was showing them around why. It simply replied “For Swimming.” This one was less talkative then the other. They were taken to a small room and told to “Refuge in this place while we sledge to your new place.” The room was about 300 feet square, and like almost every room they’d seen it was a perfect cube. It was packed with humans. Simon’s group found places, mostly in the middle of the floor as the walls were already taken.

Simon sat in the center of the group of refugees and stared around at the strange blank walls. He felt utterly desolate. He wanted to feel sorrow for those left behind and he did, but not enough. He wanted to feel horror at the deaths of those who had tried to rush the ship, and he did, but it was a gentle ache. He wanted to feel concern for his fellow survivors, or even that matter for himself, he did, but only in a sort of vague way as though he was seeing the frightening future through frosted glass. No,what was really getting to Simon was the ship. It was the aesthetics with which it was designed, it was the sense of space and proportion, everything about it was wrong. Not wrong in any fundamental way, but off in so many smaller ones. No human would ever have designed a space that looked like this. It was just wrong. It was truly alien in a way that Simon had never realized something could be. For the first time Simon really understood that earth was gone. He might never again live in a place crafted by a human eye or human hands. He held the painting close, he felt utterly alone, the last being in the entire universe that knew what beauty human beauty really was. He could barely see around him through the tears that were pricking at his eyes and all he could see clearly were his ghosts, standing around him in a circle bearing witness.

The ship lurched and the humans were thrown into each other. They didn’t know but the ship had just leaped from the planet's surface into orbit. It was now rushing out of the solar system and making the adjustments it would need for its first Jump. Without even realizing it they had left their home behind. For simon it felt like a kick to the chest. Not because the sudden jolt hurt him in some profound new way, but because as the ship jolted a small foot came up and hit him right below his collarbone. It was a little girl, he had seen her somewhere before.

“I’m so sorry, are you ok?” the man was apologizing for the girl while at the same time moving to protect her, as though Simon might be dangerous. Simon almost smiled: he had never been dangerous, at least he had never thought so.

“Yes, I’m fine.” he was far more worried about the painting but the case was untouched. “Just a knock not a problem.” The painting was safe, it would be ok. He allowed himself to settle again. Back into the black sorrow that sought to eat him alive. Back into his contemplation of alien geometry.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” it was the man again, “But what do you have in that case there?” The little girl was sitting next to the man leaning on him her eyes were wide she was looking at the painting case. He could tell she had been crying probably for quite some time, he was surprised he hadn't noticed. Now that he did though, he began to hear it from others as well. All over the room there were people sniffing or crying. Many more sat as though in a trance. I few talked in quite voices.

“It’s a painting.” He didn't want to tell the man the whole truth. He wasn't sure why he didn't, who would bother stealing her now?

“Oh, hear that Ester, it’s a painting.” He was talking to the girl, but she seemed not to have noticed him. Her eyes were fixed on the case.

“Show me?” It wasn't a demand, more a question. He was about to just say no, he couldn't possibly remove the nails that held the case together here, not where it could get damp. But before he did he really looked at her; she seemed so lost. Simon got the strong impression of someone drowning, clutching at whatever would keep them above water.“Well, Ester?” the man nodded. “Ester, I can’t open the painting here but I can tell you about it. Do you want to hear a story?” She nodded, and leaned into the man even more. He had told this story so often before but never to so small or so captivated and audience.

“Once upon a time there was a great artist…”She was asleep before the end. He could tell she was exhausted, but the man listened intently all the way through. He stared at Simon and at the painting and at nothing at all, that Simon could see.

“Is that really the Mona Lisa in there?” He asked when the story had ended.

“Yes, I couldn't leave it behind.” He couldn't quite read the man’s expression; he realized he had never tried that hard to read an expression before.

“There was room for a painting but not.. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?”

“Simon.”

“Peter… So Simon how was there room for a painting, even a great painting and not more room for the people? For, for my wife.” Suddenly he recognized the man and the girl. They had been the ones trying to get through the gate at the last minute. The ones trying to get the woman through. The man was looking at him with those hard inscrutable eyes.“I don’t, I don’t know why? They let everyone bring a bag, and, and.” He was suddenly afraid to say it. Afraid to tell the man what he believed to be true. “And it’s important to save the Mona Lisa, much more important than any one person. We, aren’t just meant for survival, we need to have a meaning. We need great works and great tasks, you can’t abandon that even, no, no especially at the end of the world. So, I’m sorry about your wife. But I won’t apologize for bringing the Mona Lisa.” His voice had risen while he spoke and he realized he had been sitting up straighter his fists balled for a fight. He forced himself to relax. Relax under Peter’s piercing stare.

“I know why. It’s a problem of gas, they don’t have enough life support. I asked one of the aliens.” Peter was talking quietly almost to himself. “They aren’t supposed to be doing this you know, they aren’t a refugee ship, they're basically truck drivers. When we saw all the ships coming down we thought it was some brilliantly orchestrated plan to save us but no, no it was a last minute thrown together thing. All of humanity saved by a midnight cram session. Well all that's left.” Simon flinched back from the sudden intensity of the man. “I want be be angry at you simon, really I just want to be angry, but at you especially. I want to scream at you, to tell you how dare you put some dusty old painting before a woman’s life. But I won’t, because you’re right. We do need meaning, we all do, and maybe that painting can help. Maybe it can remind us of our greatness out there in the stars. My meaning is here.” He stroked the sleeping girls hair. “And your meaning is that painting. I heard the way you talked about it. So maybe you’re right. Maybe we do need the Mona Lisa.”

Peter subsided into silence still stroking the girls hair. For a brief moment he reminded Simon forcefully of a child stroking a stuffed toy, drawing comfort from giving comfort. Simon really looked at the man, looked into every wrinkle on his young face, on the red rimmed eyes at the thinning hair. At the curve of his lip and the small sad motion of his hand. He looked at the man, the way he looked at the paintings, and saw in him something, something like the great works of art. Had people always been like this? Or was this man special? Simon felt the edge of a storm building in his heart something he could only see out of the corner of his eye. Something to destroy him. He needed to bring it closer needed to bring it into focus.

“Peter? I’m sorry about your wife, could you tell me about you? About her? About Ester? You listened to my story, I’d like to listen to yours if you want to tell it.” Peter looked up into Simon’s eyes and he must have seen something there, because without preamble or introduction he began to tell. It was in many ways a boring story, the same story that had played out a thousand times.

They met through work. Began dating. Got married. She already had Ester. He adopted her. They were happy. A story without much conflict, a story about good people finding happiness in each other's company. A story only given its power because of its end. Peter described the way his wife used to take them camping, building fires and tents side by side in the cool of the evening, their hands and eyes brushing as they worked. The way she would get absorbed by books, any books, and bring those worlds to life for Ester and him. The way she would kiss him once as lightly as she could in the dark hours of the night when she thought he was asleep. When he told Simon about his utterly uneventful life and about the woman who had shared it. Simon began to see her. Not like his own ghosts but the way he saw Peter, the way he had always seen the paintings. He looked down at the sleeping child and saw her, really saw her for the first time: she was beautiful and sad with a tiny hint of a smile she looked to Simon in that moment like the Mona Lisa, she looked like meaning. For the first time since he had learned of the destruction of earth, Simon wept.

End Part 1: This story went over the charterer limit by a little bit so it has been broken up into two. Find part 2 here https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/9yaswp/tales_of_the_diaspora_burning_the_mona_lisa_part/

Submitted November 19, 2018 at 01:00AM by benoodel https://ift.tt/2Fue1Eg