Moaning Lisa by Roger Townsend

They say I look miserable. So would you be if you‘d been hanging around for over 500 years. At least I have got my own room now. I can’t understand why people want to come and stare at me. I am nothing special. They married me off to a slave trader when I was 15. I was quite happy until then.

I had lots of admirers, but at least I was living a respectable life, unlike my sister Camilla who was not living the life of a nun as she should have been. What a scandal, entertaining men in her room. I don’t know how she got away with it.

Francisco, my husband, was not a very nice man. All the African girls he used to bring over and sell to the highest bidder. Still I suppose I wanted for nothing, I had servants and fine clothes. Yes, I lived the life of luxury.

One day Frankie, (he liked me to call him that), said he had arranged for someone to paint my portrait.

“What on earth for,” I asked him.

“So I can look at you when you are not there,” he replied with a leery smile.

“Oh, all right then, so who is going to paint me?”

“Someone who has been highly recommended,” he said. “He is popping round to see you tonight.”

“I can’t wait,” I said.

Later that night, Maria, my maid, came into my room and said, “The painter is here to see you.”

I went downstairs, and there stood a peculiar looking man with a white beard.

“Hello, I’m Lennie, you must be Mrs Giocondo. Yes I think you will make a good subject.”

God knows how many visits I made to his studio with many uncomfortable hours of posing. Flippin’ heck, was I bored.

I kept asking Lennie, “How much longer?

He would shrug his shoulders rather than speak.

At last, he announced one day,  “I’ve finished.” 

“Can I see it then?”

 No you can’t, not yet. Anyway, must fly, going for a drink with that young upstart, Micky Angelo. Just because he’s been asked to paint some Vatican ceiling chapel at the Vatican he thinks he’s the bee’s knees. Oh, by the way, I don’t even know your first name.”

“Really? “It’s Lisa.”