Mona Lisa
by Warren Lapine

Copyright © Warren Lapine Used by Permission All Rights Reserved Worldwide 

Terrence Gregor lifted the 9-millimeter from his desk. It was a cold, stark thing of unearthly, wicked beauty. He put the pistol to his head and smiled. He wasn't going to shoot himself, not yet. There was one more night of work to be done on his final painting. Then, perhaps, he would pull the trigger. 
He had a vision of them finding his body slumped over his easel; just a bit of blood on what would be his greatest triumph. "And this small brown spot is actually the artist's blood," he could hear a museum guide say. "Upon completing this painting, Terrence Gregor despaired; he realized that he would never again be able to achieve such a mastery of vision and form. Rather than go on, he killed himself." It wasn't all that far from the truth. 
He put the pistol back on the desk. It was a nice fantasy, but if the wrong person found him, the painting might never be seen. The idea of dying frightened Terrence, but not nearly as much as the idea of living. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. He had struggled all of his life to master his art; and now that his skills were such that his art could match his ambition, he was through. What a cruel joke. He wanted to scream at the universe--curse the day that he had been born. No one should be born with such a desire to create and then have the ability stripped from them. And in such a gradual manner. 
Terrence stood and walked over to his painting. He let out a deep breath. Looking on what he had created, it was impossible to remain in despair. Surely this would earn him some degree of immortality. Could anyone look at this and be unmoved? For the hundredth time he wondered who the woman in the painting really was. He knew little about her. Every night she came shortly after dusk and left just before dawn. He'd tried to explain to her that if she'd just let him photograph her, he could complete the painting without her having to pose for such extended periods of time. She'd flat out refused. "I'd rather be here when you're painting. It lets me pretend that I'm part of the creative process." Strange woman. 
Without her he would have given in to despair; some days she was all that stood between him and the dark abyss. His muse. Until he had met her, he'd never really believed in muses. One either had the fire or one didn't. Terrence Gregor had always had the fire. 
In thirty five years nothing had slowed him down. Not until the morning that he had woken up with numb fingertips. It was then that he heard the words that ended his life. 
Lou Gehrig's disease. 
Three words. 
The doctors had tried to comfort him, but what could they say? The disease was already fairly advanced. He'd lose fine motor control quickly. Eventually he'd be a prisoner trapped within his own body, depending on others for even the most basic bodily functions. He couldn't live with that. He'd been born for one reason, to create, and if he couldn't create it would be better that he not live. 
He'd purchased a 9-millimeter pistol and a single bullet. After he used the first bullet, he wouldn't need another one, not ever. Terrence loaded the pistol and took it home only to find that he couldn't bring himself to use it. He stared at the gun in his hand for more than an hour, but he just couldn't pull the damn trigger. He put the gun down and cursed. "I've got to be able to do this. I can't let this thing run its course. I won't spend my last days in a nursing home." 
"Oh look, the poor dear is drooling on himself," he could almost hear a nurse say as she wiped spittle from his face. "Do you think he really was a famous painter?" 
"That's just talk. From the looks of him, I'm sure he never painted anything more ambitious than a paint by number clown set." 
"You shouldn't talk like that in front of him. They can understand, you know." 
"So what? He'll never complain. Once they get this bad off, there's no coming back. 
Terrence pulled himself from the image. He couldn't let it happen. "I need to get drunk, that's all; then I'll be able to do it." 
He grabbed a jacket and rushed out of his studio. Outside the early evening, spring air helped him collect his thoughts. There was still plenty of time to do what must be done. He pulled the keys to his Porsche 911 from his pocket then put them back. There was a bar just down the street, and the walk would do him good. 
Terrence had never been to this bar before, it wasn't upscale enough for him. But tonight that would be just fine. He really didn't want to take the chance of running into someone that he might know. What would he say? "Oh, hi, good to see you, I'm planning to get drunk and blow my brains out." That would be a real conversation starter. 
As it turned out the bar was a blue-collar pub. It was dimly lit and through the smoke-filled air, Terrence could see couples playing pool and even a group shooting darts. After finding that the bar didn't serve Bass ale, Terrence ordered a Rolling Rock; it was the closest thing to a passable beer in the place. Once the bartender gave him the bottle he took it and sat down at an empty table in the corner. The mood of the bar was perfect: no loud music or bright lights, and what little laughter that found its way to his table all sounded forced and subdued. It was just the right kind of place to sit, drink, and contemplate oblivion. 
And that's exactly what he would have done if she hadn't walked into the bar. He noticed her immediately; she didn't belong in this bar. She was like a swath of bright red on a gray landscape, a spring flower in December. Long, jet black hair streamed over her shoulders and halfway down her back; her blue eyes, nestled within a delicate face, flashed with life and vitality. Terrence had never seen anyone so captivating. Strength, wisdom, and power all emanated from her. He had to paint her. If he could capture half of what he saw in this magnificent woman he would be remembered forever. She could be his Mona Lisa. Surely he had enough time to complete one last painting before the disease disabled him. 
He picked up his drink and walked over to where she sat alone. "May I join you?" he asked. 
"Certainly," she said motioning to a chair across from her. 
Terrence caught a slight accent, but couldn't quite place it. "Your accent, it's European isn't it?" 
"You have a good ear, it's Romanian. I've been in this country since I was a little girl; very few people notice it." 
"I've spent some time in Europe. I'm Terrence Gregor." 
"The painter?" 
"You're familiar with my work?" Terrence was surprised; despite being very successful, he didn't run into a lot of people outside of the art community who knew who he was. 
"Oh yes, your work is marvelous. I love your use of color, and your lighting techniques are second to none. I've often wished I could afford one of your paintings." 
"How would you like to model for one?" 
"Me?" 
"Yes, I'd love to use you in a painting. That's why I came over here. You have a great deal of character. I think you could be my Mona Lisa." 
"Oh come now, your Mona Lisa?" 
"I mean it. There's something about you that I've got to capture on canvas." 
She smiled. "I'd like to be your Mona Lisa. Yes, I'd like that very much." 
Terrence pulled out one of his cards and handed it to her. "Could you start tomorrow?" 
"I work during the day, but I'd be happy to stop by during the evening." 
"I do most of my painting at night, so that would be fine. What I really need to do is photograph you and then I can work from the photos. You don't have to pose the entire time." 
"I don't like photographs. If you want me to be your Mona Lisa, I'll have to sit for you." 
"It's really not necessary." 
"I insist." 
There was something about the way that she said it that brooked no argument. "If you insist." 
She nodded. "Is this one of your regular haunts? Uncle Gus' bar doesn't seem to suit you." 
"No, this is my first time here, one of your regular haunts?" 
"I like a change of scenery," she smiled, showing white teeth. "What brings you here?" 
"I needed to get drunk, it's been a rough day, and this bar is close to my studio." 
"I'm sorry about your day. Would you like to talk about it?" 
Terrence started to say no but found that he couldn't. He told her the entire story almost as if he had been compelled to. When he'd finished she nodded and said, "It must be frightening knowing that you're going to die." 
"It's not frightening, it's just hard to overcome my instinct to live. I love life, I love being able to create. I don't want to let go of the passion, but I know that I don't have a choice. I think I was twelve when I realized that I was going to die just like everyone else. It didn't frighten me, it made me angry. I mean, how dare the universe do this to me. Give me such ambition and then only seventy years or so in which to realize my dreams." 
"It doesn't seem fair, does it?" 
"No, no it doesn't. I have so much I want to share with the world, so many great paintings left within me. And now, now I'll only have time to paint one more of them. And then my life might just as well be over." 
"It must take a lot of courage to decide to end it." 
Terrence laughed. "To make the decision, no, I've done that. I just haven't been able to follow through on it yet. It's just as well, if I'd been able to pull the trigger I wouldn't have met you." 
She smiled again. "You flatter me." 
Suddenly Terrence realized that he didn't know this woman's name. "By the way, what's your name?" 
"Mona." 
"As in Mona Lisa?" 
"Perhaps." 
"Well, Mona, if we are to start tomorrow, I have some preparations to make." 
"Until tomorrow, then." 

Thinking back on it, Terrence had to admit that it seemed a bit strange. It was almost as if she'd been looking for him. But that didn't make any sense. She couldn't have known what his reaction to her would be, and she definitely wasn't a groupie. 
The bell rang and Terrence went to the door and let Mona in. She smiled. "Ah, Terrence, it's good to see you." 
Terrence breathed the smell of her in. "It's always good to see you. I can't believe that I'll be finished tonight." 
"Do you really think so?" 
He nodded. "I'm afraid so. I'm usually really excited when I finish a painting, but knowing that this is my last, well, I don't want it to end. I want to go on painting it for eternity, of course, I can't." 
Mona walked over to the painting and gazed at it. "Do I really look that majestic?" 
"More so, my dear." 
She smiled up at Terrence, "Thank you." 
"For what." 
"For capturing me this way. You're the greatest artist of your age, and to think, I'm your Mona Lisa." 
"Only history will be able to decide where I'll stand. We don't have the perspective. Maybe I'll be remembered, I certainly hope so, but one can only hope." 
"Trust me, you'll be remembered," Mona said, taking her place on the couch. 
Terrence went to work. His fingers were a bit more numb than he would have liked, but if he concentrated, he could still get the sharpness of line that he demanded. It was a frightening thing to realize that this would indeed be his last painting. His fingers were much more stiff now than they had been three weeks ago when he'd begun the painting. He continued through sheer force of will, losing himself in the radiance and magnificence of creating. 
Finally he realized that the painting was complete. He'd captured the essence of Mona. She was like some pale immortal goddess, an ageless enchantress defying the universe. Strength and wisdom fairly leapt off the canvas. It was so magnificent that he started to cry. 
Mona moved off the couch and over to Terrence. She put her arms around him, comforting him. "It'll be all right, Terrence. The painting is brilliant. You have nothing to worry about. This will make you immortal." 
"But I'll never paint again." 
"Terrence, look at what you've created. Most mortals never leave behind this kind of legacy." 
Terrence looked up at his masterpiece. Mona was right, with this painting he'd accomplished greatness. What more could he want? Eternity, that was what he really wanted. "Mona, he whispered, "I'm not sure if I can pull the trigger, will you stay with me until I do?" 
Terrence had expected her to be shocked, but if she was, she showed no sign of it. "I'll do better than that, Terrence." 
"Better?" 
She pulled him close and began kissing his neck. Terrence felt the thrill of desire course through his body. He wanted Mona more than he had ever wanted anyone. "Mona, I think I'm in love with you." Suddenly, Mona bit into his neck. Blood burst forth, splashing them and the painting. Part of Terrence was horrified, but that part was small and far away. Ecstasy like nothing that he had ever experience before exploded through his senses. He became one with Mona. He could feel her desire for him, her thirst, it ached to be quenched. "I'm yours, Mona." 
The ecstasy went on and on. Finally she pulled her mouth away from Terrence' throat. He was weak and dazed and would have fallen had Mona not supported him. 
"Terrence, listen to me," Mona said, blood dripping down her chin. "I'm a vampire, a creature of the night. I live forever, nothing is held back from me, nothing but the sun, that is all I am denied. I prey on mortals, I drain them of their life force, but I live forever. No disease can touch me. Think of what you could do with your art if you had immortality. You can have it, but you have to really want it. You have to have the fire--without it immortality is more a curse than a gift. If you would live forever, drink my blood. Do you have the fire, Terrence?" 
He smiled, brought his lips to Mona's throat, and began to feed. Terrence Gregor had always had the fire.