Da Vinci's lost Mona Lisa; a coffee tale of cobwebs and rust, love and a bitter ex-wife.

Da Vinci's lost Mona Lisa; a coffee tale of cobwebs and rust, love and a bitter ex-wife.

Oliver Collins described himself as a purveyor of fine artefacts and art. Every week he’d scour yard sales and flea markets and return to his home with an exquisite pile of junk. His home, over many, many years, had been being turned into a hoarder’s paradise – and Oliver, in all his rudiments of scavenging, sat firmly on its throne.

His wife, however, was not content with the kingdom that had begun to smell, and when their home had featured in a current affairs segment about the state of their suburb, she was done. She gave the orders to her husband that either the expanse of filth would be thrown to the curb, or that she herself would walk through the small space that would still let her get out the front door and that she would not return.

Naturally then, when Saturday morning rolled around, Oliver sat down for his morning coffee and scoured the papers for garage sales. As he slurped his black coffee, his wife raised an eyebrow – but Oliver was blind to her warnings. As he set off that morning, he had a lucky feeling rise in his stomach. And then he began going from one yard to the next, finding rusty scraps and broken messes to load into the back of his station wagon. And then, when he had nearly finished his collecting for the day, he came across an ornate framed woman with eyes demanding his attention. The woman herself was clothed in fine garments, and while she was holding a dainty cup close to her mouth, the gaze of the woman never left him.

On returning home that late-morning, Oliver found the front door ajar and on entering a note on the fridge, ‘I’ve gone. It was too much to expect you to change, so now I expect nothing from you, and leave you’. The note, Oliver noted, was not signed ‘Sincerely’, but rather, ‘Fuck off’ and then his wife’s name written in a scrawl. Oliver’s delight could not however be contained, and he raced back outside to his car to grab the portrait of that alluring woman in the ornate frame. Taking the ormolu frame in both hands, he lifted it up to perch on the mantle piece. But, the heaviness of the frame caused it to immediate fall – and luckily, Oliver was able to take much of the weight, but it still bounced to the ground, and as it did – a small envelope that was attached to the back of the frame dislodged.

Naturally curious, and assuming that whatever note was in the envelope would read far more cheerily than his wife’s bitter letter – he fetched himself a fresh cuppa and sat himself down at the kitchen table – opposite the woman in the frame, and there he chose to read the letter.

“Dearest Lisa Gherardini del Giocondo;
I have just finished painting your second portrait and I believe it to be my finest creation ever. It was such a treat to sit with you and enjoy such a splendid beverage from the East. I am sure that this coffee drink will grow in popularity over the centuries and feel weary that its supply is short at present. In this portrait, I now see my two favourite things. I only wish you would leave your husband and children, and your wealth behind to live with a poor artist such as I. My muse, I count the days in the hope that our next sitting might be soon.

Your love, Leonardo.
October 1508, Venice."

Oliver smirked, it seems that both he and this Leonardo figure both enjoyed coffee and this mysterious Lisa woman. The premise it seems though remained: the love of coffee is timeless.

Years later, Oliver's former wife would continue to tell her friends that her former husband was both pathetic and penniless; that he was a lunatic who lost a King's ransom on absolute junk. Oliver, however, would continue to enjoy the extravagance of the hundreds of millions of dollars that the portrait fetched at Christie's, and every Saturday, come rain, hail or shine, he would ready himself for the search through the yard sales and the promise of treasure that awaited and the equally important promise of the coffee that his new wife would make him when they arrived home together, covered in cobwebs and filth.