With Mona at Last

There comes a time when the unimaginable crosses the boundaries of fiction. The unpredictable that nobody could prepare for. This is one of those times. You know the thief’s name, and that seemed to be enough for the eyes of the public, no questions asked. It frustrates me that no one seemed to see the bigger picture and understand the inner mechanics of the operation. I’ve had a good enough life, and it’s time the world knew the truth. It’s time to reveal the mastermind of the theft that shook the art world - the story of the shadow that stole the Mona Lisa.

I think we should start from the beginning as what I am about to tell you may not paint me in the best of lights and, unlike what others would say, I am no monster. It all begins with an almost routine-like pilgrimage to the Louvre endeavoured by a young, aspiring Art historian in the heart of the French capital. The kind of trip that one believes he should undertake not because he must, but because all others before him did so, and it feels unnatural not to follow their steps. A dogmatic rite of passage for art historians that states all that wish to be great must start at the Louvre. Who is a young, irrelevant aspiring wannabe to argue against the system? All in due course.

Stereotypes could persuade you to think that I come from wealth as, let’s face it, one does not pursue such a taboo subject as Art History if one does not have an inheritance to fall back on. You won’t be wrong, but also far from the whole truth. Where poverty is not an issue, high expectations quickly take their place. My family comes from a long line of art dealers that made their fortune through various clients in the past. If your name holds a reputation, then dealing with art is like handing candy to a wealthy, pretentious baby. The bourgeoisie love to own things, and my family love the bourgeoisie for their greed. To them, the Louvre is a shiny supermarket catalogue to browse through, pointing to which one they ‘like’. It frustrates me to see them wail on about the simplest of brushstrokes or how tortured the artist was in the process of painting a chair. I always knew I was better than them all, yet I still felt like I had to visit this graveyard of art. Maybe to make my parents happy, which is yet to happen, or maybe get away from the luxuries that my life holds. I liked to keep it simple; that’s just who I was back then.

You don’t need to know my nationality. I find the notion of national identity an idiotic fantasy that, for reasons unknown to me, empowers cowards with fake beliefs that they are somehow superior to the others born across the line in the sand. Also, once this statement gets printed in the press, I would hate for the media to spin the story against people innocent of my thievery. People that have never crossed the archways of a gallery. Simple-minded people that genuinely understand the authentic means of living – leave them be. They have nothing to do with any of this.

The Louvre, standing there, clear, transparent, soulless, the perfect grave for lost children of the dead. I remember feeling so cold when walking through each exhibition. Framed ashes reminded me of the fire that burned when the first stroke of the brush caressed the painting. Now, it’s ruined – moulded over the years, it’s been captive inside this prism-shaped prison.

Becoming more frustrated the deeper I dwelled, I told myself that I would visit one more room before leaving early. I’ve had enough, and coffee was the only thing that could come close to fixing my now declining mood. The final room was smaller than the previous, illuminated lightly with a soft shine. Waiting inside was the lady that would steal my sanity. My eyes caught the gaze of a portrait in the middle of the room. A fair woman with silk-like brown hair stole my stare the second we met. I understood now that the Louvre is not a graveyard of dead art but the cave that imprisons the Medusa. I scattered towards the placard against the painting – ‘Mona Lisa’. What a beautiful name for such a fine piece. That was the first time I laid my eyes on the painting, and I knew I had to have her.

I am not one to fall quick to obsession. Nicotine nor alcohol have never tied me around their fingers, despite my best attempts to latch onto something throughout my life. It’s not easy for me to form connections with, well, anything, and deep relationships seem nothing more than a fairy tale I read from the lips of my daily interactions. Mona was different. Never was I struck by art in this way, and I have seen thousands of pieces pass through my family’s business. Therapists suggested Objectophilla, obsessive disorder, a simple taking by live art, and some even said I was mentally unstable. Let’s just say that after a couple of months, I stopped seeing my therapists and turned to other methods of action.

What I was feeling towards that painting was, at the time, the only thing keeping me going. She was the only thing that made sense. I paid countless artists to create the perfect copy for my collection, but none could capture her beauty. I can tell the difference, and, after hundreds of failed endeavours, I had come to the last resort. If I can’t buy the priceless, they leave me with no choice – I must steal the Mona Lisa.

Finding the right man for the job proved easier than first anticipated. It had to either be someone with a desire for the Mona Lisa to leave the Louvre or have connections to the Louvre that could be bought out. However, if you manage to find someone that brings both traits to the table, you’ve got yourself a winner.

This man was Vincenzo Perugia, the infamous thief tied to the theft of the Mona Lisa. He was a janitor that worked at the Louvre, which provided him direct access to the building out of hours. He was a radical artist, French, that hated the Louvre more than a dog hates cats. I wanted the painting out, and he wanted the Louvre to suffer. If he were to bring me the Mona Lisa, I would pay, and the Louvre would fall under international scandal. This was my way in. After months of keeping in contact and careful persuasion, he grew fond of me and was eager to help in any way he could. It’s sad to see someone fall to such lows, yet it was highly enticing.

One thing I’ll say about Vincenzo is that he was a fearless idiot. He would do anything you’d tell him if there was cash involved, and you lose him slightly with fancy, long words. He likes to pretend he’s smart, but no, he’s as dumb as a rock. A handy tool in the toolbox. I won’t go into the ins and outs of the plan, as it’s amusing that even today, no one knows I got the painting out. I’d like to keep it that way. All I will say is this. The planning took exactly 145 days; I arranged all and every transaction; and that all of it was, in fact, paid for by the Louvre from a handful of art deals at the time. I do love a frugal robbery.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. August 21st, 1911 – the Mona Lisa is stolen from the Louvre. Music to my ears. That wasn’t the end of it. I had to wait two years before receiving what I wanted. This allowed Vincenzo to disappear before meeting me again. Safety first, as they say.

The time in between the theft and meeting Vincenzo was long and frustrating but worth every second. I remember my impatience driving me crazy, so every now and again, I visited the Louvre and watched the empty space in the gallery. To my surprise, the room was now fuller than before the robber. How infuriating. No matter –, I was about to receive the Mona Lisa and get away with it at the same time. I was so close; what a feeling.

Fast forward to October 13th, 1913, the date arranged for Vincenzo and me to meet at the Hotel Tripoli-Italia in Florence. A small privately ran business that I had some deep favours to pull from a couple of deals years back. The hotel sat down the street from the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella, which hosts one of my favourite coffee shops in Europe. The street outdoors splits into three separate roads in the shape of Poseidon’s tridents. Via de Rondinelli, Via Dei Banchi, and Via Panzani all serve as accessible escape routes from the main road, Via de’ Cerretani. Such a symbolic combination of streets; the perfect canvas for the craftsman to finish his masterpiece.

Vincenzo, like the idiot he is, arrived later than arranged. I hate when I’m kept waiting, but he did just do the impossible for such a small fee. Only 500,000 Lire for obtaining the priceless. I offered the Louvre many times more than what Vincenzo accepted. It did not matter. I remember him walking into the room with a mysterious looking package wrapped in cheap, brown paper tied with bright blue string. How dare he wrap the Mona Lisa in such cheap material! To make it look so obviously suspicious made me slap myself on the forehead before handing him the cash. I am glad this was our last interaction. Something so beautiful deserves respect, and this was the final straw for me.

I unwrapped the top of the parcel and stared into her eyes once more. It was Mona. My knees felt week as I released a childlike squeal as I realised this was, in fact, the original. As a token of my gratitude, I gave Vincenzo one of my personal replicas that I believed to be the closest to the original as possible, and trust me, this replica was close to perfection. I followed with gifting him various contacts to sell the painting on the dark web and earn millions if the right buyer is found as the original would never leave my personal collection, hence never entering circulation. This was enough to send the fool running out skipping. Idiot.

And there I was, the most wanted man alive holding the now most wanted item on Earth. A sudden flood of emotion spread across my body: a mixture of nerves and excitement. So how did I do it, how did I manage to get away with the Mona Lisa, and finally, how did I lose it? Well. The answer is that I never lost it in the first place. She has been in my personal collection, hidden away from the world, for all these years. Once Vincenzo had the near-perfect replica, all it took was an anonymous tip to the Firenze Police Department about a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper that fit the dimensions of the Mona Lisa. And there I was, the rightful owner of the now most famous painting on the planet. I have just achieved the most notorious robbery in history.

I do have to apologise to all of you who paid to see the fake Mona Lisa sitting inside the Louvre. I do hope that after this document gets released to the broader media, compensation is to come your way. You must admit, it is a pretty good replica, isn’t it?