mona lisa, mona lisa

While studying at UBC, I worked among other students at Milestone’s on Robson Street. A big part of the job involved running up and down the long flight of stairs leading from the restaurant’s foyer to its dining room — tiring work that kept us trim.

The downtown locale meant many patrons were tourists; we saw few regulars. One elderly gentleman, however, dropped in during a majority of my shifts. He never ordered food. He’d claim one of the wooden chairs lining the tiny waiting area, place his hat beside him, cane between his knees, and smile at us in greeting.

Sometimes, he sang. His gravelly rendition of ’O Sole Mio had us guessing he was Italian and inventing stories of a shady past, mob ties. He gave us nicknames — I was Mona Lisa. When he saw me descending the treacherous staircase, he’d hum Nat King Cole:

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you
You’re so like the lady with the mystic smile
Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you
For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile?

Eventually, he’d lean on his cane, rise laboriously, take up his hat and, with a wink, depart. If there was a rare moment of stillness on the street outside, we could hear him whistling as he walked, his cane keeping time on the pavement.

We never solved his mystery. Never knew his name or who he was going home to. We appreciated his quiet presence, kind compliments, and pleasant baritone. A city stranger, his story remained as fascinating or ordinary as we dared to imagine.

Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there and they die there
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?