‘First thing you know there’s war!’
‘But maybe next time it’d be different.’
At last they stood in the main square. A man on horseback was riding from the distance into the town. He had a piece of paper in his hand. In the centre of the square was the roped-off area. Tom, Grigsby, and the others were collecting their spittle and moving forward – moving forward prepared and ready, eyes wide. Tom felt his heart beating very strongly and excitedly, and the earth was hot under his bare feet.
‘Here we go, Tom, let fly!’
Four policemen stood at the corners of the roped area, four men with bits of yellow twine on their wrists to show their authority over other men. They were there to prevent rocks being hurled.
‘This way,’ said Grigsby at the last moment, ‘everyone feels he’s had his chance at her, you see, Tom? Go on, now!’
Tom stood before the painting and looked at it for a long time.
‘Tom, spit!’
His mouth was dry.
‘Get on, Tom! Move!’
‘But,’ said Tom, slowly, ‘she’s BEAUTIFUL!’
‘Here, I’ll spit for you!’ Grigsby spat and the missile flew in the sunlight. The woman in the portrait smiled serenely, secretly, at Tom, and he looked back at her, his heart beating, a kind of music in his ears.
‘She’s beautiful,’ he said.
The line fell silent. One moment they were berating Tom for not moving forward, now they were turning to the man on horseback.
‘What do they call it, sir?’ asked Tom, quietly.
‘The picture? Mono. Lisa, Tom, I think. Yes, the Mona Lisa.’
‘I have an announcement,’ said the man on horseback. ‘The authorities have decreed that as of high noon today the portrait in the square is to be given over into the hands of the populace there, so they may participate in the destruction of –’
Tom hadn’t even time to scream before the crowd bore him, shouting and pummelling about, stampeding towards the portrait. There was a sharp ripping sound. The police ran to escape. The crowd was in full cry, their hands like so many hungry birds pecking away at the portrait. Tom felt himself thrust almost through the broken thing. Reaching out in blind imitation of the others, he snatched a scrap of oily canvas, yanked, felt the canvas give, then fell, was kicked, sent rolling to the outer rim of the mob. Bloody, his clothing torn, he watched old women chew pieces of canvas, men break the frame, kick the ragged cloth, and rip it into confetti.
Only Tom stood apart, silent in the moving square. He looked down at his hand. It clutched the piece of canvas close to his chest, hidden.
‘Hey there, Tom!’ cried Grigsby.
Without a word, sobbing, Tom ran. He ran out and down the bomb-pitted road, into a field, across a shallow stream, not looking back, his hand clenched tightly, tucked under his coat.
At sunset he reached the small village and passed on through. By nine o’clock he came to the ruined farm dwelling. Around back, in the half-silo, in the part that still remained upright, tented over, he heard the sounds of sleeping, the family – his mother, father, and brother. He slipped quickly, silently, through the small door and lay down, panting.
‘Tom?’ called his mother in the dark.
‘Yes.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ snapped his father. ‘I’ll beat you in the morning.’
Someone kicked him. His brother, who had been left behind to work their little patch of ground.
‘Go to sleep,’ cried his mother, faintly.
Another kick.
Tom lay getting his breath. All was quiet. His hand was pushed to his chest, tight, tight. He lay for half an hour this way, eyes closed.
Then he felt something, and it was a cold white light. The moon rose very high and the little square of light moved in the silo and crept slowly over Tom’s body. Then, and only then, did