Leonardo never made Lisa wear a hat, or maybe she refused. I should have refused. I’m not fond of them: hats; they are more suited to the intrepid.
My husband, Walter, he’s brought me more hats than flowers. I’m known as “Hat Lady” in our village — a title that infuriates me and amuses him.
“You have to wear it.” He tells me.
“Paint me without it, just this one time?”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“If I tell you, you might laugh.”
“Walter, you know me, I don’t laugh at much.”
“Hmm, that I do.”
“So, amuse me.”
“When I’m gone, I know you’ll give all your hats away.”
“Walte-”
“No. Let me finish. You’ll give them away and when I look down, I won’t see you in any of the wonderful hats I’ve given you and that will upset me. But, I know you’ll keep my paintings.”
“You’re wrong, that doesn’t make me laugh. But it is silly.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, you think you’re going to heaven. Well, I have a different opinion.”
My husband lets out a roar; one that comes from the belly and not the throat.“Oh, Lena, you know how to make a man feel valued.”
“I’ll tell you another thing. I’ll keep wearing these bloody hats long after you’re dead.”
“Of course you will, ‘Hat Lady’.”
He lets out another guffaw as I pose for him in hat number one hundred and twenty-six.
