“It says here that when Leonardo Da Vinci died, he asked forgiveness for not using his art to the fullest of his abilities. That somehow, he had failed God and mankind.”  A lanky man with a thick red scarf around his neck folded his newspaper, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and turned to his companion not expecting an answer. The two men had stopped to take a break from their afternoon walk, sitting down on a bench overlooking a stretch of beach that surrendered to waves, the bay, then out to the ocean.

“Guilt.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was Catholic, wasn’t he?”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“The old boys back then probably made him feel guilty because he couldn’t turn clay into gold. I can see it now, ‘Yo Leo, one more thing from that brain of yours, the whole gold thing, how does it work? The Pope, he’s counting on you. You know, no one will remember you for the shit painting of the half smiling bitch, but man if you could let us know how to turn mud into gold, then you would be immortal. Otherwise, I’m guessing the world forgets you in ten, twenty years. So, how’s about it?’ Leonardo looks up from his deathbed, ‘you got something in your teeth.’ Gasps and dies.”

The two of them sat on the bench for a long time watching shore birds, clouds, distant container ships on the horizon.

The smaller man shielded his eyes as he scanned the water, “You never see sailboats come by here during the winter. Why is that you wonder?”

“Too cold.” 

“Maybe he just felt inadequate. You know, after all those years creating shit, being told by everyone that he was a genius, and then to realize he was mortal. To learn that death looms even for the extraordinary must be kind of sobering and then like wham he’s lying in bed thinking that he should have screwed that Mona Lisa chick.” Sitting back, the shorter man began to amuse himself with the vapor from his breath.

The tall man responded, “It’s a confession. My guess is that he wasn’t satisfied, felt unfulfilled. There he was on his death bed with all this in his head, all these things he was leaving unfinished or not started and he realized he was running out of time. He wanted absolution, to be forgiven by someone for leaving his life’s work incomplete. We look back and remark that it must have been wonderful to be such a genius and my take is that in the end he felt cursed by his own human failings.”

“Is there one thing, something that you feel as if you have left unfinished?” The smaller man paused, “I mean, say you knew you were about to die, you had some time to take care of things. Not your ordinary end of life shit like whom gets what from your house, or how the assets are going to be divvied up, but something you feel was unfinished in your life.”

The two men sat in silence.

“Maria Capellini.” The man in the red scarf paused for a moment, then looked away. “I would track her down, find her if she’s still alive and…”

“Ah and tell her what? That you always loved her.” His friend started to sing, “You’re the apple of my eye, I love you always.”

The tall man laughed, “Hell no.” He adjusted himself on the bench, straightened the crease in his pants. “I would tell her that her curse for me to have the worst possible life of any human being on the face of the planet in the history of the world failed. That I had had a wonderful life and my only wish on my deathbed is to make sure that she knew it.”

“We were children, neighbors growing up, who thought they may be in love. At those young ages what did we know? One day I told her I was in love with another girl. Maria proceeded to curse me and for years would bad mouth me in every way possible. Frequently she would show up where I worked. The day I was married, she was in the back of the church shrieking obscenities. Ushers had to forcibly remove her.” He laughed. “I had a good life. What would you do?”

“Not as romantic. One Christmas Eve years ago, a business associate of mine, Quentin Allen III, grumbled that he had never fired anyone at Christmas. So, he called Miss Beckham, a secretary, into his office and inquired about her holiday plans. After listening with his usual pretentiousness, he told her how dissatisfied he was.”

“I’m sensing some bitterness.”

“I said nothing. Sat there, shocked as he disparaged this decent hard-working woman and flippantly told her that she had an hour to vacate the building. I ran after her catching her at the elevator and offered my apologies. She turned to me, spat in my face, and called me a coward.”

“I would hunt down Allen.” He thought for a second, “No, I would find Cynthia Beckham and sincerely beg her forgiveness. Then I would find Allen, walk up to him, smile, shake his hand, and while he was distracted kick the son of a bitch in the balls. It would solve nothing but give me great satisfaction to cause that man pain.” He laughed nervously and then gazed out to the ocean.

The two stood and continued their walk. “You know he was a polymath. An expert in everything. Way ahead of his time. Engineer. Artist. ‘The Last Supper’ for Chrissake. A masterpiece.” The tall man gave a chef’s kiss as they walked. “I never figured you for a violent person.”

“You’re lucky the internet wasn’t around back then. Maria would be stalking you online for eternity and then some.” He laughed. “You think there’s any truth to the stories that Leonardo was an alien?”

– Duane Engelhardt

Author’s Note: “The Death of Leonardo” finds two men discussing Leonardo DaVinci’s death while reflecting upon unfinished affairs in their lives.