Saturday 20 November 2021 The Daily Telegraph 22 *** HAVE YOU R SAY To suggest other objects for our series, email asktheexperts@ telegraph.co.uk and include ‘objects’ in the subject line Around the world i n 80 object s 8 54 THE MONA LISA We kill the things we love. Nothing proves the truth of Oscar Wilde’s poetic aphorism better than the expe- rience of seeing, or trying to see, Leon- ardo’s Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris. No other single exhibit in any museum anywhere attracts so much attention. Since 2005, well over 100 million sightseers have swarmed into the Salle des États – the gallery where she hangs behind bullet-proof glass, protected by railings and marshals who supervise the queues – to have a few seconds in front of La Gioconda (as the Italians call her). There is never less than a jos- tling scrum as tourists queue and AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 OBJECTS The mysterious celebrity status of Leonardo’s lady h Fame in a frame: it is hard to explain why the Mona Lisa attracts so much attention crane to get a selfie with the world’s most famous painting. A queuing system was introduced just before the pandemic – viewers are brought in front of the painting in groups and have about 30 seconds in which to see it. It is hard to explain why the Mona Lisa attracts such attention. Certainly it is an intriguing work, executed by one of the greatest artists at the peak of his powers. But while her smile is alluring and mysterious, there are many other portraits of equal or greater visual power and historic importance. We don’t even know for sure who the sitter was, though many art historians accept that Mona (Lady) Lisa was the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, a wealthy Florentine merchant. In con- juring up that smile, a rare expression in Renaissance portraits, Leonardo was probably making a pun on her name which, in Italian, means Cheerful Lady. Intriguingly, Leonardo never deliv- ered the painting to the Giocondo fam- ily. He kept it until his death in France in 1519. Was he ever paid for it? Did he make two versions? Had he not quite finished it, or did he remain somehow dissatisfied? Perhaps he liked it too much and couldn’t let it go. Probably the latter. The painting was certainly admired by his contemporaries – including Raphael – and his assistants, who copied it. But because it was secreted away in the French royal col- lection, it was 300 years before the pub- lic got a chance to express their verdict. The painting was first put on display in 1797 when the Louvre Palace became a public museum and (apart from a stint in Napoleon’s bedroom and the three years when it was stolen) it has been on show ever since. During the 19th cen- tury, writers and critics became more and more intrigued by the painting, so much so that the great art historian Ber- nard Berenson felt it had “simply become an incubus” and when it was stolen he was “glad to be rid of her”. Ironically, that theft – in 1911 – sealed her fate. Intrigued Parisians queued to see the gap on the wall. And they queued again when the Mona Lisa was finally retrieved from Italy and reinstated in 1914. Today, the queues continue to perpetuate an extraordinary celebrity that no other painting has had to endure. And so, for visitors to Paris, there is a conundrum. If you have never seen the painting, should you book your 30 seconds, ticking it off your list but also contributing to the problem? Or should you ignore it and concentrate on other works in the museum? It’s your call, but either way, it looks like La Gioconda will have the last laugh. For more information, see louvre.fr Nick Trend there was a reed mat with three shawl- wrapped bodies lying in the dust beside the road. It looked comfortable. I lay down to rest and told Hisham to go on without me. I would meet him in the following town. I awoke at 5am, now unable to stand and desperately thirsty. The man lying asleep at the end of the mat was snor- ing. But I had no choice. I shuffled over to him with my dry eyes and shook his shoulder. Nothing. Again, but harder this time. He jolted awake. “Mai. Water? Do you have mai? I need mai,” I said. The man on the mat looked at me through bleary eyes, sat up, rubbed his face with the butts of his palms, pushed himself up on his left arm and flip-flopped across the street. A minute later, he returned with a large bottle of water, lay down, and returned to sleep. I almost laughed. Three days later, I was walking at last beneath the golden domes of Karbala. A week later, I was returning home with that thread of their culture, ready to sew into our own. The Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office (FCDO) continues to advise against all travel to Iraq On a journey along the pilgrims’ route from Basra to Karbala in Iraq, Charlie Metcalfe discovers a land defined by generosity of spirit I was squatting on the kerb beside al- Anbar restaurant in an alley off Abu Nuwas in central Baghdad. Half a rotisserie chicken, one khubz flat- bread, a handful of rice, six spoonfuls of aubergine stew, two fresh dates, a cup of sour yogurt and several torshi pickles filled my belly. The condensation on my water bot- tle wet my hands. Ten seconds later, they were dry again. The weather app on my phone read 48C. A dark, dust-coated estate car pulled up in front of me and an adoles- cent boy with a pencil moustache rolled down the passenger window. Behind him sat a great man with so great a belly that it held the steering wheel which his two great hands were clutching – and he was sweating. I stared inside. They stared back. “A’salaam alaikum,” I said. “W’alaikum a’salaam,” they said in unison. “Where are you going?” the great one said in English. “I am walking to Sa’adoon.” “Do you need help?” “Thank you, but I am fine.” “Do you need food?” I clutched my full belly. “Sadiqi, I have already eaten. Thank you.” Both rested their eyes on me. Then, without hesitation, the driver reached down beside his seat, fumbled around, and pulled out a tattered black leather wallet. He removed three crisp red notes and thrust them towards me. Here before me was a day’s wages, held out to me by a stranger who a moment later would turn right on to Abu Nuwas; who would a moment later never see me again; whose wallet could a moment later be 75,000 dinars (£38) lighter. After a week in Baghdad, I rode the night train down to Basra – Iraq’s southernmost city. This would be my starting point for a walk of more than 280 miles north to the shrine of Mohammed’s grandson Husayn in Karbala. I was nervous. At 24 years old, it would be the biggest challenge of my life. But I would not be alone. No. I would be joined by hundreds of thou- sands of Shi’ite Muslims making the same journey north ahead of Arba’een, a festival mourning Husayn’s death. Husayn’s devotees line the pilgrims’ way like pollen grains on a bee’s legs. They erect marquees and tents, bake biscuits, mix squash, ladle sour ayran, grill carp, prepare nargileh shisha pipes and slaughter goats. Some even offer their hands to pilgrims in need of a massage. On this route I found myself after five days crisping under the Basra sun. With me was a friend of a friend of a friend named Hisham, with cropped grey hair, a black Puma tracksuit and a cyst the size of a golf ball clutching his left temple. An incessant nargileh smoker. He spoke no English. Together we took our first steps north. The journey was quick to become strange. One man standing outside a mowqib tent, a shelter for Arba’een pil- grims, rushed over on the first day, eyes alive and brows ascending towards a thinning hairline. “Turkiye? Irani?” “No, my friend. Biriatani.” The man froze where he stood. Like a computer programme receiving an ‘Everyone turned to look at me’ i Flourishing: Iraq’s alluvial plains near the Tigris gi Charlie was also hosted by former police commander Kadhim in Al-Muthanna i Sharing plates: dishes presented to Charlie by a sayyid (a descendant of Mohammed) ii Sky high: the ancient city of Ur, where Charlie went on a sunset tour CHARLIE METCALFE We walked often by night beneath the strange orange glow of the oil refin- eries to avoid the heat. Beside us the slow black Tigris descended over the plain of Sumer without sound. After a few days, we were invited into the house of a man north of Al-Madinah. He ushered us into a traditional mudhif reed hut in which a group of 12 other men drank chai and dragged on ciga- rettes. Beside the entrance an array of brass coffee pots warmed atop an iron grill above a bed of molten coals. Food was brought in. Young men laid out wide dishes of fatty meat in wet nests of fresh bread. Side dishes held collapsing mountains of mint and pars- ley. Roast chickens encircled us and tall steaming stacks of khubz finished the set. I was ushered forward for the first mouthful. The others followed. A man beside me with grey stubble and rimless glasses poked at a small black orb nestled in the fatty sheep head before me. “You know this?” “No.” He pointed at his yellow eye. “Sheep. Only for the most important person at the meal.” He poked it towards me. “Eat.” Middle East With three fingers I brought this black, sinuous conker of an eye to my mouth. The men stopped eating. They stared. I pushed it in and chewed. I swallowed. They hesitated, then smiled. Someone asked if I needed anything. “Mai? Chai? Nargileh?” That night, I sat beneath a crescent moon and a thousand stars and the bats flitting between the date palms in the moonlight watching the glow of the coals on the tall wooden shisha pipe. The smoke filled the still air like mid- night fog and everything was perfect in a moment. Were we never hospitable like this in Europe? I sang about it in hymns at school and received lessons about it from the Bible. Where did this uncondi- tional generosity disappear to? I pledged to pull a thread from this Iraqi culture and bring it home with me. We lived like this for two weeks. Always food was laid out. Always a mat- tress to sleep on. Always that quiet keenness to serve guests. After 250 miles and many meals, my stomach started to turn near Hillah. My body had slept no longer than four hours a day in the preceding weeks. It needed rest. Two hours into the walk one night, I R AQ I R A N K U WA I T Basra Karbala Hillah Baghdad Sa'adoon 100 miles incorrect input, he said nothing. Then the edges of his lips curled upwards to show a set of gums so unfurnished you could have projected a film on to the back of his throat. He embraced me and pulled me towards the tent, telling me to eat with him, telling me to stay with his family, telling me to talk to him. Another 15 miles lay ahead tonight. I told him please and thank you. Peace be upon you. And as I turned back to the road, a shout filled the air. “Biriatani! Biriatani! Biriatani!” The man was in ecstasy. And every- one on the busy evening road to Karbala turned to look at me. Every child, every goat, every woman and every man. At 4am the following morning, Hisham and I entered a great mowqib stuffed with 300 heads. Hisham led me to a quiet corner of the tent. But five minutes after arriving, there was a crackle from the speakers lining the walls. “Biriatani! Biriatani! Biriatani!” We would never reach Karbala if every mowqib between Basra and B a gh d a d re c e ive d u s l i k e th i s . Hisham bought me a keffiyeh head- scarf the same day. We decided I would be Turkish. GETTY