Page 12 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Julia,” Gala said, louder, appearing at the top of a little hill. Her anger rang out across theboschetto. “Don’t dawdle. There are pictures to take!”

Though I didn’t appreciate being scolded like a child, I was relieved to know it was only Gala calling my name. I looked back at the destroyed mausoleum behind me.

But if Gala had been calling for me, why had she been warning me about a monster?

We were in a garden full of them.

4

My companions were at thetempietto, a small Doric-style octagonal temple with a cupola that rested on the edge of a vast field, encircled by a rock wall with a broken gate that hung half-off the hinges. Though a bit shabby, the tiny structure was still exquisite. A series of Tuscan columns made frompeperinostone cut through the center of its square patio leading toward the entry to the dome. Paolo had his camera out and was filming Dalí entering the building. The artist had somehow come across a friendly white cat and had decided to carry it on his shoulder.

“This should have been the last building you come to as you emerge from the garden,” Ignazio was explaining to Gala when I arrived. He motioned toward a set of stairs that led into the rest of the garden. “I had intended to take you down the main path so you would see theboschettolaid out in order, from earth to hell to heaven. There are the earthly creatures—those that are created by the gods, then comes the entrance to the Underworld, through the mouth of the ogre, ororco, which you’ll see soon. From theorcoyou eventually come to the bench of Proserpina, up the stairs past the loyal Cerberus, and then, finally, you find yourself here.” He gave Gala a pointed look. “But you took an alternate route, arriving here first.”

Dalí raised his eyes to the little dome. “Vicino Orsini’s wife, Giulia Farnese, is buried here,sì?”

Ignazio nodded. “Some say Vicino Orsini may have been laid at her side, but there are no records of this.”

Giulia. What coincidence was it that there were three of us with the same name in the garden? The Julia under the heavy rock mausoleum, the lady Farnese, and me, breathing in the air they no longer could.

Ignazio pointed to the ceiling of the entryway, which was decorated with Farnese lilies and Orsini roses, and explained how they symbolized the union between them.

Gala asked him about the empty circles surrounding the temple’s base.

“Stolen over the years. They were zodiacal and biblical scenes.”

“This doesn’t seem like a religious place,” Jack said.

“Oh, it is, very much so, just not religious in a Christian sense,” Ignazio explained. “At the time Vicino created the garden, he must have worried about being accused of blasphemy. Including some biblical imagery may have been an attempt to stave off such charges. But the truth of the matter is that thetempiettois the final resting place for those going to the Greek or Roman afterlife, the representation of Elysium, not that of heaven.”

Paolo bade me enter and exit the temple so he could get me on film.

I was readying myself for the walk toward the back of thetempiettowhen the cat that Dalí had been holding came to me and twined itself around my legs, purring. It looked up at me and meowed.

“Pick him up, Proserpina,” Dalí said. “He likes a shoulder.”

I did, and the little beast immediately climbed to my shoulder and rubbed his face against mine, purring even more loudly. His almost melodic meows endeared him to me. I didn’t remember ever having a pet, so I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to behave, and the cat’s affection took me by surprise.

“Wow, he really likes you,” Jack marveled. He reached out a hand to pet the little beast, but the cat stiffened against me and swatted at him. “But I guess he doesn’t like me.”

“I’ve never seen that cat before.” Ignazio frowned, and I wondered why he was concerned about its appearance. Surely there must be dozens of cats wandering around the wood. Italy was full of stray cats.

The animal started to trill a little song. “I name him Orpheus,” I said. It instinctively felt like the perfect name. The cat seemed to approve as he rubbed his head against my ear.

“Why Orpheus?” Jack asked.

“When Orpheus came to the Underworld seeking the return of Eurydice, Persephone—Proserpina—was moved by his tears and agreed to let her return above.”

“And you are Proserpina, no? And even now, he cries in your ear. The perfect name!” Dalí was exuberant. “Now, Paolo, we shall film our Proserpina.”

Orpheus jumped down but stayed close. I let Gala fuss over my clothes and hair, but my mind was on the story of Orpheus and how he lost Eurydice because of the gods’ condition that he would not look back until the couple had both returned to the world of the living. When Orpheus, in his anxiety, turned around too soon, Eurydice disappeared back into the Underworld forever. It was a story that had always resonated with me—of true, deep love lost. Just thinking about it made me want to tear up.

Gala slapped me. “Pay attention!”

I gasped and instinctively raised my hand to my cheek, shocked. It wasn’t a slap hard enough to leave a mark, but it was a startling violation. Orpheus hissed at her, and Gala made to kick the cat, but he easily evaded her boot.

Gala didn’t let me protest. “We don’t pay you to daydream, Julia. Now start walking. And smile.” She pointed at thetempietto.

Orpheus seemed to be waiting for me. I picked him up, glad that he had hissed at Gala in my defense. He went right to my shoulder. Furious about the slap, I plastered a smile on my face and walked the twenty feet through the catwalk of columns toward the inner sanctum, admiring the arched ceiling and its rosettes above. Light filtered in from circular windows around the dome’s edges and from little openings in the tip of the cupola.

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