Page 21 of In the Garden of Monsters

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“Aside from a great camera, there is nothing more wonderful than a great library,” Paolo exclaimed, his eyes lighting up when I told him about the thousands of volumes I’d discovered, includingHypnerotomachia Poliphili,which had so excited Dalí. “If you ever want help reading anything in Italian, I would be honored to translate for you.”

I thought of Giulia Farnese’s journal. Perhaps I would take him up on his offer. But I hardly knew him... Was he someone I could trust not to tell the others? I paused to listen to the quartet—two lutists, a flutist, and a drummer, playing medieval music—wondering if I might find a quiet moment alone with Paolo. Glancing around the room, I didn’t think that would likely happen that evening. By the looks of it, we were in for another night of gluttony.

The tablescape was even more elaborate than it had been the night before, the long dining table covered in an extravagant green silk tablecloth with a pearl border and gold fringes that reached nearly to the floor.

The servers, who wore green and gold to match the tablecloth, scampered about, setting up for whatever wonders were in store for us. One invited us to wash our hands in a golden basin from which a fountain of perfumed water flowed. Then he escorted us to the table, oddly placing us all on one side, me in the middle, Dalí and Jack to my sides, Gala and Paolo to theirs.

It suddenly struck me as odd that, aside from Demetra and the servants who brought us our food, I hadn’t seen a single one of the help within the palazzo. How could that be? Granted, I had been away much of the day, but there were no sounds of others talking in the palazzo, no footsteps, no glimpses of someone else in a hallway. Even queerer, none of the servers acknowledged us beyond a few short words to explain the food. They did their jobs with impeccable precision, so carefully that while we were busy oohing and aahing over the food, it was easy to disregard that they seemed utterly devoid of personality. The thought set me on edge.

Two servants brought out a massive buffet cart, the front shaped like a boat, the back like an ancient Roman triumphal chariot. It looked to be made of pure gold, decorated with little sea monsters, shells, and precious stones, and it was breathtaking. How had such a treasure not been plundered for a museum? Especially during the war, when metal resources were scarce, and every piece of art was coveted by Hitler.

Dalí squealed with glee. “We should include such a cart in the cookbook of Gala!”

“A marvelous idea,” Gala agreed. “But, darling, I think you have other things to accomplish before we worry about making a cookbook.”

The chariot contained all manner of items—napkins, glassware, wine, flowers, candles, and the basic condiments and spices that would rest upon the table. In unison, the servers set the table before us.

“Do you think these are real?” I asked Jack, picking up my fork and waving it at him. The utensil was heavy and it, too, appeared to be made of gold.

“Of course,” he said, as though gold forks were an everyday object. He seemed distracted, his head tilted to the side as though he were listening to someone other than me. But Paolo was looking away from him.

“Would they mind if I stole one?” I joked.

“Probably not,” Jack said. Again, he answered as though this was a perfectly normal thing to ask.

I raised my eyebrow at him, puzzled at the response. “Are you serious?”

For a moment, Jack’s gaze seemed to glaze over, as if he was momentarily lost in a separate reality. Then, with a slight start, he seemed to snap back to the present. “Look at all this gold—who would miss a fork or two? Go ahead, hide one away and see what happens. Besides, you are beyond reproach.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but my shocked expression seemed to trigger a flicker of clarity in his eyes.

“I’m teasing,” he said after a beat, but his voice was still unnaturally even.

Concerned, I put my hand on his forearm. “Jack, are you all right?”

He paused, his eyes briefly showing confusion, quickly masked with a forced smile. But his smile was too sudden, too bright. “Perfectly.” He grinned, full of emotion once more. “And boy, oh boy, am I hungry. And you better be, too, because here it comes.” He gestured toward an approaching server.

The meal began with five tiny fritters of saffron-colored dough, drizzled with a rosewater glaze and served on plates made of some sort of yellow, transparent stone. If I didn’t think it impossible, I would have sworn it was topaz.

Ignazio came forward with a glass carafe. “From Elysium itself,” he said, as he poured us each a glass of the golden wine.

“You jest,” I said, catching his eye.

“Do I?” Again, that dazzling smile.

A jolt ran through me, and I looked away, heat rising to my cheeks. Picking up the glass, I buried my nose in it, wishing for him to depart. I let out a breath when he finally did.

The bouquet of the wine was truly divine. I thought it smelled of apricots and toffee, although Gala patently disagreed with me.

“Sandalwood and lemongrass,” she declared.

“Candied walnuts. Fallen leaves,” Dalí said, sipping the wine and closing his eyes. “Pure hedonism.”

To sip it was heavenly, transporting even. If it had been the last thing I ever drank, I would have died happy.

After this welcome refreshment, the tablecloths were changed to a purple silk, the same color the servants now donned. How had they found the time to change? I marveled as one of them scattered white rose petals across the table while two others brought each of us five cuts of fat capons, roasted and shining with flecks of gold, accompanied by a snow-white bread and a sauce Ignazio informed us consisted of lemon, sugar, pine nuts, and cinnamon.

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