Page 24 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Should we go see if they are all right?” I asked, horrified.

“This side of thecastellois on the edge of a cliff, remember?” Gala said.

“When a bird hits the window, it means death is nigh.” Dalí waved his walking stick around wildly. “Someone is going to die,” he squealed.

“That’s just a superstition,” I said, but as the words passed my lips I wondered if I believed it.

“But there are five bird marks,” Jack pointed out. “Does that mean five deaths?” He was being facetious, but it was a chilling thought, and no one responded.

After a long moment, Ignazio stepped forward and closed the curtains. When he turned around, all concern had disappeared from his face, and he was smiling. “We must not let a freak accident mar our evening.” He briefly touched Gala on the shoulder and led her away from the window.

“The musicians,” I observed, suddenly noting that they’d never stopped playing. “The disturbance should have broken their song, but it’s like they didn’t even notice it.”

Jack looked back at the quartet, who were not far from the window. “That is weird,” he agreed, but he didn’t offer a guess as to why they didn’t react to the crash. Instead, he put his hand on my back. “Maybe we can dance later...” he said in a low voice.

I didn’t picture the group of us doing much dancing, and besides, Gala had warned him to steer clear of me, but his touch gave me comfort.

Ignazio led us to a smaller salon decorated with accents of red and gold, but the mood had shifted, so much so that Paolo announced he was retiring for the evening.

I sat on one of the love seats, and to my surprise, Gala joined me—I assumed to keep Jack and me apart. It worked. Jack deposited himself across from us in a chair next to Dalí. Ignazio brought us goblets made from pink glass and poured us a much more significant portion of the golden drink than he had given us earlier. Then he said good-night, and the music in the other room stopped, replaced by only the crackling fire in the fireplace.

“Please, stay,” Gala implored him. “Have a drink with us.”

“I cannot. But thank you, Signora Dalí, for the offer.”

“What if we want more wine?” Dalí asked.

Ignazio raised an eyebrow. “You won’t.”

Then he was gone, and I could have sworn the room temperature dropped a degree or two.

I didn’t feel up to drinking much, but it was hard not to indulge in the wine, which I was beginning to believe may have actually come from the gods. It made us jovial, giddy even. And as the conversation jumped from art and surrealism to Jack growing up on his grandparents’ farm on a ridge overlooking the Snake River in a forlorn place called Burley, Idaho, I found myself thinking that perhaps the peculiarity of the day wasn’t all that peculiar, that it was just me, because this moment with these people felt good, and I was happy.

Eventually, though, I set my wine aside. I didn’t want to destroy my good feelings by taking them a step too far.

Gala motioned at my glass. “I’ll have that if you don’t want it.”

“By all means,” I said, picking it up and pouring my wine into hers.

“This wine is outstanding, isn’t it?” She leaned over to me, giggling.

I giggled with her. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Her smile dissipated. “But something is wrong,” she said, slurring her words slightly. “With the wine. With this place. With all of it.” She waved her arm wide.

“I know what you mean,” I said, feeling my world tilt back to the stranger side of the day.

She put her hand on my cheek, an intimate caress. “No, you don’t. Because something is wrong with you too.”

“What do you mean...?” I began to ask, but she leaned in and stopped my words with a kiss. Although I was a bit shocked, I was tipsy and feeling a new affection for Gala, who had been somewhat mean and cold to me until now. I let myself get lost in the sensation for a moment, but she pulled away abruptly.

“Eww,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as I sat there, horrified and embarrassed. “Now I remember why I don’t like women.” She stood and deposited herself into Jack’s lap.

“Now, now, Gala, I’m sure Julia is a perfectly fine kisser,” he said to her as she slid a hand into his hair. But he only had eyes for me. “You just don’t have enough practice with the fairer sex. Let me try—I would like to find out the truth of the matter.”

“I would observe this and declare judgment,” Dalí said, his mustache twitching.

But I wasn’t about to have my sexual prowess tested in such a way. “That won’t be necessary,” I said, getting up. “I’ll leave you to your games.”

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