Page 33 of In the Garden of Monsters

I quickly banished that thought from my mind—he was dangerous. He was like a panther, waiting in the dark to strike. I was reminded of a movie I once saw,The Lodger, in which a woman rents out one of her rooms to a handsome man, and later he turns out to be Jack the Ripper.

“Are you ready for the next course?” Ignazio asked us.

I opened my mouth to respond, but my words died when I caught sight of two glowing green orbs in the darkness behind him, where the statue of Ceres rested.

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost again?” Jack asked. His eyes followed the line of my sight, but the green glow winked out abruptly. Jack said nothing, so I suspected he hadn’t seen it.

“Tomorrow may I use the telephone?” I asked Ignazio in a rush. I had to talk to Lillian. No longer certain of my sanity, I needed her voice of reason in my ear.

Ignazio raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that can be arranged. But there isn’t one at the palazzo. There are very few telephones in Bomarzo—the war destroyed most of the lines and equipment, and they have been slow to replace them. But there is an old widow in town who I believe has one. I’ll see if she will allow you to use it.”

I let out a long sigh. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“Come, the last course is waiting for you.” He put his hand on my lower back and heat radiated through me, sending an electric rush of desire to my nether region. It seemed a possessive gesture, given my proximity to Jack in that moment, a subtle signal—to me or to Jack, I wasn’t sure.

Gala, however, had no intention of letting me be the center of such attention. She stepped down from theorcoand, unable to choose between Ignazio and Jack, took me by the arm and pulled me away from both men. I knew it wasn’t an act of kindness, but I felt such great relief for her rescue. To be caught between two men who expressed desire for me may sound thrilling, but truly, it wasn’t. It left me disconcerted and confused, two things I wasn’t keen on feeling.

As Gala led me into the Mouth of Hell, I glanced back and saw Orpheus beyond Jack and Ignazio. He looked defeated. I paused in the doorway, hesitant to enter this sinister place. It was too dark for me to read the words carved into the monster’s upper lip, but I remembered them.“Ogni pensiero vola,”I whispered to myself as I stepped into the giant screaming mouth. Thankfully, this time I felt nothing but a little extra warmth from all the tiny fires illuminating the space.

Gala indicated that I should take the seat at the head of the table, which was surprising—shouldn’t the seat of honor be reserved for Dalí? But I quickly realized it was to set me apart, away from Jack. I sat in the luxurious chair that had been brought from thecastelloand looked down the length of the tiny table to the darkness beyond. Another bout of déjà vu hit me, an image of me sitting at the head of a different table, equally laden with delicacies, the queen of my domain. Was it a memory plucked from the emptiness of my past? I shook that thought off; the idea of me lording over a table full of expensive and exquisite food seemed a little too ludicrous to entertain.

Given the two courses we’d been served in the Casa Pendente, I expected the dishes in theorcoto be one color, and I wasn’t disappointed. Each morsel brought to the table was a shade of black. Salads of black lettuce topped by black beets, squid-ink risotto, charred aubergine, inky black pasta dotted with black mushrooms. Even the wine was so dark it looked black in the candlelight. I didn’t know there were so many possibilities for black food! Every bite was even more delectable than the previous, leading to a surprising juxtaposition of the senses—being in heaven while dining in the Mouth of Hell.

When little plates of black garlic arrived to spread upon small slices of black bread, Dalí could barely contain himself. “This! This is the food of death, of darkness. It drags me into my dreams. It reminds me of my supreme game.”

“Your supreme game?” I asked.

“Yes! To imagine myself dead! On a slab of stone.” He patted the table before us. “In my game, I am being slowly yet ravenously consumed by worms. They dangle from my vacant eye sockets, having gnawed away my sight. Beneath my ribs, their voracious jaws grind and mash, destroying the gossamer tissues of my disintegrating lungs. My heart holds out just a bit, for the sake of appearances, for it has always served me well. But the maggots are relentless, swarming over every inch of my divine corpse, their massive bodies undulating as they gorge themselves upon my flesh. At last, my heart can endure no more and ruptures in a great burst of putrid gore, unleashing a fresh torrent of wriggling spawn. I conjure every little detail with absolute scatological precision, imagining my complete consumption by these hellish creatures!”

Paolo pushed his plate away.

Dalí wasn’t just eccentric; he was quite possibly deranged. What type of person imagined such awfulness?

“How is that fun?” Jack asked.

“Have you ever tried it?” Dalí countered in all seriousness.

“You suffer from a lack of imagination, darling.” Gala gave Jack’s shoulder a playful pat. He wrinkled his brow but didn’t retort. Instead, he reached for his spoon to dig into the dessert, little cups of chocolate so dark it was almost black. Each one was dotted with a single pomegranate seed.

When the servant began to set the plate before me, I held up my hand. “No, thank you, I’m quite full,” I said, though I knew Gala might scold me for insulting our host again.

But the man ignored me and set the plate down in front of me without a word.

“I guess you’ll have to eat it.” Jack laughed.

“I can’t. There isn’t another place in my stomach for it.” I put it in front of Dalí. “Here, you have it.”

“No!” he yelled, his eyes wide and bulging, his mustache twitching. “YOU WILL EAT THIS.” His voice boomed in the small space, echoing off thepeperinoas he thrust the cup back in front of me. Alarmed by his furor, I picked up my spoon, and he instantly calmed down.

Gala raised an eyebrow at his erratic behavior but didn’t say anything.

“Per què ha de ser tan difícil? Per què no et menges la maleïda llavor?”he muttered to himself.

While I didn’t know any Catalan, it was close enough to Italian for me to understand it was something about me being difficult. Dutifully dipping my spoon into the black chocolate, I closed my eyes to savor the richness, the luxurious way the chocolate melted against my tongue. For a second, I felt grateful that Dalí had wanted me to eat it; I had never had a dessert so divine.

“No!” Dalí yelled again.

My eyes flew open with a start, and I almost fell backward.

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