Page 39 of In the Garden of Monsters

“They will, but such magnificence will be better represented inTime,” Dalí pronounced with confidence. “TimeMagazinewill want them. OrLife.”

My first thought was that I didn’t want the entire world to see my breasts—a photo in a magazine wasn’t like a painting, a work of true art—and I was about to protest when it dawned on me that neither my nudity nor my name would be of any import whatsoever. The editors of whichever magazines ran the photos would not only black out my parts, but they would never even bother to find out who I was. Dalí would be the star of the piece, would receive all the accolades, and I would merely be “the model.”

Of course, this realization made me feel even worse, so I tried to divert my anxious mind by taking an imaginary walk through Rome’s Borghese Gallery, my favorite museum, a place where I often went when I needed solace. I wandered through the gilded halls, admiring the statues and paintings, flitted through the rooms, wanting to see Bernini’s masterpieces. My mind led me directly to my favorite statue, and as I stood in front of it, I had a startling insight. While I had always admired the piece for Bernini’s skill—how he could make marble hands gripping flesh seem so real—I hadn’t, until that moment, realized the statue I so deeply loved was that of Pluto dragging Proserpina off to the Underworld.

I was jolted out of my daze when Dalí declared it was time for lunch. Without a thought for me, he led Jack and Gala up the stairs before I knew what was happening. Paolo came toward me, his head turned, a blanket in his outstretched hand. I chuckled at his modesty, considering he had just spent considerable time photographing me in the nude.

“Signorina Julia, they have gone to theorcoto eat,” he said once I’d put my dress back on. “I will bring you there.”

I shivered at the thought of eating inside that damn monster again.

“But first, I wanted to talk to you about Giulia Farnese’s journal.”

I sat back down on Proserpina’s bench and patted the seat. Paolo joined me and extracted the journal from his camera bag. “She was an unusual woman. Not only did she keep thecastellorunning while her husband served as acondottiero, but...”

“Condottiero?”I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

He thought for a moment. “A soldier for hire.”

I nodded. “A mercenary. That’s interesting.”

“Sì, but more interesting is that Vicino Orsini didn’t come up with the idea for theboschetto. It was Giulia who inspired her husband, though the ideas for the statues did not come from her. They came from her chef, Aidoneus.” He paused to gauge my reaction. “Have you heard of Aidoneus?”

“The name seems familiar, but...” I couldn’t quite place where I had heard it.

He looked up at the worn face of the goddess in whose lap we sat. “Some stories say that Aidoneus is another name for the Roman god, Pluto.”

“Or for the Greek Hades,” I breathed, trying to understand what such a thing meant.

“Esatto.But this Aidoneus is different. There is some thought he might have been real, not a myth, and that he was married to a woman named Proserpina many centuries ago.”

I gaped at him, trying to grasp what this could mean.

A crackle of branches on the path behind Proserpina’s bench caused both of us to jump to our feet. Paolo quickly shoved the journal into his bag.

“What’s taking you so long?” Jack asked, coming into view. “We’re getting hungry.”

“I was telling her about the little town where I grew up,” Paolo lied.

“Well, hop to it and tell her on the way.”

I squeezed Paolo’s arm, a small gesture to thank him for keeping the journal our little secret. He gave me a nod and a smile, but he looked worried. Hopefully we’d find more time to continue this conversation sooner rather than later. “Why do we have to go to the Hell mouth to eat?” I wondered aloud as we traversed the overgrown route. “Why can’t they just set up a table near the bench?”

Jack shrugged. “There’s already a table there. Why drag another one into the garden?”

My mind focused on steeling myself to take on whatever new thing might happen in the mouth of theorco, I tripped on an overgrown root and went flying. Jack caught me without effort, lifting me up and cradling me in his arms. “Be careful, Julia,” he warned, holding me tight. “I would hate to see that pretty face marred by the rocks of Bomarzo.”

Dreading lunch, I didn’t want to leave the safety and comfort of his embrace. But he righted me, then relinquished me, though he did extend his arm for me to hold as he led me into the Mouth of Hell, where Dalí and Gala waited impatiently. No sooner had Ignazio told us about the varioustramezzini—little triangular sandwiches on crustless white bread that he said were popular in Venice—than Dalí laid in, loading up his plate with two or three of each kind. I felt dizzied by the choices: prosciutto and cantaloupe; cucumber, mayo, and herb; asparagus and egg; artichoke;bresaolaand arugula; mortadella and roasted red peppers; eggplant and mozzarella; cherry tomatoes and asiago cheese; tuna, egg, and olive.

“Squisito!”Dalí raved.

“These are far superior to those sandwiches they serve at tea in London,” Gala agreed, though she had only taken one.

They were right about the sandwiches being delicious. But the white bread was sticky in my mouth, and I asked Ignazio for something to drink. He gave me a little bow before pulling a thermos from a bag at his feet. He uncapped it and poured an enticing ruby-colored liquid into the goblets before him, then handed me a glass, his fingers brushing against mine. My breath caught with his heat.

“What is it?” I managed, although the seed floating in my glass gave me the answer before Ignazio confirmed that it was indeed pomegranate juice.

“With a little gin,” he added, nodding at Dalí, who tipped up his drink in a toast.

---