Page 51 of In the Garden of Monsters

It was cool on the terrace, but several little fiery lamps around the periphery helped to warm us up. I was surprised to see such a rustic table, given that the rest of the furniture in thecastellowas so opulent. There was no tablecloth. The plates were simple Tuscan majolica, the stemware of thick red glass. The servers looked as if they had just stepped out of a restaurant in Rome. Though I appreciated this bit of normalcy, I was disappointed for Lillian, who had not yet witnessed the wonders of Ignazio’s hospitality. But my friend had also not had many extravagant experiences, and she found everything about the meal enchanting, especially the food, which was also more rustic than our previous feasts, featuring deeply traditional Italian foods: potato croquettes,passatellinoodles made from breadcrumbs;zampa burrata, calf’s foot in butter; pappardelle in a rabbit sauce; veal scaloppine; lentils with prosciutto; and plates of roasted white truffles.

“Have you been eating like this all week?” Lillian asked me.

“Better, in fact.”

“Impossible. This is literally the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“I see you haven’t had many fine meals.” Gala sniffed.

Lillian didn’t let the woman rile her. “You’re right. I’ve not been part of the glitterati, which is why I appreciate it so much.”

“Wait! Where are my snails? My armadillos?” Dalí cried as the waiters brought out the sweet dishes, a bevy of little tastes: cake with pine nuts;mostaccioliandamaretticookies; andzuppa inglese, a cake from the northern region of Emilia-Romagna made from a unique red liquor calledalkermes. “Ignazio!”

Our host merely lifted a hand toward the door leading back into the palazzo, and two servers brought forth platters of beautiful marzipans in the shape of snails and armadillos.

Dalí was incensed.

“Forgive me,” Ignazio begged, laying a hand on the maestro’s shoulder.

The spell that fell upon Dalí was immediate. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a small sigh of satisfaction, lifting one of the miniature armadillos to his mouth.

“Forgiven,” he said, closing his eyes in savory bliss.

Lillian pressed her knee against mine, a distinct what-on-earth reaction to the way Dalí had so easily fallen under Ignazio’s influence. I was feeling the same. The gesture confirmed what I had already begun to suspect, that Ignazio held a very particular sway here. It wasn’t just the magical touches that he brought to every meal. No, the sway he had was over the very people of this place, over my companions. Or at least over Dalí. And certainly, over me.

I downed a glass of wine, hoping to calm my nerves. Did this mean Ignazio could also control me?

The servers set a platter of little, rustic, fava bean–shaped cookies before me. I plucked one from the plate, pleased it didn’t look to have anything to do with pomegranates. The exterior was hard, the interior slightly soft, with a slightly sweet orange flavor.

“What are these called?” I asked, intrigued.

“Fave alla Romana o dei morti,”Paolo explained. “Roman beans of the dead. They are usually served on All Saints’ Day. I don’t know why.”

Ignazio cast his gaze at me. “The ancient Romans believed that fava beans represented the souls of the dead. They were used as offerings to Proserpina and Pluto to pacify any restless ancestors or spirits in the Underworld.”

I averted my eyes and put the cookie down, unnerved.

“How do you know Julia?” Jack asked Lillian.

“I was struck by one of her paintings, a rendering of a tree standing in a pool of bright, cherry-red-colored water, on exhibit at theaccademiaart show. I sought her out at the gallery party to tell her how much I loved it and was shocked when she gave it to me. We got to talking, and she told me she was looking for a roommate. Two weeks later, I moved in.”

“I knew right away we would be fast friends,” I added for color, despite not recalling any of the moment.

“You are an artist?” Jack asked me. “You haven’t mentioned that.”

“Yes,” I said sheepishly, feeling Dalí’s eyes on me and knowing full well how he felt about female artists. “I graduated from theaccademialast year. I have a small studio in Rome. Still a bit of a starving artist, which is why I model.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but Dalí’s dismissive words about women painters still stung.

“Modeling will take you farther,” Gala sniped.

“What is your medium?” Jack asked.

“Oil, mostly,” I said, grateful for his interest. “But I have been working lately with some of the new Magna acrylics, which dry much faster.”

“Are you a surrealist?” he asked.

Dalí threw back his head and laughed. “She is a muse, nothing more.”

Flames of embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

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