Page 61 of In the Garden of Monsters

Lillian laughed. “Deal. So, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

“I’m not sure. But we’re supposed to be ready in an hour.”

When Ignazio had dropped us off, he had exchanged a cryptic glance with Dalí before the two of them headed toward the kitchen. “Dinner will be at six,” Ignazio had said in a loud voice without looking back at us. I could only imagine what kind of Dalínian spectacle awaited us—and dread how many pomegranate seeds I would see on each plate.

My expectations about dinner were not only met but exceeded when Lillian and I stepped into the grand hall. Dalí stood with Ignazio near the crackling fireplace, the former resplendent in a tailored black suit and flamboyant brooch in the shape of a distorted eye. His cravat was a swirl of colors that only Salvador Dalí could pull off. Ignazio contrasted in a deep burgundy velvet blazer and charcoal trousers, a striking silver-and-ruby ring glinting on his finger.

Four circular tables graced the corners of the room, each draped in a sumptuous tablecloth that seemed to embody an element: deep oceanic blue for water, a rich, loamy brown for earth, a pristine white, evoking the lightness of air, and a blazing red that practically smoldered for fire. Our companions had already been seated at the blue table and were making small talk.

But what truly captured my attention was the centerpiece in the middle of the room—a butter sculpture, intricately carved. It was a breathtaking rendition of the Pegasus statue, complete with cascading buttery water flowing over rocks. And there, at the base of the sculpture, was a figure unmistakably modeled after me, hands outstretched as if to catch the stream of inspiration flowing from above.

I gaped. A sculpture like that had to have taken the better part of a day to create and I had only left those rocks behind a few hours past. “How did you...?”

Dalí shushed me with a theatrical flourish. “The muse quickens the hand, little goddess. All is possible with such divine inspiration. Shall we begin?” He gestured toward the first table where everyone was seated. “Tonight we dine through the elements, and we start with Water—the realm of emotion.”

He sat next to me, and Lillian took a seat on my other side, next to Paolo. Gala was engaged in some deep conversation with Jack about Americans and their love of ice in every drink, and how strange the idea of cold, sweetened tea was. I, too, had no love for iced tea, and normally, I would have defended Gala’s position, but her anger that afternoon had me on edge, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Ignazio stood near the kitchen entrance, his eyes meeting mine briefly as he oversaw the blue-suited servants carrying trays of lobster bisque with saffron. He gave me a knowing smile, which set my heart to pounding.

As I expected, a single pomegranate seed floated atop the bisque, a vibrant red against the orange hue of the soup. Dalí caught my eye and gestured toward the seed with a subtle nod, but I chose to leave it untouched, swirling it around with my spoon instead.

“The pomegranate seed—a symbol of binding, of commitment,” Dalí mused, watching my hesitation. “I forgive you, darling Proserpina, for now. Tonight you may put your worries and your fears aside. Let us commit only to the experience. To the emotions that water stirs within us.”

Put my worries and fears aside? I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I had no intention of letting my guard down.

The oysters Rockefeller were next, each one a tiny universe of flavor, nestled in its shell. The cured sardines offered a salty contrast, perfectly complemented by the rye bread. The watercress-and-orange salad was a refreshing palate cleanser, preparing us for the courses yet to come. Each dish was a work of art, presented with the same meticulous attention to detail that Dalí applied to his paintings.

As we finished the water course, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of anxiety building, like the rising tide. Despite Dalí’s advice, I wasn’t fond of the emotions that this course, or any of the upcoming courses, might bring.

Ignazio appeared with a decanter of Elysium wine. A few sips of thedigestivo, and the heaviness of the first course seemed to lift, making room for what was to come.

The plates were removed, and we were ushered to the next table. Jack made an attempt to sit next to me, but Gala wouldn’t hear of it. She swatted him on the shoulder, and he gave me a sheepish smile as he stood to switch chairs.

Ignazio’s resonant voice rang out across the room. “From the depths of emotion, we rise to Earth, the grounding reality that holds us.” He clapped his hands and the servers in earthy brown-and-green attire returned. Much like at the magnificent dinner inspired by theHypnerotomachia, the servers seemed to be changing their dress for every course. A hearty venison stew was the centerpiece, its rich aroma filling the room. It was accompanied by roasted chestnuts, petite glasses of potato-and-leek soup, and a platter of roasted beets, turnips, and carrots. My stomach turned when I saw the root vegetables were dressed in a rich pomegranate sauce.

“Just say no,” Lillian whispered to me. “They can’t make you eat it.”

“I know, but I make everyone so angry.”

She squeezed my hand. “Let them be angry. I’ll stand with you if they are.”

Gala threw a piece of bread at us. “What are you gossiping about? Don’t be rude!”

I expected Lillian to retort something about the rudeness of throwing food, but she wisely refrained. “Girl problems,” she said instead, giving Gala a knowing eye. “You understand.”

Gala pursed her lips but only nodded her head. I pressed my leg against Lillian’s, a silent laugh between us.

A server moved to spoon the sauced vegetables onto my plate, but remembering how they ignored my refusals in the past, this time I blocked the attempt with my hand. He hesitated, spoon hovering uncertainly. A sharp clap from Ignazio broke the tension, and the server returned the spoon to the platter. Ignazio offered me a knowing smile, as if granting an unspoken favor. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with a sense of distrust. His smile, while seemingly generous, left me wondering what he truly had in store for the evening.

At the end of the Earth course, Dalí instructed us to stand and make our way to the table that represented Air.

“At the conclusion of Earth’s grounding embrace, we take wing,” Dalí said. “Let us ascend to the realm of Air, where the zephyrs of freedom dance with the breath of life itself! A place where the imagination soars and the soul is unshackled. Air, where the molecules of inspiration collide with the atoms of audacity. Where the very air we breathe is laced with the intoxicating perfume of anarchy and the ozone of original thought. Prepare yourselves, for tonight we dine on the very essence of liberation. It may leave you breathless.”

“So, tell me again, what does this table represent?” Jack laughed.

“FREEDOM! FREEDOM!” The artist lifted his hands to the sky.

Dalí’s words hung in the air, filling the room with a sense of exhilaration. But as I took my seat, I couldn’t help but feel a dissonance between his poetic description of freedom and my own reality. Here I was, surrounded by people who seemed to live life on their own terms, unshackled by societal norms or expectations. And yet I was anything but free. The weight of the pomegranate seeds, the lingering gaze of Ignazio, the unspoken tensions—they all felt like invisible threads, pulling me in directions I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. Freedom? I could hardly imagine it.

The servers, now dressed in flowing white, brought in the next course, highlighted by a goat-cheese-and-spinach soufflé that seemed to defy gravity. It was accompanied by puff pastry twists with herbs, mini quiches with asparagus and Gruyère, and miniature angel food cakes, each one dotted with three damned ruby seeds.

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