Page 14 of In the Garden of Monsters

His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard,

His belly large, and clawed the hands, with which

He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs

Piecemeal disports.’”

“But this Cerberus could barely tear apart a rabbit,” I said, pointing at the statue.

Ignazio raised an eyebrow at me. “You assume this is always his form.”

“The Cerberus in my mind is wild, rearing back, towering over Dante, black and dangerous,” Dalí said.

“You are right. He is dangerous,” Ignazio said, then went down the stairs.

I stared after him, wondering what he meant.

“You have nothing to worry about, little Proserpina,” Dalí said, his hand stroking each of the dog’s heads in turn. “He’s your protector, remember?” He winked at me and followed Ignazio.

I began to trail after them down the stairs, but the scrape of stone against stone pulled my attention back. Cerberus’s heads seemed to have moved, to have turned upon its stone body pedestal so that one was squarely facing me when I could have sworn it wasn’t before. Unnerved, but sure I had dreamed it, I hastened down the stairway.

When I caught up to the group, Paolo was setting up his camera in the new location, and Dalí was instructing Jack on his requirements for painting that day. We were before another giant statue, this one of a woman, her legs spread apart to form a bench, her body a backrest for any who would sit down. Her hands were missing, and her fine carved features had eroded, leaving a face lacking any detail, though from her dress, it was plain that she was once regal. Upon her head was a crown that looked like a basket, one I imagined once held carved fruit. I was inexplicably drawn to the bench, craving to be nestled in the figure’s wide arms—the figure I instinctively knew represented Proserpina—to sit upon the ancient stones and look down the length of the hippodrome.

“The goddess Proserpina,” Ignazio verified, waving his arm expansively toward the bench.

“Sì,”Dalí exclaimed. “A purple paradox. Proserpina in the arms of Proserpina.”

Gala had taken a rag from Dalí’s box of equipment and started to dust off the bench. I helped her remove some of the leaves and other debris that had accumulated over the years. There was still a lot of moss on the seat, but I thought that would be good extra padding if I were to sit on the hard bench for the next few hours.

“I’ll go get the first aid kit,” Ignazio said, leaving us to our preparations.

“First aid kit?” Jack asked, concerned.

I moved the handkerchief and indicated the gash where Orpheus had pierced my skin. Pinpricks of blood dotted the cloth. As I pulled it away, the smoky scent of Ignazio lingered, and I resisted the urge to put it to my nose and breathe in deep.

“That cat gave you a mean scratch,” Gala said. She seemed less concerned about me and more concerned that my skin had been marred. I didn’t know why it mattered—I could hide the gash in photos, and Dalí didn’t have to paint it.

“We were both startled,” I explained, feeling like I had to excuse the episode somehow.

Orpheus seemed to realize we were talking about him and jumped up on the bench.

“No, no, no,” Dalí said, coming toward us. “Proserpina first.” He picked up the cat and dropped him on the ground. Then he took me by the arm and bade me to sit upon the bench.

Together, Gala and Dalí began to arrange me, and soon I was lounging along the bench, one leg dangling off the side, the other outstretched, my arms above my head, my face turned away from Dalí. I felt oddly comfortable in the arms of the goddess, despite the bizarre pose.

“Bellissima,”Gala said, the Italian word sounding strange in her Russian tongue. “She is perfect.”

Might this be one of the only times Gala would compliment me?

Paolo took several snapshots of me before Ignazio returned with the first aid kit. He set the kit on the edge of the bench next to me and dug out a piece of gauze, upon which he poured some iodine. Leaning forward, he pressed the gauze against my skin. It seemed he was being careful not to brush against me with his fingers as he wiped off the blood, and for that I was grateful. But his very nearness set my body tingling. It was a confusing combination of lust tinged with terror, and it set me on edge. How could I be attracted to someone I was also inexplicably afraid of? He had been nothing but kind to me, yet underneath his beautiful exterior I could only sense darkness—wrongness.

“Welcome home, little goddess,” he said to me, his voice low enough that the rest of the entourage would not hear.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Home? What was he suggesting? While I was desperate to figure out where my home really was, I didn’t believe this bizarre garden was it. I thought of the other Julias buried in the ground not far from where I sat. No, he couldn’t have meant that, could he? A lump rose to my throat. I was about to break my pose and pull away, but Ignazio waved a hand, indicating the stone where I reclined.

“The bench,” he said.

“Ah.” I was glad to look away from Ignazio and up at Proserpina’s eroded face. I willed myself to be calm, to take slow breaths.

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