Page 20 of In the Garden of Monsters

Just then, I heard Dalí call my name. Jumping off the couch, I rushed across the room to put the journal back before he found me with it. I don’t know why I did it, other than I didn’t want to share my discovery with the others. Jack appeared in the doorway as I slid the journal back onto the shelf.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. He entered the library and looked around. “So many books. How could you read all of them in one lifetime?”

“It would be hard,” I admitted.

“Did you find anything good?”

“There are a lot of interesting tomes on these shelves,” I said, not wanting to admit I hadn’t looked at any of them except the one that had fallen on the floor for me to see.

He approached the book display on a podium near the window. “What’s this one?”

The cover had beautiful gold etching and contained only a single word:Poliphilo. A more extended Latin title was on the spine. Carefully, I opened the book and found the inside filled with beautiful woodcuts—wondrous images of people, animals, and what looked like a garden. The text seemed to be a mix of Greek, Latin, and even hieroglyphics, and the typography was unique, often creating shapes on the page with the words.

Jack leaned in to look at the images, putting his arm over my shoulder as though we had long been friends. “What is this book?”

I showed him the spine. “Hypnero...to...ma...”

“Hypnerotomachia!”Dalí exclaimed, coming up behind us, Gala in tow.“Hypnerotomachia Poliphili,”he said with ease. “Que fantástico.It was published in 1499. What a find this is.The Strife of Love in a Dream.”

“You know this book?” I asked, stunned by his seemingly boundless intellect.

“It is the story of Polia and Poliphilo. Of course I know of it. It is a story of love, of dreams, of architecture, of ecstasy!”

I thumbed through it and came upon an illustration of an elephant with an obelisk on its back.

“Hey, I know that elephant,” Jack said.

I did too. It was the same as the Bernini statue in front of the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, near the Pantheon in Rome, though noting the book’s year of publication, this image probably inspired the sculpture. Dalí had always said he had taken his inspiration for his spindly elephant with an obelisk on its back in hisDream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second before Wakingpainting from the statue, so I should not have been so surprised that he knew of its original source.

“It’s a famous book,” Ignazio said from the doorway. “A story of love in a fantastical place. Vicino Orsini designed much of the garden based on the dreams within theHypnerotomachia. It’s interesting that you discovered this book tonight. Your dinner is based upon a meal that Poliphilo had during his dream.”

“Who was Poliphilo?” I asked.

“He’s the illustrious hero of the tale. The story is that Poliphilo can’t sleep because his beloved, Polia, has shunned him.” He paused and looked at me, as though there was some understanding between us, which was certainly not the case. “But,” he continued, “he falls into a fitful dream, in which he is transported into a forest, where he encounters magnificent temples, dragons, wolves, nymphs, and other beasts as he searches for Polia despite the danger and distraction.”

“Are they ever reunited?” Jack asked.

“Polia spurns him over and over, but eventually, when Poliphilo is on the brink of death, the goddess Venus convinces Polia to accept him. She kisses him, and he rouses from his fever, much like the prince and princess inSleeping Beauty. But just as they are about to embrace, Polia disappears as Poliphilo wakes from his feverish dream.”

“Love is cruel,” Gala said. She sounded bored.

“Indeed,” Ignazio agreed, turning his gaze to me once more.

“I don’t blame Polia for running,” I said, forcing myself not to look away. “Such infatuation is rarely wanted.”

Ignazio was not deterred. “Sometimes people don’t know what they truly want. Sometimes they are victims of the lies they tell themselves.”

“I always know what I want,” Gala said. “And, right now, I want dinner.” She tried, once again, to take Ignazio by the arm and lead him away. This time he let her.

Seeing them together left me deflated. It was the oddest feeling, akin to watching an ex-lover go off with his new girlfriend. I was pondering the ridiculousness of such a sentiment when Jack put an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the library.

“Such magnificent backsides,” Dalí commented from behind, thwapping me on the side of my leg with his cane.

“I’m not sure whose derriere he prefers more—yours or mine,” I said to Jack as we descended the elegant staircase to the first floor.

“Likely mine,” he said, laughing. “But I think he’s mistaken.” He stole a glance at my behind.

At this, I warmed. While I didn’t think I wanted Ignazio’s attention, having Jack’s wasn’t something I minded at all.

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