Page 3 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Are you mymodelo?” he asked with a thick, clipped Catalan accent. His mustache curled upward just barely and his hair was slicked back, his eyes dark and piercing. His ears, which stuck out a bit too much from his head, were his least attractive feature. He had about twenty years on my twenty-four.

“Julia Lombardi,” I said, extending my hand to the artist. Dalí clasped it with both of his and kissed it, his lips caressing my skin in a way that would make any woman swoon.

“Youarea goddess,” he said, rolling therin a most dramatic way. He stared at me as though I were a landscape or a rare, precious object. “You are exquisite, your skin so pale, like you have just stepped forth from the darkness. I was right to ask for you.”

I blushed.

He let go of my hand and looked around at the crowd. “Am I stealing you from a boyfriend? Has some dark Italian knight swept you off your feet before I got here, my Proserpina?”

I swallowed, thinking about Lillian’s warning of him being a deviant. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time some man asked me that within a minute or two of meeting. I thought of my last boyfriend, a Roman who was controlling and manipulative. “I sent him away. He was inadequate.”

Dalí fell into a fit of deep laughter. “All are inadequate for the beauty that is Proserpina. Only the darkest knight will satisfy the light within you.”

“A princess in need of a knight?” said a woman with a heavy Russian accent, as she stepped out of the car. “It’s a good thing you aren’t a knight, Salvador.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had heard so much about Gala. The woman was not just Dalí’s wife, but also his manager. She had inspired many a poet and artist: Éluard, de Chirico, Ernst, and Breton, to name just a few. It was said that many of the surrealists did their best work during the time they had been in love with Gala. I found that particularly interesting because she was rather plain of face, with a long nose and a disapproving stare. Yet she moved with a sexuality and an assurance I envied.

She walked up to me and took my chin in her hand, her grip harder than it needed to be. “Good. Your skin really is like porcelain.”

“Imagine her as Proserpina, pomegranate seeds across her flesh, dotted like a thousand ants,” said Dalí. He had long been known for adding lines of ants into his paintings. Together, they eyed me like I was a treasure in a museum.

I stood there awkwardly, until finally, Dalí tapped his cane on the ground twice. “Are you ready? I must warn you that where we are going is like nothing you have ever seen. I was in Bomarzo fourteen years ago with my friend Maurice Yves Sandoz, and I saw the wild wood there. A surreal place full of monstrous statues. Giants, a screaming ogre, sirens, a Pegasus, gods and goddesses, and of course, Proserpina.”

I lifted my suitcase and gave him a nervous smile. “I am ready, Signor Dalí.”

“No!” He tapped me on the shoulder with his silver-tipped walking cane. “I am Dalí.”

I jumped, surprised at the strength of the gesture. “Very well, Dalí,” I said, wondering if perhaps Lillian was right about not going. But no, I couldn’t back down now. I drew a breath and gave him a nervous smile. “I look forward to vanquishing the monsters.”

His driver retrieved my suitcase to put in the boot, then escorted me to the seat next to him. As we sped out of Rome, it felt like I was traveling through a tunnel, and every mile we drove, it was as though the light was growing a little brighter, that we were heading toward a beacon that might help me navigate the uncertain path of my future. Strangely, just as my past was blank, so, too, was my ability to envision a future, leaving me with a sense of emptiness and an unshakable feeling of being different. But for the first time, I felt a spark of something like hope.

The engine roar made it difficult to hear the Dalís’ conversation, and the driver didn’t seem interested in small talk, so I enjoyed the ride in silence, mesmerized by the beauty of the Lazio hills beyond Rome’s walls. I hadn’t traveled far outside the city and was glad for all the fall colors.

We could see Palazzo Orsini long before we arrived in Bomarzo, the boxycastellolooming high above the trees, its ramparts gray against the blue of the November sky. A cluster of medieval houses crept up the hill and tumbled against one another until the line of buildings blurred into the edges of the palazzo itself. A lone bell tower stood out higher than all the rest of the edifices, jutting coarsely skyward. It looked like a place out of a dark fairy tale.

We couldn’t take the cars up to the palazzo, as the medieval streets were far too narrow. Instead, we parked at the bottom of the hill and Dalí hopped out of the car and led us at a fast pace through a short tunnel and up a narrow road lined with centuries-old houses to the unassuming entrance, leaving the two young men in the Fiat with our luggage. I was surprised to see the face of the most important building in the city was so bland, a double door framed with stone, set into a simple medieval wall, chipped and cracked in spots.

“Something is wrong with this palazzo,” Gala said as she raised her hand to the door knocker.

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

She rubbed her hand along the worn metal. “It’s just a feeling. That something is out of place.”

But it did not deter her. She lifted the knocker, its sound reverberating off the buildings around us. A man more arresting than any other I had ever seen opened the door for us. He was beyond a cliché, even more beautiful than stars in the movies. He was too perfect, too handsome, too...everything. His eyes were pale green, like shining sea glass. Thick, ridged eyebrows gave him a serious air. His dark hair was long and slicked back on the sides, his lips full. He seemed familiar, but I knew I hadn’t met him before.

“Benvenuti.Welcome,” he exclaimed, his voice deep and rich with the barest trace of an accent, one I couldn’t discern.

Gala moved toward him like a moth to a bright flame, reaching out for a handshake. She didn’t seem inclined to let go of his hand, but somehow, he extracted himself and fixed his eyes on me.

“Julia.”

How did he know my name? I was just the model, a person of little importance. It was surprising that either Dalí or Gala would have mentioned me.

“You are welcome here, Julia.” His eyes never moved from mine as he took my hands in his.

I almost gasped as the heat of his touch lit every fiber of my skin on fire. My mind whirled with the sensation of something terribly familiar. But then he let go and ushered us inside. I looked at my hands.What just happened?

“I’m Ignazio,” he said as I stumbled across the threshold. “I am your steward. I will see to your every need.”

---