Page 22 of In the Garden of Monsters

“This must have cost a fortune,” I said, shocked at the display before me.

Gala chuckled. “My Dalí makes money every time he twists his mustache.”

Dalí twisted the end of his tiny mustache and winked at me.

They were smiling and laughing, but something felt unnatural about his response. Gala was impressed by the display of luxury before us, but Dalí was not nearly as amazed at the meal. While I knew the Dalís were wealthy, this was beyond opulent. I wanted to understand how he could possibly take such excess for granted. “Why go to such lengths for so few of us?”

Dalí gawked at me in the same way that Jack had when I asked him about the gold forks. “This is what Dalí deserves! It is not extravagance,” he finally answered. “This is how gods and goddesses dine. You should know that, little Proserpina.”

Though Gala laughed, a wild laugh, I found Dalí’s conviction unnerving. Did he actually think of us as gods?

Giving him a weak smile, I cut into the capon and took a bite. I wasn’t ready for the explosion of flavor upon my tongue. This was no ordinary chicken. I was torn between savoring the dish and devouring it. It was tender, smoky, and juicy. And the rest of the meal promised to be just as sublime.

As we waited for the next course, the conversation turned to current events. Dalí made an offhand remark praising General Franco’s leadership in Spain, which immediately soured my mood, knowing the dictator’s brutal tactics during the civil war.

Sensing my discomfort, Dalí continued, “Of course, I do not agree with all his methods, but a firm hand is sometimes needed to bring order.”

I chose my next words carefully. “Order through fear and oppression rarely leads to anything good. We all saw the costs of fascism during the War.”

Dalí waved his hand dismissively. “Politics is boring. Controversy and shock—that is what really motivates the masses.”

He leaned in with a gleam in his eye that I found unsettling. “Imagine a painting of Hitler. Now imagine Hitler engaged in a most personal and private act. What a delightfully outrageous idea!”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Dalí chuckled. “Now, drink up. We should enjoy this night. The only ‘politics’ an artist should care about are those of the unconscious mind. That is the only truth.”

I murmured agreement, though his cavalier attitude toward oppression and his provocative hypothetical unsettled me. It was my first glimpse of the moral—and, to my mind, dangerous—flexibility behind Dalí’s genius. Dalí did not actually stand for or against any political ideology. He was not interested in moral outcomes. His provocative art stemmed from a relentless desire to shock and court controversy by any means, not explore deeper truths. Dalí’s primary motivation was garnering attention for himself, not any sincere political position. He leveraged the names of leaders and ideologies opportunistically to further his artistic career, apathetic to real-world consequences. His amoral approach troubled me but revealed the cunning pragmatism behind his success. We spoke no more of politics, but the conversation left a shadow over my impression of him.

Fortunately, we were distracted by the next part of the magnificent dinner show. The servers, now in yellow, dressed the table in a satin cloth of the same color, and brought out a roast partridge with another yeasty milk bread, and a sauce that smelled of almonds. The plates appeared to be made of peridot. The fourth course was brought by servers in crimson and the table was relaid in crimson cloth. The dish was succulent slices of roast pheasant on plates of emerald, dressed in a sauce of pine nuts, orange juice, and cinnamon.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to Jack when Ignazio announced the fifth course, exactly nine mouthfuls of peacock in a pistachio sauce. “Kings don’t even dine in this sort of luxury.”

Jack smirked at me. “And you know that how?”

He had me there. “Really, Jack, who eats peacock anymore?” I asked, looking down at the sapphire plate before me.

“It’s rather amazing, I have to admit,” he said, placing his hand next to mine on the table, now laid out with a violet linen tablecloth. “But I’ve seen many unexpected things since I met the Dalís. I’ve learned to just enjoy.” He smiled, gently stroking my fingers, and a thrill shot through me. A normal thrill—the bubbly, happy kind, not the hot, dark-edged, dangerous kind that infused Ignazio’s touch.

Gala noticed immediately. “Jack, come here,” she barked, and he dutifully got up and went to her, bending down to let her whisper in his ear.

“What did she say?” I whispered when he returned to his seat.

“To stay away from you,” he said, covering his mouth with his hand.

But his foot found mine under the table, and my cheeks grew hot with the notion that I might be a rival for Jack’s affection.

Despite enjoying the attention from Jack, I couldn’t help but drink Ignazio in when he appeared before us to announce the dessert course. Dear god, he was beautiful. He wore a black suit with red embroidery—a stark contrast to the servers, now in white, who waited at the edges of the room, ready to take our plates. His dark hair was a little wild, but everything else about him was perfectly tailored and groomed. He gave us a graceful bow, and when he stood again, his eyes were fixed on me. Perhaps it was because I sat in the middle of the table, but it seemed as though I was the primary person he honored with that bow. He flashed a smile at me, and again, the urge to reach for him conflicted with the simultaneous urge to run from the room and never look back.

Jack’s touch on my upper thigh broke the spell. I must have let out a little gasp, for he quickly withdrew his hand and looked toward Gala. She wasn’t paying attention.

“Are you okay?” he asked me, but there was a mischievous look in his eye.

I was unable to answer. The air in the room felt heavy, and I had the distinct sensation that I was caught in a hopeless trap between these two men.

Ignazio moved toward us. “For you, my queen,” he said, laying a semitransparent red plate before me.

“Jacinth!” Dalí waved a hand in the air in a gesture of approval.

The jacinth plate contained four bite-size confections, each topped with a single pomegranate seed and covered in powdered gold.

---