Page 28 of In the Garden of Monsters

“So, you went down into the dark with him, swooned, and he saved you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said.

“Why wasn’t he affected by the smoke?” It wasn’t so much of a question of me as it was general pondering.

“I...I don’t know. He should have been,” I said, thinking of how he easily held me and stroked my hair to soothe me.

The thoughtful look on Gala’s face was replaced by impatience as she went to my dresser and began to rummage through the drawers.

“You won’t have time to bathe, so you’ll just have to go stinking like a chimney.” She tossed a pair of panties and a brassiere onto the bed.

“Stop. I can manage. I’m feeling all right now.” I didn’t want her to find Giulia Farnese’s diary in the bottom drawer. She might tell Ignazio I had removed it from the library, or worse, be interested in it herself.

In a fit of exasperation, Gala picked up a hairbrush from the dresser. “You think you can manage? Without ruining another day’s work?”

“Yes, I said I can manage,” I snapped back, frustration mounting.

Gala hurled the hairbrush at me. It missed me by an inch and clattered against the wall. “Get yourself together. Time is money, and you’re wasting both.” She scowled. “Dress warm. We’ll be dining in the Sacro Bosco tonight. You need to eat so you have strength for tomorrow. I’m not letting you wreck another day.”

My breath caught. I thought of the green glow I had now seen twice. Demetra said no one ever went into the sacred wood at night. Why were we?

“And don’t expect to be paid for today.” She sneered at me when she reached the door. “We only pay models when they work.”

She slipped out, leaving me standing there, stunned. That was seventy-five thousand lire out of my pocket, the equivalent of nearly a month’s salary. And while I understood that if I couldn’t complete the work I wouldn’t be paid, what was even more galling was her violence, her complete lack of empathy, and the insinuation I had purposely intended to skip out on my duties.

I turned back to the dresser and looked for Giulia’s diary. It was still there, hidden under a pair of slacks I had brought. Had Giulia said anything about the well in her diary? I had thumbed through the pages, but I didn’t even know the Italian word forwell. Besides, Gala had made it abundantly clear that I was not to miss dinner. Fuming, I put the book away and picked up the brassiere. As I dressed, my thoughts twisted and turned. Something was happening, something beyond my understanding. But I knew one thing for sure: the secrets buried in Giulia’s diary were calling to me, and I had the distinct sense that the answers lay hidden in the shadows of the sacred wood.

8

“You’re all right,” Jack exclaimed, taking me up in a bear hug as I made my way to the front door, where the Dalís and their entourage were milling about. I fell into him, glad for the comfort after my ordeal. “Gala told us about the fire,” he said when he had pulled away.

“She’s perfectly fine,” Gala hissed, glaring at me as she slipped a possessive arm around Jack. “Come along,amore.”

Jack gave me an apologetic smile and then left with Gala.

“Where’s Ignazio?” I asked, though I didn’t want to see him. I was bracing myself for the moment when we’d meet again. The night was unusually warm, and I probably could have done without my cape, but I wrapped it tightly around me nonetheless.

“He is already down in the wood,” Dalí said. He was dressed in a gray tweed suit with a pink tie, an unusual choice that worked for the eccentric artist. “Come, Paolo, bring the equipment.” He pointed toward a camera bag with the silver-tipped end of his walking cane, capped by a detailed ram’s head, also made of silver, then extended his left hand to me.

Paolo picked up the bag and dutifully followed us as we walked toward a dark car waiting at the bottom of the hill.

“No truck this time,” I observed.

Dalí was horrified. “No. Not for dinner.”

“I’m sorry I missed the sitting today,” I told him as we walked toward the driveway. I was glad Gala and Jack were out of earshot. I didn’t want her derailing my apology or deriding me again for fainting.

He gave me a broad smile. “You are lovely, my Proserpina, but you are not the only thing in my painting. You are recovered, no? We will resume tomorrow. There will be sun, I predict.”

The car took us the very short distance to the entrance of the Sacro Bosco,which was lit by several tall torches. The closer we got, the tighter the knots in my stomach became. I still didn’t understand what had happened at the well. I felt healthy and hale, not as if I had just inhaled a ton of oily smoke from the lantern fire. But it was puzzling that a doctor had checked me out and for something as debilitating as smoke inhalation, suggested I could merely sleep it off. And why would I have slept for an entire day as though I was recovering from some drunken bender? I had so many questions, and each one made me more and more anxious at the thought of seeing Ignazio once more.

This anxiety came to a peak when our host greeted us by the entrance to the garden. He wore a black tuxedo, and his hair had been slicked back, giving him a mysterious and somewhat sinister air. I couldn’t meet his eyes. To my surprise, he didn’t ask me if I was well, or even mention the incident in the basement. In fact, he acted like nothing had happened. While I found this baffling, I was also grateful that I could follow along and say little as he led us into theboschetto.

The trail’s lanterns cast a dim glow on our path, and as we moved into the garden, like before, a strange familiarity enveloped me. A sense of déjà vu; I couldn’t help but feel I had walked this path in some distant, forgotten life. Ignazio kept up a lively narration as we went, giving us the details of the stories and myths each statue evoked. I had worn my chunkiest heels, but I clung to Dalí’s arm for balance as we navigated the overgrown path that led us past the looming statue of the giants.

We approached a massive turtle, steadfast with the winged goddess of Victory upon its back, an embodiment of triumph frozen in time. Next to the turtle was what must have been an ancient fountain, with Pegasus standing in silent guardianship at its center. Alongside them both, hidden within a shadow-filled ravine, an open-mouthed whale jutted upward, surrounded by the murmur of a bubbling brook, its low gurgle a haunting serenade to the night.

A sharp sense of being watched prickled at my skin, a gaze unseen but palpable, as if the statues themselves held a life force within their weathered contours. The feeling intensified as we moved past the statues toward the heart of the garden.

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