Page 4 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Everyneed?” Gala said, laying a hand upon his arm and winking at Dalí.

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at Gala’s suggestion. The rumors about her open sexual inclinations were rampant in the art world, but to see her so willfully flirting with another man in front of her husband was something I hadn’t expected. Dalí, however, did not appear upset at all. On the contrary, the conspiratorial smile he gave her seemed to signal his approval. The idea they were in it together, that they both found some measure of pleasure in her flirtatious proclivities, was fascinating.

For his part, Ignazio deftly removed her hand from his arm and carried on as though he had not heard her comment. He led us on a tour of the six-hundred-year-old property with numerous long corridors, rooms full of antiques, weary frescoes, and shabby tapestries. The floors were bare, save for some decorative black-and-red tile in the main halls. Our steps echoed as we walked. It was darker than I liked. The electricity wasn’t bright, and the wall sconces cast queer shadows.

“The palazzo is not as grand as many other places you may visit, but it’s full of history and forgotten memories,” he said, his tone wistful. “So many memories.”

The back of my neck tingled at his words. Someone had walked over my grave, Lillian would have said.

As we walked from room to room, Dalí peppered Ignazio with questions about the Orsini and particularly about Vicino’s obsession with alchemy, which he had read about. Our host was pleased to oblige the maestro and explained that Vicino was interested in the transmutation of the soul, in finding true enlightenment. “And if he turned metal into gold along the way, well, that would be a happy circumstance, wouldn’t it?” he mused as he led us to the ramparts and ushered us outside.

“Below us is theboschetto, the little wood. Beware, there are monsters there.” He pointed to a spot far down in the valley, but, in the fading light, it was difficult to see anything other than the dome of a small white building, which I took to be thetempietto. “Tomorrow you will meet them.”

I thought that sounded rather ominous but didn’t say so.

As we peered down at the garden, the sky began to transform, moving from yellow to pink, to the deepest violet, to dark blue.

“This,” Dalí breathed, “is theonlypainting I could never paint.”

We stared, mesmerized as the colors flowed across the sky, leaving the landscape awash with nature’s brilliance.

“It’s a gift,” Ignazio whispered to me as he placed his fingers on the small of my back. It was the barest of touches, but it gave me a heady feeling of déjà vu and sent a distinct rush of warmth up my spine. I wanted to pull away, to break free from whatever invisible bond this man had wrapped around me, but my body was transfixed, as if tethered by an unseen force. “I think Sol is sending us his good luck.”

“Sol?” I whispered back, my heart pounding, confused. Why would the sun god be sending “us” his luck?

Ignazio remained silent, a cryptic smile gracing his lips as he pivoted away. He shifted his focus to the Dalís, narrating tales of the abandoned Torre di Chia, a thirteenth-century lookout tower in the distance, jutting up like a mysterious obelisk in the forest. This sight stirred something within Dalí, who launched into a frenetic monologue about elephants and fantastical towers on their backs. But his words floated past me, mere specters of sound.

I stared at the ever-changing sky, its hues shifting in response to the sinking sun. Yet it was Ignazio’s strange words, and more bafflingly, his touch, that captivated my restless mind. It wasn’t just heat that emanated from that fleeting contact; it was something far more disquieting—an energy that crackled and jolted, like the dangerous dance of a live wire. It was heat; it was sparking, jolting.It was like a brand, I thought. A mere human shouldn’t evoke such a visceral, almost primal, reaction in another. I didn’t believe in magic or the divine, yet there was something that felt distinctly otherworldly—magnetic, or dangerous, even—about our host.

“Let’s not go to the cellar today,” Ignazio said as he led us back into the palazzo. “Another day, perhaps, I can show you the prison cells.”

“Who would they have kept in the cells?” Gala asked the question before I could.

“People who didn’t pay their taxes, town criminals, prisoners of war. The usual ruffians. A few murderers.”

The way he said this last word made me shudder.

“You are cold, Julia?” asked Dalí.

“A little,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

Ignazio winked at me, and my heart clenched. “A meal will warm you up. Let me show you to your rooms so you can rest a little first.” He led us to the second floor. The red carpet on the stairs beneath my feet was frayed, with a few white, threadbare spots. I was struck by how quiet thecastellowas. At no point during our tour had I heard any sounds other than those we were making: the plodding of our footsteps on the hard floor, the swoosh of our clothes, the chattering among us. There was no door being closed somewhere off in the distance, no water running in the kitchen, no hired help murmuring or scurrying about.

We stopped at a set of interconnected rooms that were intended for Gala and Dalí. I stood awkwardly near the wide double doors as Ignazio showed the couple everything they would need to know about their stay. Gala’s voice floated toward me, and although I couldn’t see her, it was clear she was fawning over our host. Then Ignazio appeared and ushered me out of the room, shutting the Dalís in behind him.

“Here we are,” Ignazio announced, stopping at the door to my room.

“Thank you,” I stammered. “This is lovely.” And it really was. The gold-edged frescoes of ancient myths adorning the walls, the baroque-era, red-velvet love seat, the luxurious four-poster bed, and even the dark wooden beams overhead were stunning. Modern stained-glass lamps graced the tables, the only sign I hadn’t stepped back centuries in time. He pointed out all the amenities: extra blankets and pillows, a basin with water to wash my face, a plush bathrobe, and a pair of fuzzy slippers. I had not imagined I would be sleeping in such a luxurious fashion.

Ignazio motioned for me to enter, but I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to be in a bedroom with this man. After making his way to the window to close the curtains against the blackness, he eyed me intensely, as though he intended to say something but thought better of it. Then he neared me, moving close enough that I could smell him—a heady scent of smoke, leather, wood, and cinnamon. For a second, I thought he would reach out and touch me, and I didn’t know what I would do if he did, but he just swept right past me, pausing only briefly at the door.

“You can freshen up,” he said, pointing to the basin in the corner of the room. “Then join us in the dining hall. You must be hungry.” And with that, he was gone.

He was the one who sounded hungry—for me.

Going to the window, I parted the velvet curtains, hoping for a glimpse of theboschettobelow. But the landscape was dark, save for the few houses lit up far in the distance. It was in moments like these I often tried to remember some of the blankness that furled out behind me.

I reveled in the darkness and the starry tapestry above me. To my surprise, three shooting stars streaked across the sky in quick succession. First, the display of the sun, then the brilliance of the night.

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