Page 38 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Sì.Then one must take a ferry across the swamp, and that only runs twice a day as well. It is not an easy thing to arrive in Bomarzo without a car, especially since the War. Now, don’t look so defeated.”

He put a hand on my shoulder but immediately removed it when I recoiled from his heat. I was trying hard not to cry.

“Worry not. The train arrives tomorrow. I will have Minos retrieve her,” he said.

I took a deep breath, willing my tears to retreat. I wouldn’t see her for another whole day. My trip would be half over when she arrived. But knowing she was coming to Bomarzo at all gave me courage.

Yet just as I was trying to muster that goodwill, I realized how forward I had been. I was sure there was a room for Lillian in the palazzo, but I didn’t know how much Dalí had paid for this wild trip. She was another bed to make up and another mouth to feed.

Ignazio noticed my consternation. “What’s wrong, Julia?”

“I...I might have been hasty in inviting her. I never talked to Dalí about it. I’ll have them take the money from my pay...” I trailed off, wondering if Gala would even agree to such a thing.

“Don’t worry, Julia. I will take care of everything for Lillian’s stay. She will be my guest as much as yours.”

I looked at him, shocked. “That’s...that’s very generous,” I said, unsure why he would do such a thing but grateful all the same.

“It’s nothing.”

“I must return to Signora Rosati to call and let her know.”

“No, no, give me her number. I will arrange everything,” he said.

Although I was hesitant, I gave him our number.

It was only after he’d disappeared into the garden that I realized I had never told Ignazio Lillian’s name.

11

“My beautiful goddess,” Dalí exclaimed when he saw me. “Today I will paint you in all your natural glory.” He held a pomegranate in one hand and waved it around as he talked.

“Off with the dress,” Gala said, turning me around and unzipping my dress before I could say anything or change my mind.

At least Ignazio was not there, but Jack was, and I tried not to think of him standing off to the side. He knew my body but had not seen it. I suddenly felt shy, a feeling I couldn’t have if I were to make it through the day. Reminding myself that I had done this dozens of times, I allowed Gala to pull the baby blue dress off over my head, then my slip, and pretended not to notice Dalí’s stare, or Jack’s, focusing instead on the cool autumn air that pimpled my skin. I removed my brassiere and panties and handed them to Gala, who folded my clothes and set them neatly on a nearby camp chair. Lowering myself to Proserpina’s bench, I lay back and let Dalí arrange me. The stone wasn’t cold against my bare skin as I would have anticipated, but warm, as warm as I was, and familiar, as though I had sat on the bench hundreds of times before.

Dalí positioned me on my side, then whipped out a pocketknife and began to cut into the pomegranate. The juice dripped over his fingers as he pulled out a handful of the arils. After separating them from the pith, he laid the seeds across my body, one by one, up one leg, across my thigh and along my side and my arm.

“So beautiful,” he gushed. “You are a vision, a dream. If there were no Gala, no gorgeous Gravida of mine, I would have to penetrate you.”

I gasped at this proclamation.

Gala flicked the edge of her husband’s ear with her finger. “Don’t tease the model,estimat meu.” Though I didn’t understand her Catalan, I could tell from her tone that it was said with endearment. I honestly did not understand these two people, nor did I want to.

Just then, Dalí placed two arils upon my left breast, pinpricks of warmth against my areola. I closed my eyes, wishing the day was over, not just beginning, and tried to ignore the weirdness of everything around me. I thought of Lillian and how these people might receive her. Dalí needed to know I had invited her, but I’d wait until Gala left, for I feared she would be quite angry with me.

“MaestroDalí,” I ventured once we were alone, “that phone call I made was to my roommate, Lillian. She is going to join me here tomorrow.”

Dalí looked at me as though I had just sprouted another head. “But, little goddess, why? Why would you do that? Why would she come here?” He put down his brush and waited for my answer.

I gaped at him, unsure of what to say. That I was afraid of Ignazio? That I was hearing voices whisper in my ear when I walked through this place? By hell, I decided, logic be damned, perhaps a little truth wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m afraid of ghosts. I think this place is haunted.”

He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. It is. I am haunting it! I walk with the gods and ghosts of theboschetto.I hear their music and I make it mine. This haunting is delicious, delirious!”

Unsure what to make of his raving, I listened and tried to keep my expression passive. When he quieted, he stared at me for a few moments, then finally said, “You do need a friend, my muse, my Proserpina. For I am not that.” And, with that, he went back to painting as though I had never had the conversation with him.

Finally, Gala returned and broke the silence by instructing Paolo to take pictures of Dalí painting me. She was certain thatArt Newswould want to publish them.

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