Page 5 of In the Garden of Monsters

I hoped Ignazio’s mysterious proclamation about Sol might be true—that the gods were bestowing something good upon us. If not Sol, then perhaps I could call upon Astraeus, the Titan god of the planets and stars. I made a wish on those stellar gifts, that some of their light would help me find my way.

Just as I was about to close the curtains, a green glow flared down in the valley. Faint at first, it grew brighter, illuminating the obscure corners of the landscape in an eerie radiance. I couldn’t pinpoint its origin, but I knew it wasn’t anything mundane. It wasn’t a fire, that much was clear, and its ethereal luminescence ruled out the possibility of it being a car’s headlights or a flashlight. It was mesmerizing yet unsettling, almost as if it tapped into some deeply buried instinct. The light began to pulse faster and faster, intensifying in brilliance. Leaning against the window frame, I analyzed its rhythm with a sense of growing astonishment, my breath catching when I realized that the pulsing light was eerily synchronized with the beat of my heart.

I shut the curtains and stood there, the hairs on my arms standing on end as I tried to calm my breath. The sound of laughter from down the hall brought me back to my senses. I was being ridiculous. There couldn’t have been anything there in the garden. With great hesitation, I opened the curtain again.

The glow was gone.

2

“I saw a weird green light in the valley,” I told the elderly servant who escorted me to dinner. “Do you know what it might be?”

“Impossible,” she said without looking at me. “No one goes into the Sacro Bosco at night.” She strode ahead, cutting off my opportunity to ask anything more, and led me to a set of ornate doors, bowed her head, and departed.

For my first meal in Bomarzo, I had chosen to wear an elegant black dress with puffed sleeves that made my arms look sleek. The front draped seductively, and the skirt was nearly floor-length, not quite pencil thin but fitting. My black-heeled shoes had been a gift from Lillian, a Ferragamo pair with a tiny nick on the sole that couldn’t be sold at the shop. The dress was my most flattering, and I wanted to inspire Dalí on the eve before he was to begin painting me. I took a deep breath and entered.

Green helical columns topped with gold capitals were painted onto the walls of the immense hall, giving the sense that they propped up the ceiling. The golden brocade curtains had been drawn to close out the night, but a fire in an intricately carved marble fireplace lit up one corner of the room. A long dining table dominated the middle of the chamber, surrounded by several dozen plush chairs. Gala and Dalí were already there and stood at one end of the table. Dalí wore a black double-breasted suit with a blue pocket square. Gala had donned a dress much in the same shape as mine, but her skirt was of shiny black silk that flowed sensually when she moved. They were talking with two men who looked to be near my age.

“Paolo,” one said by way of introduction. He reminded me a little of Sinatra, but with an outsize nose and an Italian accent. “I’m the photographer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Julia,” the other chimed in, extending his hand. “I’m Jack.” He was tall and blond, with striking blue eyes and the body of an American footballer. His smile immediately endeared him to me. I guessed he was the muscle who would haul Dalí’s materials around.

“You’re American,” I said, surprised and pleased to have someone there who sounded like me.

“Born and raised in Idaho,” he said proudly. “I served in the War. Infantryman, part of the Fifth Army under General Mark Clark.”

“Under General Clark? You helped retake Rome.”

He nodded. “And when it was over, I wanted to come back and see the city properly. I came with a girl, and when she went home, I decided to stay. I barely know an iota of Italian, but I get by.”

“Ah. Italy is the better lover?”

He chuckled. “That she is.”

“I went to school in Boston, but I’m from New York,” I lied to him as I lifted a flute of prosecco from the tray a waiter held toward me.

“To New York,” Dalí exclaimed, holding his glass aloft, eyes sparkling. “An enigma of its own creation, draped in shadows and light!”

“It is a place of poetry,” Gala said, clinking her glass to mine.

“New York is indeed a poem, but not of steel towers reaching for the heavens. No, New York is a symphony of vibrancy and chaos, an orchestration of the primeval and the enigmatic. It’s a pulsating, monstrous organ of crimson ivory echoing its rhythm into the ether.” His hands moved as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “New York isn’t a prism of light. It is not a sheet of cold white. It is a ballad sung in red, fiery red!”

I had no idea what he was talking about. Jack and Paolo only looked amused, as if this sort of poetic nonsense was common with Dalí.

“I think of New York as an inverted heart,” Gala said. “The veins of its streets an organized snarl, pumping energy, pumping people in and about.”

Dalí’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, pumping! PUMPING,” he shouted.

I wanted to laugh at this bizarre, campy behavior, but I didn’t know if I would offend my eccentric employer. Jack, however, burst into a gale of hearty chuckles.

“You dirty fiend,” Gala said, smacking him playfully. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Gala, you admonish me?” Jack laughed even harder. “You’re always the first to tumble into the gutter.”

Gala licked her upper lip seductively at Jack.

Glancing at Dalí, I saw his eyes alight with a different kind of intensity, the corners of his mouth hinting at a knowing smirk. His gaze lingered on the exchange, drinking in the moment, his fingers lightly tapping the stem of his glass in an erratic rhythm. It was not disapproval that radiated from him, but something much more akin to heightened interest. The air around him seemed to thrum with a fresh, palpable energy. In that moment, I found myself questioning Jack’s role in Dalí’s retinue, wondering if he had been brought to Bomarzo as anything other than a handsome plaything.

Ignazio entered the room just then, sporting a black tuxedo with a white bow tie and white gloves. “Dinner is served.”

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