Page 62 of In the Garden of Monsters

As soon as the cake landed on my plate, Lillian’s hand snatched it and popped it into her mouth.“Delizioso,”she declared. “So good I needed two.”

Next to me, Dalí grunted but stuck his fork into a quiche without further comment. I didn’t dare look at Ignazio. I was glad when the server didn’t attempt to replace it with another cake.

After another dose of Elysium wine, Ignazio brought us to the final table. His voice was like a smoldering ember, heating the room with its intensity. “Fire is the catalyst, the transformative force that turns potential into reality. Tonight we feast on the very essence of desire, the heat that fuels our most primal instincts.”

As we took our seats, I couldn’t help but feel the tension in the room rise like the temperature of a flame. The table was set ablaze with reds and oranges, and the centerpiece was a bowl of actual fire, flickering and dancing in a mesmerizing pattern.

The servers, now dressed in fiery hues, brought out the Baked Alaska, setting it in the middle of the table. With a flourish, Ignazio produced a match and set the dessert afire. The room gasped as the fire danced atop the dish, casting flickering shadows on everyone’s faces.

“At last! A dish as contradictory as love itself—cold and hot, sweet and fiery,” Dalí exclaimed.

Gala leaned over to Jack and whispered something in his ear, loud enough for me to hear. “Darling, I expect a performance as fiery as this dessert later tonight.”

Jack chuckled, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. “Oh, don’t you worry. I know how to fan the flames of passion.”

Ignazio caught my eye as he served the Baked Alaska, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “I trust you’ll find this course...enlightening.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine, despite the heat of the room. Ignazio’s presence was like a flame I was both drawn to and afraid of getting burned by.

As we moved on to mini churros with cayenne-pepper sugar and the flambéed, spiced poached pears, Dalí steered the conversation toward themes increasingly risqué. He licked the sugar off a churro, then leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Imagine, if you will, as I have witnessed, a night in Paris, where the air is thick with the scent of absinthe and the promise of forbidden pleasures. There, in a dimly lit room adorned with velvet and lace, the boundaries of the flesh are tested. The male organ, that phallic totem of virility, becomes a paintbrush, and the female form, a canvas of voluptuous landscapes, each curve a hill, each crevice a valley. And I, the voyeuristic maestro, orchestrating this symphony of skin and sin, where every moan is a note and every climax a crescendo!”

Lillian’s mouth fell open in shock. No one spoke for a moment. Then Gala giggled. “I remember that night.” Her hand moved under the table, conspicuously, in Jack’s lap. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in Gala’s touch, then abruptly opened them again, fixing them on me. “So, Julia, which element do you find most stirs your passions? Water, Earth, Air, or Fire?”

Caught off guard, I hesitated. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

Ignazio, who had been directing the servers, paused. “Don’t be shy, Julia. You are drawn to Fire, are you not?”

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my response. My heart leaped into my throat as Lillian’s leg pressed deep into mine.

I thought of Dalí’s description of Air. “No, I’m drawn to freedom.”

Ignazio nodded. “Then it seems we both want the same thing.” He held my gaze. Heat rose to my cheeks.

Lillian came to my rescue. “And what sort of freedom do you want?”

Ignazio’s eyes remained locked on to mine as he responded, “The freedom to pursue what sets our souls aflame, without the constraints others may place upon us.”

The atmosphere in the room became charged, as if his words had added fuel to an already smoldering fire. I felt both seen and exposed, a paradox that only Ignazio seemed capable of evoking in me.

She pushed harder. “And what, pray tell, are the constraints that have been placed upon you?”

Ignazio’s gaze finally broke from mine to meet Lillian’s challenging stare. “Constraints are often self-imposed, are they not? Fear, doubt, the weight of expectations—these are the chains we forge for ourselves.” His eyes flicked back to me, as if inviting me to break free. “But sometimes, the key to those chains is held by another.”

“I wish I had the key to those chains,” Gala said, reaching out a hand to run it across Ignazio’s arm.

Dalí suddenly stood, knocking over the chair behind him. “Gala, the supreme, divine Gala holds ALL THE KEYS.”

Gala laughed and let her husband lean down to kiss her. Ignazio gave me a knowing wink, then returned to directing the servers. What did he mean by someone else holding the key? It certainly wasn’t me.

The course ended with a demitasse cup full of spicy hot chocolate, sensuous and smooth. I never wanted the flavors to dissipate, but all too soon the last drop was gone.

“Bravo, Signor Dalí. What a meal,” Lillian declared as the last plate was removed.

Jack patted his belly. “I feel so perfectly full. Not too full, just perfectly full. What’s next, Dalí?”

The artist raised his walking stick into the air. “My friends, we ascend upon the realm of Quintessence.” He charged forward toward the small salon, leaving us to wonder what he meant.

“No seeds,” Lillian said to me as we followed Dalí across the immense hall, our footsteps echoing on the stone floor. “They hardly even tried.”

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