Page 64 of In the Garden of Monsters

The heart trembles.’”

Gala’s laughter broke the silence. “How utterly sentimental, Paolo. Now, Ignazio, would you be so kind as to draw a question for me?”

Ignazio reached into the hat. “If you could be any mythical creature for one day, which would you choose?”

Gala swirled her wineglass before taking a sip. “An intriguing question. A siren. Imagine the power of captivating anyone with just the sound of your voice.”

My mind immediately wandered to the siren statue in the garden, situated at the far end of the hippodrome, opposite Proserpina’s bench, next to the Fury whose wings had moved. The stone figure was a paradox—both hideous and sensual. Her bifurcated, scaly tails were spread wide in place of legs, while her thick, stone-like hair veiled her intimate areas. She was a creature of contradictions, embodying both allure and repulsion. Fitting, I thought.

“Dalí, your turn.” Ignazio handed the artist a slip of paper.

Dalí leaned back in his chair and read the slip out loud. “‘Pick someone in the room and describe how they would be as a lover, using only metaphors.’”

His eyes twinkled mischievously as they landed on me. “Proserpina! A lover like her would be a surrealist dreamscape, a labyrinth of sensuality where each turn reveals a new wonder. She would be the brush and the canvas, both the muse and the art, a swirling vortex of passion where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur. She would be the moon pulling the tides of desire, a symphony of ecstasy where each note is a shiver down the spine, each crescendo a climax of soul-shattering intensity. A dalliance with her would be like plunging into a sea of liquid gold, where every touch is alchemy, transforming the mundane into the extraordinary.”

I wanted to crawl under my chair and hide. Jack caught my eye and winked at me.

“Damn, Julia. Now even I want to make love to you.” Lillian laughed, breaking the tension.

Ignazio had been staring at me throughout Dalí’s monologue, and his gaze remained unbroken, even as the room erupted in laughter and playful banter. The intensity of his stare was almost palpable, like a physical touch, and my cheeks heated under the scrutiny. He said nothing, however, and only pulled another slip of paper from the hat and handed it to Lillian.

Lillian’s eyes widened as she read it. “‘Choose someone to dance with, but the dance must be entirely improvised and as surreal as possible.’”

A mischievous smile spread across her face. “Well, this should be interesting. Paolo, would you do me the honor?”

Paolo grinned and stood, offering his hand. “With pleasure.”

The two moved to the center of the room, and for a moment, they simply stood there, staring into each other’s eyes as if searching for some unspoken cue. Then, as if struck by the same bolt of inspiration, they began to move.

It was unlike any dance I’d ever seen. Lillian started by mimicking the movements of a marionette, her limbs jerking in exaggerated motions as Paolo pretended to hold invisible strings. He then transformed into a matador, and Lillian became the bull, charging at him only to spin away at the last moment.

The dance evolved, becoming more abstract with each passing second. Lillian suddenly dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and rolling around Paolo, who responded by leaping over her as if jumping over a rolling log. They moved in a series of bizarre, yet oddly harmonious, movements—sometimes mirroring each other, sometimes in stark contrast. All of it was simultaneously mesmerizing and hilarious.

At one point, Lillian stood perfectly still, as if frozen in time, while Paolo circled her, making sweeping gestures as if painting her into existence. Then, in a sudden burst of energy, Lillian sprang to life, pulling Paolo into a series of quick spins before pushing him away, only to pull him back in a magnetic-like force.

As they took their final pose, Lillian bending backward in a dramatic arch with Paolo’s hand supporting her, the room erupted into laughter and applause.

Dalí was the first to speak, his eyes shining with delight. “Bravo! Bravo!A dance worthy of the surreal. A living canvas.”

Lillian and Paolo, still catching their breath, bowed deeply, their eyes meeting for a lingering moment before they returned to their seats. The atmosphere in the room was electric, charged with the energy of their performance. But I only felt dread.

The hat of fate was now down to two choices: mine or Ignazio’s.

Ignazio extended the hat toward Dalí, who theatrically plucked a slip of paper from it. He twirled it around in the air, as if casting a spell, before handing it back to Ignazio.

“You must choose one who has not chosen!” Dalí declared, his voice booming in the small room.

A groan escaped my lips. What mortifying task would that slip assign me to perform with Ignazio?

“Don’t fret, Julia,” Lillian reassured me. “If he decides to toss you into the stratosphere, we’ll be here to catch you.” Her words were playful, but the underlying message was clear: I wasn’t alone, and she would be there to protect me, come what may.

Ignazio read the slip. “‘Engage in a staring contest with your chosen partner. The first to blink or look away loses. The winner gets to ask the loser any question they desire, which must be answered truthfully.’”

Oh, dear god, no. Not a staring contest. There was no way I would win this. I caught Lillian’s eye, and while she tried to plaster on a smile for me, I could see that she thought the same. But at least he wouldn’t be touching me.

Dalí instructed us to position our chairs facing each other, a few feet apart. The group rearranged themselves around us to watch and egg us on.

“Udachi,”Gala muttered to me in Russian as she pulled her chair away from mine. “You’ll need it.”

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