Page 81 of In the Garden of Monsters

“I wish you could have known her better,” I told him. “I am sorry for that.”

“Do not be sorry. I am glad she was in my life, even if for just a couple of days. She loved you, Julia. Cherish her memory. Remember all you learned from her, all you loved about her. Let those memories be your solace when darkness looms.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. My tears had dried, and a little shell was starting to form around my heart, hard and protective.

“I think I will eat the last seed,” I finally said.

He pulled back to look me in the eye.

“No, Julia, no, you must not.”

“Lillian died because I wouldn’t give in to the forces of theboschetto,” I said. “I don’t know why they want me to, but it seems like I should, regardless of what will happen to me. I don’t want anyone else to suffer the same fate because of me.”

“Julia, you’ll die.”

I nodded. “I think that’s true.”

“You can’t give in to them, Julia. Think of all the ghosts. You’ll become one of them. You don’t want that terrible fate, roaming around Bomarzo till the end of time.”

“If I don’t, you might die. Dalí or Jack or Gala might die. Lillian’s death was a terrible one. She died in fear. In total, abject terror. Whatever killed her will come for all of you.”

Paolo shook his head. “You don’t know that. Anything could have happened to Lillian. Don’t do this, Julia, please. Lillian wouldn’t want you to.”

I had been sure of my decision until he said these last words. He was right. Lillian would not want me to. She would want me to fight these forces, to defy them.

But look what defying them had gotten her.

When I left Paolo, I searched for Dalí and found him on the terrace, thankfully alone, painting the valley before him. I was surprised to see trees cropping up on his canvas—he was fonder of the desert, of clean lines that served as a backdrop to his surreal visions.

“I’d like to see the sketchbook I saw you with earlier,” I said to him, no longer caring if I got paid or if I sat for him again.

He set down his brush. “I don’t think you need to...”

“I do.”

He stared at me, but I refused to budge. I held out my hand expectantly.

He seemed unsure what his course of action should be. I don’t think many women had been stern with him except for Gala, and perhaps his mother, long ago. He reached into his coat pocket and handed me the worn Moleskine. In his eyes, I saw something that I don’t know if many had ever seen or might ever see from him again—shame.

I flipped through the notebook, past images of me, Gala, slippery clocks, fuzzy bees, partially imagined humans, spindly elephants, and strange landscapes. Finally, I came upon the sketch he had been making at the edge of the Etruscan grave. Lillian’s terror stared up at me, her breast bared, her leg and arm askew. I hated how talented he was. I hated that he had captured the image so perfectly. And in that moment, I hated him.

The thought of slapping him, as I had seen women do in movies, crossed my mind. But I knew that for Dalí, that would mean little. His face was just skin and bone; his art was his soul.

Instead I ripped the drawing out of the book, holding the delicate paper up to his eyes so he could see the destruction. Dalí’s face paled; he looked as though I had struck him physically. His lips quivered, but he said nothing.

When I handed the Moleskine back to him, his eyes would not meet mine. I went to the edge of the terrace and ripped up the sketch, letting the pieces float in the wind, dropping to theboschettobelow like fallen snow. I watched them fly away, my heart broken into as many pieces.

He came and stood next to me, and we looked out toward the garden. He didn’t apologize for his drawing. Even if the thought had occurred to him, I don’t think he had the slightest idea how to do so. I had destroyed something irreplaceable, something that had sprung from his twisted, brilliant mind. And I felt no remorse.

“Salvador.” Gala’s call sounded like a command and the artist took it as such, turning at once and going to her. “We can’t leave for at least a few days,” she said stoically.

So, thecommissariohadn’t taken her bribe after all.

“You need to get back to work on the sets for the Opera, but now we’re stuck here.” She sneered at me, her tone accusatory.

This time, I didn’t resist the urge to slap her. But as my hand connected with her face, I realized that real life was not like the movies. There was no orchestral swell, no gasping audience. There was only the sound of flesh against flesh, the sharp sting in my palm, and the look of pure shock in Gala’s eyes.

Her mouth dropped into an O of surprise, but if she said anything to me, I didn’t hear her. I had already stepped back inside.

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