Chapter 9

9

We came upon the massive vase I had seen with Jack that first day, the one that signified Bacchus's entry into hell, and there was Orpheus again, rubbing up against its base. He looked at me and cocked his head.

Julia...

My heart sped up and I hurried past the vase, frustrated by the voice. I didn't understand what it wanted from me. Orpheus howled as I passed him, a horrible, sad, haunting noise. I picked him up and he calmed.

"Orpheus clearly doesn't want you to return to the Underworld," Dalí said, as he pointed with his walking stick at the stairs to the orco ahead. We had, it seemed, walked in a little circle.

The glow emanating from the Mouth of Hell was bright but sinister, highlighting the orco 's teeth. A red cloth covered the stone table, and from my vantage point, it truly did look like a tongue. The torches on the path highlighted the statues of Hannibal and his elephant and the dragon fighting off the lions beyond.

As I glanced between the statues, and back toward Ceres, I could swear that the figures shifted . There is no better word for it—the movements were so subtle, and caught out of the corner of my eye. If I stared at them straight on, the movement seemed to be just a figment of my imagination, yet the pomegranate bushes near them stirred in a way that the foliage beyond did not. It was a scene from a nightmare, one that made me agree with Orpheus—I didn't want to return to the orco either. My previous experience in the Mouth of Hell wasn't a pleasant one, and its visage at night was rather terrifying.

Jack moved to my side. "Don't worry, baby doll. I'll be there to catch you if you faint again," he said in a voice too low for Gala to hear.

I smiled at him, glad for his attention and his reassurance. He held out an arm, and I took it. Gala immediately came and took his other arm. Her possessiveness was annoying, particularly in the presence of her husband, though he did not seem perturbed. No, he forged ahead to the orco , paused briefly to look inside, then turned to cut a compelling silhouette in the darkness as Paolo took photo after photo. To my surprise, Gala left Jack's side to go to Dalí.

"She loves the limelight as much as he does," Jack explained. He shifted so that his body was against mine. "Your nearness is beyond distracting," he whispered. "Let me come to you tonight. I'll keep the monsters away."

I looked up at him. My word, he was dreamy. To have him in my bed would not be a hardship. And I was sure there were monsters in the castello . The idea of having this huge man to keep me safe in the dark was suddenly very appealing. Throwing caution to the wind, I said, "I'll leave the door unlocked."

Not a moment later, the touch of a hot hand on my shoulder made me jump. A strangled noise escaped my throat as I realized it was Ignazio. I unhooked my arm from Jack's. Had Ignazio heard that I was going to leave my door unlocked? For a fleeting moment, memories of his perplexing kiss in the heat of the cellar fire had me imagining him being the one to climb into my bed and bring me immense pleasure.

I quickly banished that thought from my mind—he was dangerous. He was like a panther, waiting in the dark to strike. I was reminded of a movie I once saw, The Lodger , in which a woman rents out one of her rooms to a handsome man, and later he turns out to be Jack the Ripper.

"Are you ready for the next course?" Ignazio asked us.

I opened my mouth to respond, but my words died when I caught sight of two glowing green orbs in the darkness behind him, where the statue of Ceres rested.

"Why do you look like you've seen a ghost again?" Jack asked. His eyes followed the line of my sight, but the green glow winked out abruptly. Jack said nothing, so I suspected he hadn't seen it.

"Tomorrow may I use the telephone?" I asked Ignazio in a rush. I had to talk to Lillian. No longer certain of my sanity, I needed her voice of reason in my ear.

Ignazio raised an eyebrow. "I suppose that can be arranged. But there isn't one at the palazzo. There are very few telephones in Bomarzo—the war destroyed most of the lines and equipment, and they have been slow to replace them. But there is an old widow in town who I believe has one. I'll see if she will allow you to use it."

I let out a long sigh. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

"Come, the last course is waiting for you." He put his hand on my lower back and heat radiated through me, sending an electric rush of desire to my nether region. It seemed a possessive gesture, given my proximity to Jack in that moment, a subtle signal—to me or to Jack, I wasn't sure.

Gala, however, had no intention of letting me be the center of such attention. She stepped down from the orco and, unable to choose between Ignazio and Jack, took me by the arm and pulled me away from both men. I knew it wasn't an act of kindness, but I felt such great relief for her rescue. To be caught between two men who expressed desire for me may sound thrilling, but truly, it wasn't. It left me disconcerted and confused, two things I wasn't keen on feeling.

As Gala led me into the Mouth of Hell, I glanced back and saw Orpheus beyond Jack and Ignazio. He looked defeated. I paused in the doorway, hesitant to enter this sinister place. It was too dark for me to read the words carved into the monster's upper lip, but I remembered them. "Ogni pensiero vola," I whispered to myself as I stepped into the giant screaming mouth. Thankfully, this time I felt nothing but a little extra warmth from all the tiny fires illuminating the space.

Gala indicated that I should take the seat at the head of the table, which was surprising—shouldn't the seat of honor be reserved for Dalí? But I quickly realized it was to set me apart, away from Jack. I sat in the luxurious chair that had been brought from the castello and looked down the length of the tiny table to the darkness beyond. Another bout of déjà vu hit me, an image of me sitting at the head of a different table, equally laden with delicacies, the queen of my domain. Was it a memory plucked from the emptiness of my past? I shook that thought off; the idea of me lording over a table full of expensive and exquisite food seemed a little too ludicrous to entertain.

Given the two courses we'd been served in the Casa Pendente, I expected the dishes in the orco to be one color, and I wasn't disappointed. Each morsel brought to the table was a shade of black. Salads of black lettuce topped by black beets, squid-ink risotto, charred aubergine, inky black pasta dotted with black mushrooms. Even the wine was so dark it looked black in the candlelight. I didn't know there were so many possibilities for black food! Every bite was even more delectable than the previous, leading to a surprising juxtaposition of the senses—being in heaven while dining in the Mouth of Hell.

When little plates of black garlic arrived to spread upon small slices of black bread, Dalí could barely contain himself. "This! This is the food of death, of darkness. It drags me into my dreams. It reminds me of my supreme game."

"Your supreme game?" I asked.

"Yes! To imagine myself dead! On a slab of stone." He patted the table before us. "In my game, I am being slowly yet ravenously consumed by worms. They dangle from my vacant eye sockets, having gnawed away my sight. Beneath my ribs, their voracious jaws grind and mash, destroying the gossamer tissues of my disintegrating lungs. My heart holds out just a bit, for the sake of appearances, for it has always served me well. But the maggots are relentless, swarming over every inch of my divine corpse, their massive bodies undulating as they gorge themselves upon my flesh. At last, my heart can endure no more and ruptures in a great burst of putrid gore, unleashing a fresh torrent of wriggling spawn. I conjure every little detail with absolute scatological precision, imagining my complete consumption by these hellish creatures!"

Paolo pushed his plate away.

Dalí wasn't just eccentric; he was quite possibly deranged. What type of person imagined such awfulness?

"How is that fun?" Jack asked.

"Have you ever tried it?" Dalí countered in all seriousness.

"You suffer from a lack of imagination, darling." Gala gave Jack's shoulder a playful pat. He wrinkled his brow but didn't retort. Instead, he reached for his spoon to dig into the dessert, little cups of chocolate so dark it was almost black. Each one was dotted with a single pomegranate seed.

When the servant began to set the plate before me, I held up my hand. "No, thank you, I'm quite full," I said, though I knew Gala might scold me for insulting our host again.

But the man ignored me and set the plate down in front of me without a word.

"I guess you'll have to eat it." Jack laughed.

"I can't. There isn't another place in my stomach for it." I put it in front of Dalí. "Here, you have it."

"No!" he yelled, his eyes wide and bulging, his mustache twitching. "YOU WILL EAT THIS." His voice boomed in the small space, echoing off the peperino as he thrust the cup back in front of me. Alarmed by his furor, I picked up my spoon, and he instantly calmed down.

Gala raised an eyebrow at his erratic behavior but didn't say anything.

"Per què ha de ser tan difícil? Per què no et menges la male?da llavor?" he muttered to himself.

While I didn't know any Catalan, it was close enough to Italian for me to understand it was something about me being difficult. Dutifully dipping my spoon into the black chocolate, I closed my eyes to savor the richness, the luxurious way the chocolate melted against my tongue. For a second, I felt grateful that Dalí had wanted me to eat it; I had never had a dessert so divine.

"No!" Dalí yelled again.

My eyes flew open with a start, and I almost fell backward.

"What did I do?" I cried, shocked. "I had the chocolate."

He pointed at the cup. The lone pomegranate seed had fallen into the depression made by my spoon.

"This is about a damn seed?" I asked. Up until that moment, I had thought he called me by the goddess's name in jest or out of some stubborn, deviant affection. But his fury made it clear he truly saw me as Proserpina's reincarnation.

He said nothing, only pointed dramatically at the cup as my tablemates looked on. Jack seemed amused, Paolo concerned, but it was Gala's frown that held the most weight. The thought of losing another day's salary pressed upon me like a physical burden. Resigned, I scooped up the seed with my next spoonful of chocolate, feeling its weight disproportionate to its size. As I slipped it into my mouth, Dalí exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath, a sigh of unmistakable relief permeating the air.

A warmth surged through me, a languid, mesmerizing heat that seeped into my very bones. My head swam, and a sensation of deep, unnamable loss overwhelmed me. It was a yearning for something elusive, a fleeting image of darkness and beauty so closely entangled it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. For a moment, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a revelation, grasping for the substance of the vision. I closed my eyes to delve deeper into this enigmatic feeling.

When I opened them, Ignazio was standing before me, his eyes locked on to mine with an intensity, a hunger that unnerved me. The connection was so electric, so charged, that I had to look away.

"Much better," Dalí declared, a note of deep satisfaction coloring his words as he turned back to his own cup of chocolate.

I didn't finish mine and the maestro did not command me to. When the meal was complete, rather than having another glass of wine, I told Ignazio I would prefer to return to the palazzo. Dalí and Gala wanted to stay, and of course, they bade Jack to remain. Paolo graciously offered to escort me back.

"Find me in the morning," Ignazio told me after he had instructed a servant to lead us back to the car. "I will arrange for you to use the telephone."

The thought of talking with Lillian filled me with hope. She had always been a voice of reason for me. She would tell me what I should do—leave this world of freaks or stick it out for the money.

"Grazie infinite."

"Anything for you, Julia."

I backed away, unsure what to do with such adoration. Taking Paolo's arm, I waved to the others, and we followed dutifully behind the servant.

We said little, primarily because of the presence of the spindly servant leading us to the car and driving us back to the castello . The man's eyes were empty, devoid of sentiment. When he let us out at the base of the hill leading up to the palazzo, I released a huge sigh.

"He was a...how do you say?... uomo insolito ," Paolo agreed, smiling at me.

"Yes, a very unusual man. Thank you for accompanying me back."

"It's nothing," he said.

On the way to our rooms, Paolo told me that he had been hired by Dalí just a day or two before coming to Bomarzo. He had known nothing of the artist before taking the job.

"He is also an unusual man," he said.

"Oh my, he is. And to be here in this place... Everything here is strange."

"But the pay is very good, no?"

I laughed. " Sì , it is."

The palazzo was eerily quiet, with not a soul in sight, but we were both jumpy, looking toward the dark corners with suspicion.

"I want to know more about this place," he told me.

There was so much I, too, wanted to understand. "Have you seen any...ghosts?" I asked hesitantly. Italians were terribly superstitious.

"No, but I believe there may be many here. Have you seen any?"

His openness to the idea compelled me to be honest.

"I think, perhaps, I might have. They keep calling my name."

He looked at me, his mouth in a round O of surprise. "Your name? Or the name of Giulia Orsini?"

"I'm not sure. But it's happened several times."

"It would not be surprising if there are ghosts here. That is why I would like to know more about the palazzo."

"I think I might know how we can learn a bit of its history." As I told him about Giulia's journal, he grew quite animated. "I haven't told the others about it. I think there's something important in it, and I didn't want them to become so interested that they'd take it from me."

Paolo nodded his understanding. "This secret is safe with me."

He walked me to my room, and I retrieved the journal from its place in the bottom drawer. I watched him thumb through it, a broad smile on his lips.

"This discovery, it is marvelous, Julia. I will read it and help you understand."

He hurried off to his room, clearly excited. Once he disappeared, I shut the door and almost locked it, but hesitated, remembering my words to Jack, that I would leave it open.

But there was a part of me that worried about Ignazio. Someone had, after all, left the tarot card under my pillow, and it was rather clear he was taken with me. I had no doubt he would be more than happy to take me to bed. Of course, another part of me wondered if that would be so bad. Then I thought of the ghost of myself in the fire, pointing at Ignazio. If there was any sort of warning I should heed, it was the one from my other self.

I leaned against the door. There wasn't a sound to be heard save for a bit of wind outside rattling a loose window shutter. I suddenly felt horribly alone, and I didn't want to be. Deciding to take a chance on Jack, I left the door unlocked. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness envelop me, my heart a soft drumbeat in the quiet room.

Finally, long after midnight, I felt the subtle shift of the mattress as someone climbed into bed with me. In my half-asleep state, I assumed it was Jack. Without opening my eyes, I pushed my body against the warmth next to me. The earthy scent around me seemed familiar, yet there was something different, something I couldn't quite place in my drowsy mind. Soft hands caressed me with the barest of movements, and although it would seem impossible to fall asleep in such an amorous moment, I must have been very tired, for I began to dream that Jack was a woman, large and powerful, cradling my body, wrapping herself around me from behind, her breasts against my back, her breath hot in my ear. Her flesh was soft, like the downiest pillows, and I let myself luxuriate in the sensation of her cool skin against mine. Then she kissed the tip of my ear, her tongue traveling across the tight skin, her hands roaming over my body, teasing my nipples with her fingers.

I moaned and rolled myself into her so that her mouth was upon mine, one of her hands between my legs, her other at my ear, whispering something I couldn't understand. Everything about this woman felt familiar, made me cleave to her. My hand found her hair and I held her as she devoured me with her mouth. We writhed against each other, and I felt truly alive, lost in multiple waves of satisfaction.

Then I was awake, Jack thrusting deep into me, my eyes flying open with the sensation of my cry, something I could not contain. I had wanted this, yet this communion wasn't what I thought it would be. Still lost in the sensation of my dream, it was hard to reconcile the real-life feeling of this big man above me. He filled me, pushing into me in a way that was quite pleasurable, but Jack was a bit of a disappointment compared to the ecstasy I had felt in my dream.

I didn't reach the same culmination he did, and when we lay next to each other afterward, I was relieved he either didn't notice or at least didn't comment. It seemed irrelevant; I had taken my pleasure with the woman I envisioned—but how could I possibly explain that to him? I could barely explain it to myself. And while he certainly had been partaking of me while I was lost in that vision, I also knew, instinctively, that the being who had given me such pleasure wasn't Jack. The woman in my vision was more than him, bigger than life, her spirit unable to be tamed.

"That was..." Jack began.

"Nice," I finished, not wanting to hear him gush sentiments I couldn't share.

He rolled over toward me, and his hand found my face. He stroked my cheek softly. "You are...unexpected, Julia."

"And so are you," I said, although I was sure we did not mean the same thing.

"I can't stay with you," he said. "Gala..."

"I understand."

He kissed me, a slow, tender kiss that was indeed nice. It was a skill at which he excelled. I found I wanted more, but he slid out of bed, put on his clothes, and was soon gone.

A heaviness filled me after he departed, my mind turning over all the sensations I had just experienced. Sleep came fast and easy.

I dreamed again of the woman caressing my skin lightly with her fingers, her voice in my ear. Leaning back into her, I tried to understand her words. Then my dream shifted—it was no longer her voice but Ignazio's. "You are mine," he said, his heat radiating through me. "Only mine." Smoke. Leather. Cinnamon. His scent was so heady that I could almost taste it.

He ran his hands along my arms, down across my belly, his fingers stopping above my sex, at the edge of my folds. A tease. I pushed myself into him, my body begging for more, but his hand did not shift. His lips caressed the back of my neck and my shoulder, every contact sending a deeper rush through me.

"She cannot give you all that I can," he whispered.

Somehow, I knew this was true, but I wanted him to prove it to me. One finger moved a little lower. I desperately pushed my hips upward, hoping for more. Then he abruptly turned to smoke, dissipating, the pressure against my back dissolving into nothingness.

I awoke with a start. Dawn light pooled at the edges of the drapes. I was alone, but my body was hot in the places where Ignazio's hands had lain against my skin. And I could have sworn the scent of cinnamon still lingered in the room.