Chapter 11

11

"My beautiful goddess," Dalí exclaimed when he saw me. "Today I will paint you in all your natural glory." He held a pomegranate in one hand and waved it around as he talked.

"Off with the dress," Gala said, turning me around and unzipping my dress before I could say anything or change my mind.

At least Ignazio was not there, but Jack was, and I tried not to think of him standing off to the side. He knew my body but had not seen it. I suddenly felt shy, a feeling I couldn't have if I were to make it through the day. Reminding myself that I had done this dozens of times, I allowed Gala to pull the baby blue dress off over my head, then my slip, and pretended not to notice Dalí's stare, or Jack's, focusing instead on the cool autumn air that pimpled my skin. I removed my brassiere and panties and handed them to Gala, who folded my clothes and set them neatly on a nearby camp chair. Lowering myself to Proserpina's bench, I lay back and let Dalí arrange me. The stone wasn't cold against my bare skin as I would have anticipated, but warm, as warm as I was, and familiar, as though I had sat on the bench hundreds of times before.

Dalí positioned me on my side, then whipped out a pocketknife and began to cut into the pomegranate. The juice dripped over his fingers as he pulled out a handful of the arils. After separating them from the pith, he laid the seeds across my body, one by one, up one leg, across my thigh and along my side and my arm.

"So beautiful," he gushed. "You are a vision, a dream. If there were no Gala, no gorgeous Gravida of mine, I would have to penetrate you."

I gasped at this proclamation.

Gala flicked the edge of her husband's ear with her finger. "Don't tease the model, estimat meu ." Though I didn't understand her Catalan, I could tell from her tone that it was said with endearment. I honestly did not understand these two people, nor did I want to.

Just then, Dalí placed two arils upon my left breast, pinpricks of warmth against my areola. I closed my eyes, wishing the day was over, not just beginning, and tried to ignore the weirdness of everything around me. I thought of Lillian and how these people might receive her. Dalí needed to know I had invited her, but I'd wait until Gala left, for I feared she would be quite angry with me.

"Maestro Dalí," I ventured once we were alone, "that phone call I made was to my roommate, Lillian. She is going to join me here tomorrow."

Dalí looked at me as though I had just sprouted another head. "But, little goddess, why? Why would you do that? Why would she come here?" He put down his brush and waited for my answer.

I gaped at him, unsure of what to say. That I was afraid of Ignazio? That I was hearing voices whisper in my ear when I walked through this place? By hell, I decided, logic be damned, perhaps a little truth wouldn't hurt.

"I'm afraid of ghosts. I think this place is haunted."

He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, yes. It is. I am haunting it! I walk with the gods and ghosts of the boschetto. I hear their music and I make it mine. This haunting is delicious, delirious!"

Unsure what to make of his raving, I listened and tried to keep my expression passive. When he quieted, he stared at me for a few moments, then finally said, "You do need a friend, my muse, my Proserpina. For I am not that." And, with that, he went back to painting as though I had never had the conversation with him.

Finally, Gala returned and broke the silence by instructing Paolo to take pictures of Dalí painting me. She was certain that Art News would want to publish them.

"They will, but such magnificence will be better represented in Time ," Dalí pronounced with confidence. " Time Magazine will want them. Or Life ."

My first thought was that I didn't want the entire world to see my breasts—a photo in a magazine wasn't like a painting, a work of true art—and I was about to protest when it dawned on me that neither my nudity nor my name would be of any import whatsoever. The editors of whichever magazines ran the photos would not only black out my parts, but they would never even bother to find out who I was. Dalí would be the star of the piece, would receive all the accolades, and I would merely be "the model."

Of course, this realization made me feel even worse, so I tried to divert my anxious mind by taking an imaginary walk through Rome's Borghese Gallery, my favorite museum, a place where I often went when I needed solace. I wandered through the gilded halls, admiring the statues and paintings, flitted through the rooms, wanting to see Bernini's masterpieces. My mind led me directly to my favorite statue, and as I stood in front of it, I had a startling insight. While I had always admired the piece for Bernini's skill—how he could make marble hands gripping flesh seem so real—I hadn't, until that moment, realized the statue I so deeply loved was that of Pluto dragging Proserpina off to the Underworld.

I was jolted out of my daze when Dalí declared it was time for lunch. Without a thought for me, he led Jack and Gala up the stairs before I knew what was happening. Paolo came toward me, his head turned, a blanket in his outstretched hand. I chuckled at his modesty, considering he had just spent considerable time photographing me in the nude.

"Signorina Julia, they have gone to the orco to eat," he said once I'd put my dress back on. "I will bring you there."

I shivered at the thought of eating inside that damn monster again.

"But first, I wanted to talk to you about Giulia Farnese's journal."

I sat back down on Proserpina's bench and patted the seat. Paolo joined me and extracted the journal from his camera bag. "She was an unusual woman. Not only did she keep the castello running while her husband served as a condottiero , but..."

"Condottiero?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

He thought for a moment. "A soldier for hire."

I nodded. "A mercenary. That's interesting."

" Sì , but more interesting is that Vicino Orsini didn't come up with the idea for the boschetto . It was Giulia who inspired her husband, though the ideas for the statues did not come from her. They came from her chef, Aidoneus." He paused to gauge my reaction. "Have you heard of Aidoneus?"

"The name seems familiar, but..." I couldn't quite place where I had heard it.

He looked up at the worn face of the goddess in whose lap we sat. "Some stories say that Aidoneus is another name for the Roman god, Pluto."

"Or for the Greek Hades," I breathed, trying to understand what such a thing meant.

" Esatto. But this Aidoneus is different. There is some thought he might have been real, not a myth, and that he was married to a woman named Proserpina many centuries ago."

I gaped at him, trying to grasp what this could mean.

A crackle of branches on the path behind Proserpina's bench caused both of us to jump to our feet. Paolo quickly shoved the journal into his bag.

"What's taking you so long?" Jack asked, coming into view. "We're getting hungry."

"I was telling her about the little town where I grew up," Paolo lied.

"Well, hop to it and tell her on the way."

I squeezed Paolo's arm, a small gesture to thank him for keeping the journal our little secret. He gave me a nod and a smile, but he looked worried. Hopefully we'd find more time to continue this conversation sooner rather than later. "Why do we have to go to the Hell mouth to eat?" I wondered aloud as we traversed the overgrown route. "Why can't they just set up a table near the bench?"

Jack shrugged. "There's already a table there. Why drag another one into the garden?"

My mind focused on steeling myself to take on whatever new thing might happen in the mouth of the orco , I tripped on an overgrown root and went flying. Jack caught me without effort, lifting me up and cradling me in his arms. "Be careful, Julia," he warned, holding me tight. "I would hate to see that pretty face marred by the rocks of Bomarzo."

Dreading lunch, I didn't want to leave the safety and comfort of his embrace. But he righted me, then relinquished me, though he did extend his arm for me to hold as he led me into the Mouth of Hell, where Dalí and Gala waited impatiently. No sooner had Ignazio told us about the various tramezzini —little triangular sandwiches on crustless white bread that he said were popular in Venice—than Dalí laid in, loading up his plate with two or three of each kind. I felt dizzied by the choices: prosciutto and cantaloupe; cucumber, mayo, and herb; asparagus and egg; artichoke; bresaola and arugula; mortadella and roasted red peppers; eggplant and mozzarella; cherry tomatoes and asiago cheese; tuna, egg, and olive.

"Squisito!" Dalí raved.

"These are far superior to those sandwiches they serve at tea in London," Gala agreed, though she had only taken one.

They were right about the sandwiches being delicious. But the white bread was sticky in my mouth, and I asked Ignazio for something to drink. He gave me a little bow before pulling a thermos from a bag at his feet. He uncapped it and poured an enticing ruby-colored liquid into the goblets before him, then handed me a glass, his fingers brushing against mine. My breath caught with his heat.

"What is it?" I managed, although the seed floating in my glass gave me the answer before Ignazio confirmed that it was indeed pomegranate juice.

"With a little gin," he added, nodding at Dalí, who tipped up his drink in a toast.

Just as I lifted my cocktail to drink, Paolo's elbow crashed into mine, sending the glass flying. It burst into pieces as it hit the peperino wall at the back of the monster's mouth, the juice leaving a dark stain against the rock.

"Mi dispiace!" he cried. Scrambling past me, he began picking up the broken glass shards, but Ignazio waved him off.

"Worry not. My people will clean it up," Ignazio assured him as he poured me a fresh goblet.

Paolo put his hand on my arm and squeezed an unmistakable warning. He did not want me to drink the juice.

"I've changed my mind," I said to Ignazio.

"You must have a glass," he insisted.

"Drink! Drink!" Dalí said, his eyes bulging. "You need the ruby strength, the power of the sacred pomegranate. Proserpina would never say no to such ambrosia."

"This one would," I said. I dared not look at Gala. But there was something in Paolo's warning that made me willing to take the chance.

"I'd prefer water," I told Ignazio.

"I have none here."

I shook my head. "Then I will be fine without anything."

Finally, Ignazio set the goblet upon the table and left. I swore I felt the ground tremble as he walked down the trail away from the orco .

"Why did you do that, you stupid girl?" Gala sniped at me. "He is our host."

"I'm not going to eat and drink everything forced upon me," I said, refusing to give in to her.

"If you do not drink it, you will wear it instead," Dalí said. "We will pour it over you, letting it flow across your limbs."

Gala stared at me, daring me to say no.

I shivered, thinking of how cold and sticky that would be.

"Just drink it," Jack said, his eyes imploring me. "It would be better than wearing it."

Paolo's knee pressed against mine, his foot pushing along my shoe, warning me without words. I felt trapped, a mouse between two cats with no graceful way out.

My desire to remain clean and dry won out. I picked up the goblet and was about to lift it to my mouth when I heard a horrible yowl. Orpheus jumped onto the table, scattering the remnants of the tramezzini , and leaped at me, knocking the new glass out of my hand so it too shattered on the smooth stone beneath our feet. A drop of liquid hit my cheek and I wiped it off with my hand.

We stared at the cat in disbelief as he sat down on the table, his tail flicking back and forth, then calmly began to clean the few spots of pomegranate juice off his paws.

"It seems I wasn't meant to drink the juice after all." Checking the thermos, I noted with satisfaction that there was also no more left to drizzle upon me.

Jack picked up the cat and tossed him out the mouth of the orco , ignoring my cry of protest. He cursed as he let the cat go.

"The little beast scratched me." He held up his arm, upon which there was a long gash with a few beads of blood.

Down the path, Orpheus sat and stared at me. I swear he gave me a little nod of his head before he took off into the bushes beyond the statue of the dragon fighting off the lions.