Chapter 13

13

I awoke to a commotion in the hallway. It was still dark and I flipped the switch on the lamp at my bedside. Gala and Dalí were bantering loudly outside my door, and Jack was shushing them.

"Your room is that way, the last one down the hall," he told them.

"Ish this your room, Jack?" Gala slurred. "Come to ours."

"I was already there," he said to her, like he might a child. "You wore me out, Gala, darling. Now I need to sleep. So do both of you. And, yes, this is my room." He rattled the doorknob, and I wondered if he knew it was my room or if he was also too drunk to remember who slept where.

"Galachuka! Come! Let me undress you. Let me worship you." I could barely understand Dalí between the liquor and his heavy accent, but the sound of his voice fading out seemed to indicate that he was leading Gala away.

Jack rattled the knob again and softly knocked two times. "What a schnook," he whispered when I opened the door. "She'll believe anything when she's deep in the sauce." He stepped into my room and locked the door behind him.

"Including the gobbledygook that this is your room?" I asked.

He gave me a broad grin. "Exactly."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Oh, come on, doll, you'll let me stay for a little bit, won't you?" He picked me up with sudden swiftness and brought me to the bed. "It's a big bed and a dark, scary house. Let me hold you in my arms and keep you safe." He laid me down and then leaned in to kiss me.

I had not planned on letting anyone into my room tonight, yet despite my best intentions, here was Jack—warm, strong Jack. And I did feel safe in his arms. In fact, the low level of fear I'd been harboring dissolved with his touch. Then I let him kiss me—slow, deliberate, and careful—and the world around us both seemed far away. His earthy smell was comforting, and he tasted faintly like apples. I wondered if Gala had stolen his Elysium wine and left him drinking calvados.

I watched him undress, his hard, chiseled body beautiful in the light from the small lamp at the bedside. He was ready for me, but he wasn't in a hurry. He climbed into bed and roamed his hands all over my body, caressing every inch of my skin, teasing me with his fingertips, his tongue, and his lips. The longer he touched me, the more he felt familiar, deeply familiar, as though I had known him for thousands of years and his hands had explored my body countless times. We were melting into each other, rivers flowing between us, our pleasure lapping up against our very banks. At some point, I lost myself, and he must have, too, but I don't remember it. When I woke later, it was still dark, the bed was cold, and Jack was gone.

I pulled my robe around me and went to the door to lock it again, but for some reason, I felt compelled to open it and look down the hall first. And there was Ignazio at the end of the hall, by the stairs, striding toward me with purpose. I was so stunned to see him I couldn't respond. I watched him, transfixed, danger and desire coming closer with every step.

When he reached me, he said nothing, only stepped inside my room and pulled me close. I let him. He buried his face in my hair and wrapped his hands around my back. Dark autumn enveloped me, smoky, heavy, and hot. So hot, I thought I might burn with fever, with desperation. I had never imagined wanting someone as much as I wanted this man before me. Everything about Jack paled in comparison. I tried to speak, but he shushed me and pulled off my robe. Then he dropped to his knees and worshipped me. I almost lost myself in a cry of pleasure, but he rose again, placing his hand over my mouth before I could make a sound.

"Mine," he whispered, his breath warm in my ear. Closing my eyes, I let his husky voice seduce me. "Only mine."

Then he was gone. There was no embrace, no hand upon my mouth, no one touching my skin, only the cold air of the room and the lingering, faint scent of smoke. I opened my eyes and found that I was alone, leaning against the bed, naked. Shocked and terrified, I picked my robe up off the floor, wrapped it around me, and checked the door. It was locked.

As I climbed back into bed, I heard the voice again.

Julia...

I turned my head toward the sound, and there, near the door, was that same image of me that I had seen in the fire, though, this time, it wasn't nearly so concrete, but faint, almost transparent. The apparition pointed at the door and held up three fingers. Then she winked out.

For the next few hours, I sat in bed with all the lights on, playing over the events of the morning in my mind. I could come up with only two plausible explanations. Either I was going completely mad, or there truly were supernatural forces warring over me. I leaned toward the latter, if only because the others around me had been on the edges of the same experiences.

At some point, I must have succumbed to sleep, too weary to drift into the nightmares I anticipated, for it was a knock on the door that stirred me awake. Bright sunlight crept around the edges of the curtains, and, in the light of day, the night before felt like a strange dream—a vivid one—but there was no evidence that either Jack or Ignazio had ever been in my room.

I opened the door, and there stood Gala, hands on her hips. "What are you doing, lolling about in bed?" She pushed past me and went right to the wardrobe. I was surprised to see her so hale. She was twice my age, and I knew older women didn't bounce back from the booze the way someone my age could. She threw a dress at me, a red, flowing gown with black trim, muttering about the hard work that went into Dalí's paintings, how useless I was, and how it should have been her image on the canvas, not mine. I narrowly managed to dodge the pair of shoes she threw at me. "This job is gravy for you and you want to muck it up by sleeping all day." She began to mutter something about it being one of the few times she let Dalí have his way.

"That's not true, Gala. This job is important to me."

She pulled up the shade to my window and blinding light flooded into the room.

The light was green.

"Get a load of that," I said. She only nodded, her mouth open in shock.

By the time I reached the sill, the light had shifted, muted a little, and it was just sunlight again.

"Did you see where it was coming from?"

She shook her head, and the two of us stood there, staring down the valley, our eyes searching for whatever could have made such an alien glow.

"I've seen it before," I confessed. "At night, in the boschetto ."

She turned to face me. "I told you this place was wrong," she said, taking my hands in hers and squeezing them tight, too tight. "I knew it from the moment I met you that there was something off, something wrong with you. We should never have brought you here."

I tried to pull away. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"There is. That's why Salvador wants you for this painting, not me. He says you are more surreal than anything he has ever seen." And with that, she let my hands go and the conversation was over.

There was another knock on the door. I went to it, grateful for the interruption. It was Jack.

"Good morning, you beautiful birds! Dalí says it's time to get this show on the road."

Gala went to Jack and linked her arm in his. He waved at me to follow. "Andiamo."

I had missed breakfast, but Paolo had been thoughtful enough to save me a napkin with a cream-filled cornetto . Ignazio was absent, which I was both relieved and frustrated by—I wanted to confirm that he would be retrieving Lillian from the train station in Attigliano.

Dalí seemed particularly delighted to see me that morning. "My beautiful Proserpina, how the sun shines on your hair! Today we will fashion you a crown of laurel leaves. This dress, it becomes you. We will leave it on. You'll hold a pomegranate in your hand. YOU! You are the goddess of the Underworld today. You are the embodiment of Pluto's love and desire." He continued on, raving about Cerberus and Mercury and Ceres, and I quickly lost track of all the gods and monsters he named.

It was chilly in the boschetto , and I was grateful Dalí let me keep my clothes on, but my thoughts were fixed on the pomegranate he had with him. A whole fruit in my hands was fine with me; I just hoped there were no plans to cut it open. In the end, Dalí decided that I would sit upright, my feet on the ground, my back against the bench. The stone goddess would surround me while I sat in her arms, the fruit in my hands, a laurel crown that Gala had fashioned on my head. This position wasn't nearly as comfortable as lying down, but at least I wouldn't be at risk of falling asleep and would be more aware of my surroundings.

Dalí was in a good mood, and Gala, too, was in fine spirits that morning. The two regaled us with stories of their travels to London, Paris, and New York.

"Tell them about when you nearly died at the International Surrealist Exhibition in London," Gala instructed her husband.

Dalí set aside his paints and told us that in 1936, as part of the surrealist demonstrations, the opening talk was given by the poet Dylan Thomas, who was dressed entirely in green, and he offered teacups full of boiled string to everyone present. "Do you like it weak or strong?" he asked. While the crowd was tittering about this bizarre event, Dalí entered the hall with two wolfhounds on leashes in one hand and a pool cue in the other. But apparently, he was also wearing a deep-sea diving suit. "It was hot, but I did not care. It was a quest into the depths of the human subconscious!"

"And it was hermetically sealed," Gala explained.

Dalí rose from his seat and began to demonstrate. "Not long into my lecture on the sublime nature of diving into the subconscious mind, I began to feel faint, so I waved my arms for help. But the audience did not believe me! I was pounding on my helmet, staggering, but everyone thought this was part of the show. No one came to my aid until I finally fell upon the ground, and Gala, my Gravida, saved me."

Gala laughed. "I did save him. When he began flailing about on the floor, I knew something was very wrong. But imagine, it was a crowd of artists, none of whom had ever been within five meters of a diving suit. We tried to get the helmet off but couldn't figure out how to unbolt it. Finally, I pried it off with his pool cue."

"So, what happened?" Jack asked, amused.

"I finished my lecture. It was not my time to die." Dalí stared at me, his eyes bulging as though there was something in those words I should understand. I held his gaze until he finally picked up his brushes and began to paint again.

Eventually Jack, Gala, and Paolo became bored and went on a walk around the boschetto . Dalí painted me in silence. He didn't even open his mouth to complain when Orpheus jumped up on the bench and settled himself into my lap. I cradled him in my arms, holding the pomegranate out in front of him, and he reached out a paw and patted my hand three times. I took one hand off the pomegranate to pet him, and he seemed to settle down. But as soon as I took up the fruit once more, he again patted my arm three times.

"What are you trying to tell me, little kitty?" I whispered. He looked at me and blinked, quite deliberately, three times. I was so surprised I almost dropped the pomegranate.

But Orpheus wasn't the only one trying to warn me about three things. The ghost in the fire and the ghost in my room had both raised three fingers in the air. "Three what? Why is that number significant?" I whispered to him, as if the cat could respond.

Just then, a turtledove came to rest on one of Proserpina's outstretched arms. I expected Orpheus to attack the bird, but to my surprise, he ran off into the bushes instead. The dove watched the beast disappear into the garden before taking flight and disappearing among the statues.

"Did you see that?" I asked Dalí.

"A cat and a dove?" he asked. " Sì. Madre natura works in mysterious ways."

I sighed. To him, nothing was as strange as what he saw with his mind's eye.

A little past noon, Gala came down the stairs into the hippodrome and bade us come for lunch. Dalí obliged her with a kiss and set his brushes aside. When he took the pomegranate from my hand, I was glad.

"Julia, that dress becomes you," Ignazio commented, flashing me a smile when he saw me coming up the path.

Crimson heat rose to my cheeks. "Thank you," I managed, still unnerved from my dream encounter with him the night before. I drew upon what courage I could. "Signor, you are picking up my friend Lillian today, right?"

Ignazio nodded. "My driver will leave for Attigliano this afternoon. She will be here in time for dinner."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, signorina."

I didn't dare look at him, unable to stop thinking about his hands upon me. Surely it had been a dream, but it didn't feel like a dream. I hardly dared to admit to myself how much I wanted his touch again.

Turning away from him, I went into the orco 's mouth. I sat next to Paolo and tried to cleanse my mind by focusing on Lillian's arrival. My friend would be here soon, and if I knew Lillian, she wouldn't put up with any shenanigans, ghosts, or whatever Ignazio was. Gala, I was pretty sure, would hate her. For the first time in days, I was filled with hope.

But that feeling didn't last long. The peperino table had been laid with simple fare, salads, meatballs, and bruschetta . Dalí took the liberty of making a plate for me, but my heart sank when I saw that pomegranate seeds dotted every dish he'd served me. Rejecting his offering, I took a hunk of bread, slathered it with butter, topped it with some sliced figs, and decided that would be my lunch. I wasn't going to ingest another seed of my own volition.

"You need to eat more, my goddess." Dalí deposited a bruschetta with ricotta, olive oil, and a pomegranate seed on my plate. "We have a long afternoon ahead of us, and you must keep up your strength."

"I'm not that hungry," I said, feeling Ignazio's eyes boring into me. He stared at me so intensely that I thought he might burn a hole through me. It was as though he was trying to will me to eat the food Dalí had proffered. I smiled awkwardly at him, then turned back to my piece of bread, heat rising to my cheeks.

"I'll have it," Paolo said, plucking the bruschetta off my plate.

It was an impolite gesture, one that caused Ignazio to turn on his heel and leave the orco , but it made me want to hug the cameraman.

"Why did you do that again? You should have eaten it," Gala scolded me once Ignazio was out of sight. "You are always insulting our host."

I didn't even bother to answer her, and Dalí happily filled the silence gabbing away about how, as an adolescent, he would regularly throw himself from the top of the stairs at school for attention. When I'd had my fill of both bread and Dalí's narcissism, I excused myself by saying I was going for a walk. Jack rose to join me, but Gala's hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. When Paolo also moved to follow, I waved him back to his seat as well. I wanted to be alone, away from them all, to try to make sense of my thoughts.

I headed toward Proserpina's bench, but instead of taking the fork back to the hippodrome, I went right, past a few lesser statues, until I reached the well-worn ram of Aries. Patting its snout, I wondered about the artist who had fashioned all these creatures, when a flock of turtledoves swarmed above me, their wings making a deafening sound. They came to rest on the path, their sonorous coos filling the boschetto . Then the flock began to walk away from me, their gray heads bobbing, the orange on their wings bright in the sunlight. They moved together, like one living organism, with purpose. I couldn't help but follow them.

They approached the statue of Ceres. Most pooled around her enormous legs, a few perched themselves on her arms and moss-covered shoulders, and the rest on the edges of the flower basket atop her head. Unease gnawed at my insides as we drew near, a silent warning whispering in the back of my mind. Yet the enchantment of the birds, with their soothing coos and the hypnotic flutter of wings, lured me closer, overshadowing my intuition. When I reached Ceres's feet, buried in the earth, I looked up at her face. She seemed so serene, so sweet, so relaxed.

While I gazed upon her visage, it seemed to come to life, her lips curling into a slight smile, her head turning slowly to look at me. Then her left hand, which rested on her knee, turned upward before my eyes. I was too entranced to be afraid. The forest around me was filled with the sound of the turtledoves. Their wings brushed against my legs and my arms, their feathers soft and warm. A strange force compelled me. I wanted to take her hand, to hold my body against hers, to feel the stone turn to flesh and wrap me in her comfort.

I reached my hand toward her massive hand, and as I brushed against her index finger, the bushes around the statue burst into flames, causing the turtledoves to fly upward in a cacophonous swirl. With a scream, I spun around, relieved to see the way behind me was clear. Orpheus stood just beyond the fire, mewing at me. I ran toward him, and he led me away from the flames to the clearing beyond the orco. And when I looked back at the statue of Ceres, it was stoic. There was nothing—no smoke, no fire, no turtledoves, no evidence to suggest that anything I'd just witnessed had actually occurred.

My heart in my throat, I hurried back to the Mouth of Hell but found that my companions were no longer there. I was baffled by their absence—how did they not see all the doves? The statue of Ceres was visible from the opening of the orco. They were probably waiting for me at Proserpina's bench, Dalí impatient for my return, and Gala ready to dock my pay. The weight of the last few days crushed down upon me. I entered the orco , sat down at the stone table that was its tongue, and cried.

When I finally pulled myself together and returned to Proserpina's bench, only Dalí and Paolo were there, and while I was sure they could see I had been crying, neither of them dared to ask why. Dalí arranged me for the sitting, but I barely registered him moving my arms and hands. I was numb and empty inside. Only when he placed the pomegranate in my hands did I feel a spark of emotion rise within me. I repressed the urge to hurl it to the other end of the hippodrome. If I managed to finish out the week, I vowed I would never touch another pomegranate so long as I lived.

Dalí let me look at the canvas when we were done for the day. It was different from the piece he'd painted the night before. In this scene, I sat on a bench at the edge of a vast field, staring off into the distance, my golden locks framing my face, the blue sky beyond, with dark clouds impinging on whiter ones. The pomegranate in my hand had uneven jade and ruby stones embedded in its side, and its crown had been made into jeweled points. It was hardly complete, but it was already breathtaking. I thought of Gala's words—how Dalí wanted me because I was so surreal—yet I was the least surreal thing in the painting. I looked as I should, I thought. It was everything else around me that was wrong.