Chapter 15

15

Lillian woke me by opening the curtains and letting the bright sunlight wash over me.

"Let's get the day started, lazybones."

My friend seemed utterly unaffected by the amount of wine she had consumed the night before. What miracle beverage had Ignazio been serving us that no one ever woke with a hangover? I pulled myself out of bed with the realization that it was the only night I had really slept since I had arrived at Palazzo Orsini.

"You sure are chipper this morning," I observed.

"Why wouldn't I be? We are in a beautiful castle, and we have an adventure ahead of us. Plus you are sitting for one of the most important artists in the world. And you just won a handsome sum last night."

I rolled my eyes. "Right. A castle full of ghosts, with a host trying to kill me with pomegranate seeds, and an artist whose stingy bitch of a wife is running the show."

She sobered and pulled me up by the hand. "Jules, we'll figure this all out. I promise. Maybe Ignazio isn't as terrible as you think. He seems like a nice enough guy."

I stared at her, incredulous. "You don't believe me?"

She hugged me. "I do! I promise I do. I just feel like there is so much we don't know yet. Though you are right about one thing—Gala's pretty awful."

That got me to crack a smile. "She really is."

"Let's get going. I want to see this weird garden. And tonight, we're definitely going down into that passage." Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

"Now I see where this is going," I teased. "You just want to spend some time with Paolo in the dark."

"Ha! So what if I do?" She threw a pillow at me, and we made our way down to breakfast, laughing.

The day was beautiful, and despite the cool air, it was by far the best weather we had experienced since our arrival. Ignazio was absent for breakfast, so it was Minos who drove us to the boschetto.

"Where is Ignazio?" Gala inquired, a note of irritation in her voice. Minos merely shrugged and retreated to the cab of the truck.

"He's clearly mute," Gala scoffed, rolling her eyes as we started on our way. "No man is that silent."

"None of the servants talk," Paolo pointed out.

That wasn't entirely true. Demetra had spoken to Lillian and me, but neither of us saw fit to challenge his assertion.

"They are well trained," Dalí announced with a self-satisfied air, a hint of pleasure in his eyes. "Just as they should be. Seen and not heard."

Lillian's expression tightened, and I could almost feel her biting back a retort. She glanced at Gala, then looked away, her face betraying her distaste. Though outspoken, thankfully, she seemed to understand that challenging Dalí in that moment would be futile.

Jack carried a duffel bag I had never seen before over his shoulder, and he smirked when I asked him what was in it.

"This bag here is full of wonderful things. Something I suspect you might greatly appreciate today." He snorted with laughter.

"What sort of things?"

"Towels."

"Towels?" I parroted, not understanding.

He winked at me. "You'll see."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this."

Jack only gave me a knowing smile and helped me into the back of the truck.

After entering the boschetto , Dalí forced us to make a quick detour to show off Proteus Glaucus and his wide toothy mouth to Lillian, who the artist seemed to have taken a liking to. Gala, visibly irritated, stomped off with Jack and Paolo to set up for the sitting.

Lillian immediately went up to the sea god and sat in his wide mouth on one of his bottom teeth. "So, who is this funny monster?"

"Proteus Glaucus—a tale of transformation, of becoming something other than what one was born to be." Dalí waved his cane in the air as he talked.

Lillian looked intrigued. "What do you mean?"

I explained about Glaucus and the story of the Scylla.

"That doesn't sound like any sort of transformation that I would want," Lillian said.

Dalí's eyes twinkled. "Transformation is the essence of art, my dear. The artist transforms the mundane into the sublime. Even the muse undergoes a transformation, from mere mortal to eternal inspiration." He gestured at me with his cane. "Now, my little muse, it is time for you to inspire."

He abruptly turned away from us and strode down the path. I had curled my fists into angry balls, and with a big sigh, I forced myself to relax them.

Lillian knew me well. "Don't listen to him, Jules. He lives in a world of his own imagination, not reality. Come on, let's go. This will all be over before you know it."

We followed after Dalí, and with each step I willed myself to be calm.

When we caught up, he was with the others near the whale in the bubbling brook, the turtle, and the empty Pegasus fountain.

"When you said it was a forest of monsters, I wasn't sure what to expect," Lillian said as we neared. "But jeepers, this is wild."

"I'll show you around, Signorina Parker," Paolo offered, sounding eager. "Maestro Dalí will be painting for a long while and there will be time."

"I'd like that," Lillian said with a wide smile.

Jack and Gala were helping Dalí set up his easel so it was facing the Pegasus fountain. It was a strange structure, with a raised, hollow dais, upon which a rearing Pegasus was striking a hoof against a pile of rocks. The Pegasus wasn't that big, certainly not the size of a regular horse.

Gala was standing in the shallow, moss-covered basin of the fountain. "Over here," she instructed. "Le temps, c'est de l'argent."

Time is money. I hated her obsession with the latter. But I now understood why it had long been said that she was the reason Dalí was famous. His head was in the clouds; her feet were down on earth. At least she extended a hand to help me up.

Once I was standing inside the basin, Gala immediately started to unbutton my shirt. I shooed her away. "I can do it."

She stood back. "Then do it. We haven't got all day."

"My Gravida, don't pester the modelo ."

Gala gave her husband a withering look. "If I didn't pester these people, nothing would get done. We'd waste half the day."

"She will model, I will paint. If it takes a little time for that to happen, what does it matter?"

Gala stood on the edge of the basin and waved Jack over to help her down. "The longer you take to paint, the fewer paintings you have finished and the less money we have," she said as he placed her on the ground.

Dalí waved a dismissive hand. "What is money compared to enjoying the moment and readying ourselves for the eternal glory of art?"

"Money is what keeps you in paints and me in furs," Gala retorted.

Jack, sensing the tension, tried to defuse the situation. "Why don't we all take a deep breath? The setting is perfect, the light is just right. And Julia isn't dawdling..." he said, pointing to me. I had just taken off my skirt and tossed it to Lillian. "Don't worry about them. Come with me. I found a certain spot in the garden I want to show you."

Before leaving with Jack, Gala went to her husband and said something I couldn't hear but that seemed like a reprimand. He only harrumphed and began mixing his paints.

I was to stand for this session, which did not delight me in the slightest. It would be much colder with the air flowing around me, and I was bound to be tired standing in one position for so long. Dalí instructed me to raise my hands high toward the mountain of rocks upon which Pegasus was striking its hoof, releasing the waters of the Hippocrene—the inspiration for the Muses. The idea was that I would act as though I were catching flowing water, but when I protested that it would be hard to keep my arms above my head for long, he acquiesced. I could rest my hands on the rocks, but from time to time Dalí would instruct me to hold the pose.

I suspected it would be a long, cold morning.

When Dalí began painting, Lillian took Paolo up on his offer to show her the garden.

"Why am I posed this way?" I asked, once we were alone. "Your work is so visionary. How does your model help you when what you paint is so surreal?" My hope was to engage his artistic pride and have him teach me something...anything.

Dalí paused. "What a perfect question for this perfect painting. You are standing in the font of the Muses. As Pegasus rears his mighty hooves to strike against the rocks of Mount Helicon, releasing the waters of the Hippocrene, you become more than a model. You transform from a beautiful woman into a Muse. Today you are standing beneath the flowing font of inspiration. You are the one to light the divine spark of my art on this glorious day. Bask in the sunlight, in the water flowing over you, in the gift you give to the world!"

This did nothing to help me understand how he painted. I tried a different tack. "How do you transform my image onto the canvas? What aspects of what you see are most important to you?"

Dalí paused, his brush hovering in the air as he considered my question. "Ah, Proserpina, it is not merely the physical form that I capture. It is the essence, the soul, that I seek to render. Your presence, your energy—they are as crucial as the lines and colors. It's an alchemy of reality and imagination. The key is to look beyond what is visible to the naked eye and capture the intangible aura of the subject."

His words, hinting at a deeper artistic philosophy, intrigued me. "So, it's about capturing more than just the physical appearance? It's about portraying the unseen aspects?"

"Yes, precisely," Dalí responded, his eyes alight with passion. "Each subject, each muse, has an aura, a unique spirit. An artist must learn to see and translate this onto canvas. It is what elevates a painting from a mere portrait to a masterpiece."

I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position for my hands on the cold rocks. "But how do you capture this aura?"

"It is an intimate duet between artist and the muse, where emotions pirouette and leap into a realm that transcends the physical. The canvas becomes a portal to a world where the tangible and intangible embrace in a passionate tango of colors and forms."

While this still told me nothing, I was encouraged by his response, and decided to ask about the creative process from a more personal angle. "But what if the muse wants to be the one holding the brush? What if she wants to create, not just inspire creation?"

Dalí had turned back to his canvas. "That is not the role of the muse. The muse is the mirror that reflects the artist's genius." He sounded irritated.

A knot tightened in my stomach. "A mirror only shows you what's already there. It doesn't add anything new. But what happens if the muse decides to look into the mirror?"

Dalí paused, lifting his eyes to meet mine. "She sees only illusion, because the muse is eternal, unchanging. She is the constant in a world of variables, the North Star guiding the artist's hand."

I sighed, feeling the weight of centuries of muses who'd been relegated to the background. "Maybe it's time for the North Star to turn comet, charting her own bright, burning course across the heavens." My own aspirations felt like that comet, yearning to blaze a trail of creativity and recognition.

Dalí frowned, considering my words. "My dear Proserpina, your spirit glows with the intensity of a thousand suns. Yet you must understand—the muse is the egg from whence the great artist is hatched. She is the womb-like cocoon where his nascent genius gestates until bursting forth in a rapturous explosion of creative splendor. Without his muse, the poor artist is but a shriveled larva, helpless, mute, and destined to perish in obscurity."

I shook my head, unmoved by his dramatic metaphors. "But the muse contains multitudes, just as the artist does. She, too, deserves the chance to shape her own visions, to give birth to creations made of her essence. Why must she always remain your silent incubator?" My thoughts drifted to my own pieces, hidden away, waiting for some gallery to give them the light of day.

Dalí waved his hands wildly, nearly upsetting his palette. "Because, my dear, the muse must be the gardener patiently tending the seeds! Yours is the soul of the Mona Lisa 's smile, eternally serene and endlessly enigmatic. To demand more would rupture the delicate cosmic order that produces true art."

Though he attempted to elevate my role to pacify me, I was still confined to being his muse, not granted any agency as an artist myself. It also dismissed all the women artists who came before me.

I tried a different angle. "You say Gala is your eternal muse. That together you form the divine couple. Yet you deny other women that creative power. Why must Gala be the exception?"

Dalí bristled at my questioning. "It is simple—Gala possesses the ferocious, tenacious spirit of a warrior muse! Other women are content as placid lakes reflecting my brilliance. But Gala's psyche is a snarling whirlpool, threatening to pull me into unknown depths. She commands by refusing to submit—thus she compels me to ever greater heights."

"So no woman can be your equal unless she dominates you? We either idolize you or torment you?" I challenged, feeling a surge of frustration at the narrow path laid out for women in art.

Dalí threw up his hands dramatically. "You fail to grasp the mystical symbiosis between artist and muse. It is a dangerous dance—one wrong step could destroy us both."

I held his gaze firmly. "I think you enjoy standing safely on the pedestal while women remain below. But I dare you to think differently. I believe true inspiration comes when the muse is unbound." My words were bold, but inside, I harbored doubts about my own ability to break free from these constraints.

Dalí's eyes flashed with irritation—he was not accustomed to being challenged so bluntly. He avoided my eyes and went back to painting. I sighed. But after a few minutes, he said, without looking up, "The muse nurtures the artist's spirit. This, too, is art. Do not underestimate your part in all this, Proserpina. Few will ever have so much divine inspiration as you."

He wouldn't say more unless it was to instruct me to lift my hands or turn my face a certain way. My further attempts at conversation were met with stony silence.

After an interminably long, chilly morning standing in the mossy basin, Dalí finally declared that I could lower my arms and put my clothes back on. Our companions had not returned at all during our session and I wondered if I was the only one who had lost their clothes in the course of the morning.

Dalí was quiet as we walked back up the path toward the orco , but when I ventured to ask if it was because he was angry with me, he shook his head and waved me off, indicating he was merely lost in thought.

A meow at my side drew my attention to Orpheus. He looked up at me with his blue eyes and meowed again until I picked him up. He immediately climbed onto my shoulder. Dalí seemed to soften in his presence and he reached up to pet the beast.

The orco was empty, but we heard voices on the hippodrome behind the monster, so we made our way toward Proserpina's bench. A table had been set on the patchy grass that sprawled out between the goddess and the three statues of the siren, mermaid, and Fury.

Three mute servants poured us wine and set dishes before us. I scanned the food but didn't see any pomegranate seeds. Orpheus took up a spot under my chair and his tail swished against my leg as we ate.

Ignazio was nowhere to be seen, probably still fuming over my refusal to down another pomegranate seed. When Gala asked about our host, the waiters ignored her, as though she had not spoken to them at all. Irate, she grasped one of the men by the arm.

"I'm speaking to you," she hissed.

The man, who was about sixty with a head of perfectly coiffed, peppered hair, only stared at her blankly, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he was looking at. Finally, exasperated, she let his arm go. He turned from her as though nothing had happened.

"What's wrong with these people?" she said, waving her hands at the servants who were making their way up the path toward the entrance, pushing a food cart in front of them.

Dalí seemed unperturbed. He pulled his wife down onto the chair next to him. "They are only doing their jobs, my Gala. Come. Come, eat."

"It is very strange how they act," Lillian agreed. "That was one of the first things I noticed when I arrived."

I knew Lillian was trying to butter up Gala by siding with her, but tacking on the part about her arrival only set Gala further on edge.

"You shouldn't even be here," she screamed at her. "We never invited you." She jumped out of her chair and stepped away from the table. "All of this, it's all wrong. Every last bit of it. You need to go. I want you to leave on the first train tomorrow. Out of our sight."

Lillian's eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open in shock. None of us could believe what we were hearing.

"If she goes, I'm going with her," I said, putting my napkin down.

Dalí gave a great cry and stood up from the table, his chair knocking over behind him. "No, no, no, my Galarina. You cannot do this. No, no, no, no!"

While the others watched him stagger away from us toward Proserpina's bench at the end of the hippodrome, I was distracted by a grinding sound that emanated from somewhere behind me. I turned to look. The Fury's stony webbed wings were not at her side, but raised, as if in alarm. Her eyes briefly flashed green. Orpheus dashed out from under my table and ran toward the statue, hissing at it. Horrified, I tried to get Lillian's attention, but Dalí's cries had reached a crescendo, filling the garden, and all eyes were upon him. I turned back to the Fury and she was as she always had been, wings lowered, immovable, her stone face passive. Orpheus was walking toward me, tail high in the air.

When Dalí reached the bench, he had collapsed beside Proserpina's stone base. While we could no longer see his face, he continued his demonstrative sobs and moans.

"Go to him, Gala," Jack said softly. "He needs you."

Gala looked stricken, as if torn on what she should do—stand her ground or go to him. Finally, after several more gulping sobs from the artist, she caved and went to comfort her husband, kneeling on the ground beside him, her arm over his shoulder.

I turned back to the Fury. She was as before, cold stone. Orpheus was back under my chair, his tail thumping against my ankle. I wanted to believe I had imagined the whole thing, but I was sure I had not.

"What just happened?" Lillian asked, her voice soft so it wouldn't carry to the couple.

"You mean the Fury?" I ventured, hoping she might have seen it too.

She gave me a quizzical look. "No, with Gala. Why did she say all that?"

"She has wild mood swings," Jack said. "She can be angry and irrational some days."

I was about to say something about Dalí's more demonstrative mood swing when it hit me. "She's going to be even madder when she finds out that there is no train tomorrow."

"I was thinking that," Lillian said. "It only comes once a week."

"Does he do this often?" I asked, looking toward the Dalís.

"Sometimes," Jack said. He reached across the table for a roll and began to butter it. "He has strange, crippling anxiety attacks. I've only seen it a few times. Once a grasshopper landed on his easel and I thought he might literally die of fright. Only Gala can calm him when he gets this way."

Paolo and Jack tucked into their food, but I didn't feel much like eating, and Lillian didn't either. We watched Gala dry Dalí's tears with a handkerchief. Then she pulled him up off the ground.

When they returned, neither of them acknowledged what had just happened. Dalí sat down next to me and raised his glass of wine. "My little goddess, I will paint you in the mouth of the whale this afternoon!"

I wanted to groan, but given all that had happened, I plastered on a smile. Now I knew why Jack had a duffel bag full of towels. At least I'd be nowhere near the Fury.

Ignazio never showed for lunch, and while I didn't end up eating, it seemed as though the meal was blissfully pomegranate seed free. I had a flutter of hope that perhaps it all had been some weird set of circumstances that really amounted to nothing. A hope that I might just end the week as a simple artist's model and then go home, back to our flat in Rome, and to my life, which I mostly liked, as a struggling artist.

The whale was barely a stone's throw from the Pegasus statue, separated only by a thin bubbling brook. I stared at the giant, open-mouthed whale head that jutted up out of the earth next to the stream, as though it was emerging from the sea. The mouth was open stone, hollowed out and lined with thick heavy moss and full of fallen leaves. Jagged teeth framed the top jaw, and a circular eye gazed ever upward. The little stream flowed around the stone head. It wasn't a large body of water, and I could probably reach over it and scramble into the mouth of the whale on my own, but with the moss, it was very possible I could slip and fall into the stream.

Jack noticed my consternation. "Don't worry, I'll help you."

"I'm supposed to sit there?" I asked, pointing at the gaping maw.

Gala made a sound of exasperation. "What were you hired for, Julia?"

"It was merely a question, Gala," I said, trying to keep my tone measured. While she had seemingly acquiesced to her husband's demand that I remain in Bomarzo, I was wary that she might once again change her mind.

Jack stepped forward, offering his hand. "I can carry you over."

"Oh please, Jack. She can manage. It's just a bit of water and stone. She's not crossing the River Styx."

Jack, to his credit, ignored her. He took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, then stepped out into the water. Once he was sure he had solid footing, he reached out to me. I let him take me up into his arms.

Gala called out, "Careful. You wouldn't want to drop her. Though I'm sure she'd make a lovely water nymph—drenched and desperate."

"Very lovely," Jack whispered in a voice only I would hear. "But it would be you making everyone else desperate," he said as he turned to place me in the mouth of the whale.

"Now get out of there," Gala said, not giving Jack another second with me. He let Paolo help pull him back onto land. "Off with the clothes," she called to me. "Tout de suite." She clapped her hands at me and stood at the brook's edge, expecting to relieve me of my garments.

I felt like I was on a stage, one where I was completely trapped, surrounded by stone and water. Reluctantly, I removed my clothes, wrapped them in a ball, and relinquished them to Gala's waiting arms. I let her bark posing instructions at me until she was satisfied, my limp body arranged as though I was a prize that had just been snatched up by the whale. I found myself wishing that Orpheus hadn't wandered off after lunch. Having his little warm body against mine would have been a comfort, one I think Dalí might have tolerated.

Everyone stood on the other side of the brook, watching, and I was relieved when Dalí began painting and they grew bored and wandered off once again. I attempted conversation with him, but he was all business and only grunted out short replies. He didn't need to say so, but that afternoon, I was clearly only the muse.

Dalí was so engrossed in his painting that he didn't notice—or care—that my eyelids were growing heavy. The sun was warm on my skin, and the sound of the bubbling brook had a lulling effect. Before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep, perched precariously in the whale's gaping maw.

In my slumber, I found myself wandering the Sacro Bosco in a different time, the garden vibrant and teeming with life, a tableau from the Renaissance unfurling around me. The air was filled with the sound of lutes and flutes, their melodies intertwining with peals of laughter. Men and women in elaborate Renaissance attire mingled around me, their clothes rich with brocades and velvets, the women's gowns flowing and the men's doublets ornately embroidered.

I was drawn toward a grand feast set under a canopy of lush vines. Tables were laden with sumptuous dishes, reflective of the era's lavish banquets, and around them, people were engaged in spirited conversations, their gestures animated and lively. There, in the midst of it all, was Ignazio. He stood out even in this opulent setting, clad in a finely tailored doublet, his presence commanding yet enigmatic. Our eyes met across the crowd, a moment transcending time. His gaze was intense and familiar. I began to walk toward him when I was jolted awake by a gentle, hot touch on my shoulder.

Blinking against the sunlight, I looked up to see Ignazio standing in the brook. His eyes met mine, and it set my heart to racing. I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees, both for warmth and to cover up some part of my nakedness. How long had Ignazio been standing there? I looked beyond him and saw Dalí's easel had been packed up and my companions were nowhere to be seen.

"Sleeping on the job, are we?"

A flush of embarrassment surged through me. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. Where is everyone?"

"Lillian and Paolo returned to the palazzo earlier this afternoon. I imagine they intended to come fetch you, but, well..." His mischievous smile said what his words did not. While I loved Lillian and thought it sweet that they had probably shacked up, I was frustrated that they'd left me in this predicament.

"Jack helped Dalí pack up, and Gala asked me to bring you back to the truck. They're waiting for us there." Ignazio leaned over to the other bank, picked up my bundle of clothes, and handed them to me.

After putting them on, I reluctantly sat on the edge of the mossy whale mouth and let him pick me up. I couldn't help but gasp when his heat enveloped me. I was warmed, instantly. As he set me on the opposite bank, I thought I saw steam rising from the water around his legs, but before I could say anything, he had stepped up beside me, taking up a towel Jack had left behind.

I was grateful for his help, but also a bit wary. "Thank you, Ignazio. But where have you been? You missed lunch."

"I had some matters to attend to. I hope my absence didn't cause too much distress."

I couldn't help but think of the pomegranate seeds and the tension that had been building since my arrival. "Your absence was...noticed," I said cautiously.

"Obligations," he said simply, turning to lead the way back to the truck.

We walked in silence for a few moments, the tension palpable but unspoken. I was still unnerved by the Fury lifting her wings. Finally, I ventured, "It's been an unusual day."

"Unusual is a matter of perspective," he said. "Especially in Bomarzo."

He got that right. I didn't know what to respond to that, so said nothing.

After walking for a few moments, he spoke. "I have been impatient with you, Julia. And for that I'm sorry."

I drew in a breath. "Impatient?"

He gave me that enigmatic smile that made him even more alluring.

"Yes, impatient. It was unfair. You deserve better."

I wanted to ask him what he meant but he continued, "I heard Dalí telling Gala about your conversation on art. It seems you have a passion for painting."

I couldn't help but let loose a heavy sigh. "I imagine he was disparaging."

He gave me a sympathetic smile. "Dalí thinks of himself as a supreme being, but I assure you, he's often wrong about many things."

"Yes, he is very dismissive about women being painters," I explained.

"A perfect example. Some of the best painters in the world are women. Do you know of the Venetian painter Giulia Lama?"

I gaped. "You are familiar with Lama? She is one of my favorite painters." Few knew of Lama outside art scholars who studied the late baroque era.

"Yes, very familiar. Her mastery of chiaroscuro was remarkable, and yet she remains largely unrecognized."

I was surprised to find this sort of connection with Ignazio. "It's a challenge, being a woman in the art world, even today."

"I can only imagine. And what of your own work, Julia? I'd be very interested to see how you express yourself on canvas. Is your style similar to Lama's, or do you have a different approach?"

I was taken aback by his interest. "My work is quite different. It's contemporary, exploring themes of identity and transformation. I use a lot of abstract forms and colors."

"A modern approach, then," he said thoughtfully. "I would very much like to see your art. Perhaps it might be displayed in the palazzo. This is a place of myth and transformation after all."

This was the last thing that I expected. "I...I'd be honored," I said, realizing it was true.

We had reached the truck where Gala, Dalí, and Jack were waiting, and I found I was disappointed that the conversation had ended. Ignazio helped me into the truck bed, his hand briefly touching mine as I climbed in. Again that jolt of heat surged through me. "Until later," he said, his voice neutral but his eyes holding a glint of something unreadable.

On the return, as we bumped along, my mind turned over Ignazio's words. Then it hit me. He had said he was very familiar with Lama.

"Are you all right?" Jack asked, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Yes, I am, thank you."

But I wasn't. I was too busy thinking about the painter, whose name was Giulia .