Chapter 18

18

After returning to the palazzo, we retired to our rooms for rest and refreshment. On the way upstairs, Jack regaled us with tales of other D?ners de Gala he had attended—luxurious dinner parties over which Gala always presided as the guest of honor, despite important people in attendance such as Laurence Olivier, Vivien Leigh, Humphrey Bogart, Bob Hope, and Gary Cooper. All of the dinners featured strange food, costumes, and wild staging, as though you were walking into a surrealist movie to dine.

So when Lillian and I returned to our rooms to find costumes we were supposed to wear to dinner, we weren't completely shocked. I was trying to understand my new getup when Lillian burst into my room, her arms full of shimmery blue-and-gold fabric.

"I'm to be a sea goddess of some sort, I think," she said, arranging the beautiful dress on the chair so I could view it. It was light and airy blue silk, covered in thousands of little scales that glinted in the light. "It has a train, a crown of netting and shells, and a little trident."

"Salacia," I said, the word coming unbidden to my lips.

"It is definitely salacious." She laughed. "It's practically see-through."

I shook my head. "Salacia," I corrected her. "She was a nymph and the consort of Neptune."

"Ah," she said. "Well, she came by her name honestly, I suppose."

She pointed at the black silk-tulle dress splayed across my bed. It was adorned with a long front panel of intricate black-and-gray beadwork flowers, which fell from the waist to the floor. Three tiny bloodred hearts were embroidered into the lower third of the panel, and a long, elegant black braided rope was attached to the waist.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Take a guess." I sighed, examining the drawing that illustrated how the rope should be employed to hold the tulle in place. I was annoyed that the tulle would barely cover my breasts, leaving a wide empty space of flesh between them. Modeling nude made me feel less vulnerable than this dress did.

"The Queen of the Underworld."

"Righto!" I rolled my eyes. "It's a gorgeous dress, but I'm so tired of being Proserpina." I fingered the crown of black flowers with ruby centers meant to accessorize it.

"Don't worry, Jules. This is just a costume. The rest of it? We'll find an explanation, I'm sure of it."

I raised my eyebrow at her. "So far all signs point to one explanation, and it is there in that damned dress."

"Oh, come on. It's not that dire. Do you think if you put on the dress you'll turn into Proserpina?"

"I suppose not." I sighed again. "But after today's earthquake, I'm starting to think the money isn't worth it. I feel like my life is in danger, Lillian."

She tried to reason with me. "You've been scared, sure, but you haven't been hurt, have you? You need that money. And more importantly, you need answers. I'm here now, and Paolo is on our side. We're not going to let you out of our sight." She paused, then gave me a mischievous grin. "Well, we might slip off for a bit..." She giggled. "We are planning on seeing each other in Rome. Oh, Jules, doesn't he look a bit like Sinatra?"

"Does he kiss like Sinatra?"

Lillian rolled her eyes at me, but then she gave me a vigorous nod. "He's so dreamy. But that's beside the point. We only have one more day. We'll be looking out for you."

I knew my friend didn't want to leave. She was keen to see where things would go with Paolo. And Lillian could be stubborn once she had her mind set. Unless clearer danger presented itself, it would be pointless to try to convince her that we should leave early.

"Hey," she said, sitting up. "What if I go as Persephone and you go as Salacious Sally?"

"Salacia," I corrected her. It felt wrong to hear the name twisted into something else. "There is no way Dalí would stand for it. And Gala would have a fit."

"I don't like her. She's been nothing but snotty to me since I arrived. Dalí is an oddball, but you were right about Gala. She really is a bitch."

"A bitch that holds the ends of Dalí's purse strings," I said, lifting up the dress I was meant to wear. The tulle flowed across the bed.

Once we'd dressed and done our hair and makeup, Lillian picked up her trident and pointed it at me. "I command you to have a good time tonight." She could always make me laugh and forget my worries, and despite the gravity of my situation, I found myself reveling in the levity she brought to Bomarzo.

"Can a goddess command another goddess?" I asked, playing along.

"I suppose if one cursed another, right? I mean, that must have happened."

"Yes! After Aurora slept with Venus's lover, Mars, Venus placed a curse on her so that she'd only fall in love with mortal men."

Lillian waved her trident at me again. "Then tonight, beautiful Proserpina, I curse you to have a good time."

I was about to retort when a loud knock on the door caused us to jump.

"By the gods," Jack said, looking us up and down when Lillian opened the door. "You are both...breathtaking."

"Well, aren't you also rather easy on the eyes," Lillian said with a grin.

I had to agree with her. Jack's toga left most of his chest exposed, his muscles rippling beneath the single swath of fabric draped over one shoulder. He held a scepter in one hand, a large bronze key in the other, and a golden diadem lay nestled in his gilded curls.

Lillian looked puzzled when Jack turned around to reveal a papier-maché face with a beard on the back of his head. "Who are you supposed to be? A two-faced god?"

"He's Janus," I told her.

Jack puffed up his chest. "That's right. I am your god of beginnings, gates, passages, doorways, and endings, or at least, that's what the note with the mask said. I must say, it is my pleasure to escort you to our dinner destination, a place bound to be equally surreal."

"It seems at least one face of god Janus is chivalrous, too," Lillian teased. A second later she gave a little squeal of delight as Paolo trotted by in a toga decorated with the same luminous scale design as her dress, with a diadem made of seashells on his head. It was immediately clear that he was Neptune.

"It seems Dalí has a bit of matchmaking in him," I mused to Jack.

"Then I should have been made Hades," he whispered in my ear, his voice hungry.

"I wish you were," I said, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that if Ignazio played any role tonight, it would be as the god of the Underworld.

But Ignazio was nowhere to be found when we arrived in the sala grande , which had been transformed to feel like Mount Olympus itself with tufts of cotton clustered around the base of beautifully painted papier-maché mountains formed to resemble rocky peaks poking through the clouds. A servant sporting a short white toga and gleaming gold cuffs on his wrists accompanied us to our seats at the table, which had been laid with a gilt-edged linen tablecloth adorned with dozens of white candles of varying lengths.

No one would be playing footsie under the table tonight, for not only had the silver chairs been set nearly five feet apart, but they'd also been staggered so no two diners faced one another. Worse, Lillian had been seated at the opposite end of the table from me, across from Jack, and for me to have a conversation with her, I might have to shout. This was especially true if I was to be heard over the quartet of clarinetists, who began to play something akin to a march as the Dalís entered the room, the artist gallantly holding Gala's hand in the air. They, too, were in full costume, he in a white toga with armlets of burnished metal, a crown of laurel leaves on his head, and a lightning bolt fashioned from papier-maché in his free hand. Gala glowed in a diaphanous dress of pale amber with a cloak of bright peacock feathers, a radiant diadem on her head, and a scepter in her free hand.

"This! This is a D?ner de Gala . A tribute to the goddess that she is," Dalí exclaimed, bowing before his wife. Then he raised his lightning bolt over his head. "Tonight you will experience the bounty of Olympus!"

And with that, he led Gala to her seat, one of two elaborate gold chairs at either end of the table. Once he'd taken his place opposite her, he gave each of us the once-over and, seemingly satisfied, struck his scepter on the ground with a loud thump. Immediately, six dead-eyed servants appeared at our sides to pour the wine, a golden liquid heady with an aroma of elderflower and strawberries.

"Let us toast to Gala." Dalí lifted his glass in the air. "To the beauty of Gala, to the glory of her visage, the bounty of her words."

Gala basked in the praise, her smile belying the venom I knew ran in her veins. I picked up my glass reluctantly. She was the last person I desired to toast. But I took a drink and, despite the deliciousness of the wine in my glass, forced myself to restrain. I half hoped Lillian wouldn't restrain herself, and we wouldn't have to hike down the secret passage after all.

Then Dalí clapped his hands together three times and Ignazio entered the room.

I held my breath and took him in. He was the true embodiment of Pluto in a red toga that exposed a well-chiseled chest, an iron crown resting on his head, and, in his hand, a dark bident. He moved with grace and his eyes shone with purpose. And his purpose was me. He came to stand before my place at the table and bowed.

"Beautiful Proserpina, you are, as ever, radiant," he said quietly enough so that only I heard his compliment.

It was the first time he had ever called me by that name. My stomach filled with butterflies—though perhaps it was more apt to think of locusts, as there was nothing delicate about the feelings that Ignazio inspired within me. He was dark, dangerous, and determined. I held his gaze, equally determined. I had no idea how I would do it, but I vowed to hold my own against this man.

He turned to Gala and gave her a sweeping bow, more elegant than the one he had given to me. "My queen, we are ready to delight your senses."

"By all means," she replied, raising her hand in a gesture of permission.

Ignazio stole one more hungry glance at me, then looked at Dalí, nodded, and snapped his fingers. Again, the servants swept in, this time setting before us the first course—a dish containing what seemed to be an egg that had been breaded and fried and some sort of greenish-brown paste spread on a small slice of rye toast, surrounded by gold-gilt almonds arranged attractively around the edge of the plate.

Dalí's voice rang through the room. "I, the divine Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí, declare this meal dedicated to my queen, the magnificent Gala, to begin."

Paolo managed to catch my eye and mouthed something to me, which I thought might have

been "Stai attenta." Be careful. This time, he would not be close enough to knock anything containing a pomegranate seed out of my hand, nor would Lillian be able to swallow another seed for me.

"Mangia," Dalí shouted in Italian, then in Catalan, "Menja."

I examined the toast on my plate and, not seeing any seeds, took a bite. It turned out to be rich and pleasurable, and I detected a hint of alcohol but couldn't identify the other ingredients. "What's in this?" I asked.

Dalí was delighted that I wanted to know. "This is avocado toast. Never have you tasted anything so marvelous. You will experience a delirious concoction of avocados, almonds, lamb brain, and tequila. And a delightful fried egg stuffed with goose rillettes. I thought it quite Dalínian to begin this dinner with breakfast."

"A divine beginning for this gathering of gods," Gala said, licking avocado off her fingers.

What followed was a parade of food born from Dalí's imagination—prawn parfaits made from egg and sausage and decorated with prawns waving their pincers in the air; snail stew; a soufflé of cauliflower and garlic topped by a skewer of fried frogs; ramekins of frogs' legs; and a dish Dalí called "snail saltimbocca," which was nothing like the saltimbocca alla Romana of chicken and veal in white wine that I had grown accustomed to. His dish, made of fried snails with garlic sauce, was far more complex.

I carefully dissected every morsel of food before eating it, to ensure I wouldn't ingest another pomegranate seed. So far, I'd found only two, stuffed into the egg, but I'd managed to tuck them under the empty prawn shells, glad that no one sat close enough to me to notice, though I was sure I'd been caught red-handed when Dalí suddenly screamed out, "Absolutament no!"

As it turned out, he hadn't seen me squirrel away the seeds at all. Instead, he was yelling at Paolo, who tried to photograph the obscure but exquisite dishes before us. They were not ready to be seen by the world, Dalí insisted, and Paolo obliged him, putting his camera back in his pack.

Between courses, Ignazio brought us an herbal digestivo that made me feel as though I hadn't eaten a thing, which was fortunate because next came a tower of crayfish, which the servants shelled before us, then served in a broth, eel paté and eels with beer, sardines in little bread boats, and an entire turbot with skewers of sausages rising out of its back. It was hard to imagine eating some of these things, but aware of Gala's eye on me, I sampled a little of each dish, and, to my surprise, every one delighted me. If you had told me that same afternoon that one of my favorite bites of the night would be jellied codfish, I would have grimaced, then laughed in your face. But now I was wishing for seconds.

"This is magical stuff," Lillian remarked to Ignazio as he poured us another digestivo .

"Your Maestro Dalí would not want you to miss any of the magic of the food at hand." He gave a nod toward the artist.

"We have not yet seen our friends of the land," Dalí explained, and as if on cue, the servants brought out plates of pheasant in port sauce, steamed and stuffed larks, roast duckling, pigs' feet in piecrusts, pork chops on a bed of flaky pastry, boar shank with black radishes, and a "siren shoulder," which turned out to be a lamb shoulder with anchovies and caviar.

"There's more," I told Lillian. We still had dessert to come, and I knew how much the Dalís loved their sweets.

The "toffee with pine cones" turned out to be candies with pine nuts. The old-champagne sherbet, Dalí informed us, was made from a ten-year-old bottle of Veuve Clicquot. It was accompanied by a banana pie made with rum-soaked biscuits and a tiny plate with a chunk of chocolate, chock-full of what I guessed to be about fifteen pomegranate seeds.

I had a few bites of the pie and a little of the sherbet, both of which were divine, but I dared not eat much or my feigning at fullness might not be believed. The liquor we had been drinking made me feel like I still had room to eat a horse. Of course Gala gave me a stern look when I pushed away my plate of chocolate untouched, and I wondered if she would reprimand me later.

Finally, Dalí brought the meal to an end. Ignazio indicated that we should stand, and within moments, the tables and everything on them had been cleared from the room. They took the golden chairs and lined them up along the wall.

"You have dined upon the delights offered to the glorious Gala, the one true goddess who graces us tonight with her presence. Now," Dalí exclaimed, "it is time to dance!"

I silently groaned. I didn't think of myself as a great dancer. Besides, how could anyone be expected to dance after such a feast? But the music began, a slow waltz I recognized as a traditional Italian song called the "Serenata Napoletana."

Jack came forward and took Gala by the hand. Lillian already had a hand on Paolo's arm. And I stood there awkwardly as the couples danced. Just as I began to walk toward Dalí, thinking I would stand next to him and watch, Ignazio appeared in the doorway. I wanted to curse.

"Dance, my darling Proserpina. Your Pluto awaits," Dalí commanded me. "Danse!" he instructed again in French. He spanked me with his lightning bolt, forcing me to move toward Ignazio, who had crossed the room with surprising speed.

Ignazio wrapped an arm around me, finding the small of my back with one hand, holding my hand with the other. Heat, smoke, and cinnamon circled around me as we began to move across the tiles of the sala grande . I tried to catch Lillian's eye as we swept by her, but my friend was lost in Paolo's embrace.

I had never danced the waltz without counting my steps, but in Ignazio's arms, I could hardly think, much less count. Nor did I need to. We moved together as though we were one, as though we had been dancing together for centuries. Together for centuries. That thought came to me as we spun, as my feet moved effortlessly, in time with the clarinets. It was an alarming thought, but one I could not shake and one Ignazio seemed to validate with his whisper in my ear.

"This is something you have missed," he said.

I had no response for him. While I rarely danced and had never danced with him before, his words rang true within me. How could I feel as though I genuinely had missed waltzing with him?

Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the windows along the western wall, through which a green glow was evident. The boschetto was alive again.

Julia...

The whisper was soft, and I wondered if I had imagined it. Ignazio and I moved together like fire, like heat rising. We spun, our bodies moving with a rhythm the music could barely reach.

Julia...beware...

The whisper grew louder, and it shook something loose inside me, a sliver of anger. Who were the ghosts warning me about?

I wanted to find out. "Do you know the name Aidoneus?" I asked Ignazio. It was the question I'd wanted to ask if I had won the staring contest.

He pulled me closer. "It means husband ," he said, his voice like silk.

That was not the answer I had expected. His skin burned against mine, and I wondered if I might burst into flame or melt into the earth.

"You made a choice." His breath was hot summer in my ear. "You can make it again."

"What choice?" I asked, alarmed.

Beware...

The windows overlooking the boschetto glowed with a new intensity. I wondered why none of my companions noticed.

"You chose me. And you can choose me again."

Before I knew what was happening, his lips were against mine, crushing against me until I softened, fell into him, and nearly lost myself. The night before had barely been a kiss at all, a brush of the lips, enough to whet my appetite. This was something more, a promise...dare I even think it?...a commitment.

Julia, beware...

The whisper gave me the courage to break away once more. It didn't matter how much I wanted him... I couldn't give in. "No. I can't do this. I won't do this."

I looked around. No one had noticed us—they were all lost in the dance, Dalí sublime in his golden chair, tapping his thunderbolt against the arm in time with the music.

Ignazio suddenly fell into a kneeling bow at my feet. "My ardor for you got the better of me. Forgive me."

The windows glowed bright green, a wild light that pulsed. Like it did that first day I arrived, it was keeping time with every fluttering beat of my heart. I backed away from the windows, away from Ignazio. The world spun around me again, and I closed my eyes, willing everything to disappear. When I opened them, Ignazio was nowhere to be found, the windows were black with the night, and I was standing next to Dalí, Gala was waltzing with Jack, and Paolo with Lillian. She grinned when she saw me looking in their direction.

"Pull up a chair, dear Proserpina," Dalí suggested, indicating with his lightning bolt that I should retrieve a chair from the other side of the room. The golden one next to him was unoccupied, but, clearly, it was reserved for Gala.

"You are troubled," he said as soon as I had sat down.

I was surprised. Dalí wasn't one who seemed to care about or even notice the people around him.

"This place, it is...unsettling," I said. I wasn't sure how I could possibly tell him any of my real concerns.

"As it should be."

"Why?" I asked.

He regarded me with new interest. "Why?" he parroted.

I nodded. " Sì. Why should it be so unsettling?"

He looked down, as though he were ashamed of the answer. "We are caught here, in between everything."

I waited for him to explain but he only stared at the tiles. I touched him on the arm. His skin was cold, and he recoiled as though my hand was poison.

"I'm sorry," I said, flustered by his reaction. "You just looked lost."

" Sì. We are all lost." He spoke as though he were in a trance, a blank stare on his usually animated face.

"What does that mean, Maestro Dalí? What are we caught between?"

"All of this," he said, waving the lightning bolt around at the room in front of us, "could be different, Julia. All of it. If you weren't merely a muse and you were an artist."

I gritted my teeth. "I am an artist."

"Then prove it. Paint this away. Change it. Paint your way forward. You are the only one in the room with the power to do so. My paintings are only a door. I cannot make you step inside."

This time it was he who reached out to touch me on the arm. His fingers were like ice. "One more, Julia. You know what you have to do." He put a hand into the folds of his toga and pulled out a little pomegranate, held it toward me.

I stood, furious, and tried to keep my words measured. "No. I won't. Buona notte, Maestro. "

I departed as calmly as I could. When I reached the hallway beyond the ballroom, I leaned against the wall, willing my heart to slow and my wits to return.