Chapter 2

2

"I saw a weird green light in the valley," I told the elderly servant who escorted me to dinner. "Do you know what it might be?"

"Impossible," she said without looking at me. "No one goes into the Sacro Bosco at night." She strode ahead, cutting off my opportunity to ask anything more, and led me to a set of ornate doors, bowed her head, and departed.

For my first meal in Bomarzo, I had chosen to wear an elegant black dress with puffed sleeves that made my arms look sleek. The front draped seductively, and the skirt was nearly floor-length, not quite pencil thin but fitting. My black-heeled shoes had been a gift from Lillian, a Ferragamo pair with a tiny nick on the sole that couldn't be sold at the shop. The dress was my most flattering, and I wanted to inspire Dalí on the eve before he was to begin painting me. I took a deep breath and entered.

Green helical columns topped with gold capitals were painted onto the walls of the immense hall, giving the sense that they propped up the ceiling. The golden brocade curtains had been drawn to close out the night, but a fire in an intricately carved marble fireplace lit up one corner of the room. A long dining table dominated the middle of the chamber, surrounded by several dozen plush chairs. Gala and Dalí were already there and stood at one end of the table. Dalí wore a black double-breasted suit with a blue pocket square. Gala had donned a dress much in the same shape as mine, but her skirt was of shiny black silk that flowed sensually when she moved. They were talking with two men who looked to be near my age.

"Paolo," one said by way of introduction. He reminded me a little of Sinatra, but with an outsize nose and an Italian accent. "I'm the photographer."

"Pleased to meet you, Julia," the other chimed in, extending his hand. "I'm Jack." He was tall and blond, with striking blue eyes and the body of an American footballer. His smile immediately endeared him to me. I guessed he was the muscle who would haul Dalí's materials around.

"You're American," I said, surprised and pleased to have someone there who sounded like me.

"Born and raised in Idaho," he said proudly. "I served in the War. Infantryman, part of the Fifth Army under General Mark Clark."

"Under General Clark? You helped retake Rome."

He nodded. "And when it was over, I wanted to come back and see the city properly. I came with a girl, and when she went home, I decided to stay. I barely know an iota of Italian, but I get by."

"Ah. Italy is the better lover?"

He chuckled. "That she is."

"I went to school in Boston, but I'm from New York," I lied to him as I lifted a flute of prosecco from the tray a waiter held toward me.

"To New York," Dalí exclaimed, holding his glass aloft, eyes sparkling. "An enigma of its own creation, draped in shadows and light!"

"It is a place of poetry," Gala said, clinking her glass to mine.

"New York is indeed a poem, but not of steel towers reaching for the heavens. No, New York is a symphony of vibrancy and chaos, an orchestration of the primeval and the enigmatic. It's a pulsating, monstrous organ of crimson ivory echoing its rhythm into the ether." His hands moved as if conducting an invisible orchestra. "New York isn't a prism of light. It is not a sheet of cold white. It is a ballad sung in red, fiery red!"

I had no idea what he was talking about. Jack and Paolo only looked amused, as if this sort of poetic nonsense was common with Dalí.

"I think of New York as an inverted heart," Gala said. "The veins of its streets an organized snarl, pumping energy, pumping people in and about."

Dalí's eyes grew wide. "Yes, pumping! PUMPING," he shouted.

I wanted to laugh at this bizarre, campy behavior, but I didn't know if I would offend my eccentric employer. Jack, however, burst into a gale of hearty chuckles.

"You dirty fiend," Gala said, smacking him playfully. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Gala, you admonish me?" Jack laughed even harder. "You're always the first to tumble into the gutter."

Gala licked her upper lip seductively at Jack.

Glancing at Dalí, I saw his eyes alight with a different kind of intensity, the corners of his mouth hinting at a knowing smirk. His gaze lingered on the exchange, drinking in the moment, his fingers lightly tapping the stem of his glass in an erratic rhythm. It was not disapproval that radiated from him, but something much more akin to heightened interest. The air around him seemed to thrum with a fresh, palpable energy. In that moment, I found myself questioning Jack's role in Dalí's retinue, wondering if he had been brought to Bomarzo as anything other than a handsome plaything.

Ignazio entered the room just then, sporting a black tuxedo with a white bow tie and white gloves. "Dinner is served."

His voice rang across the room, and both Dalí and Gala released a little gasp similar to the one I stifled. Our host's beauty was impossible to describe. I looked away.

Fortunately, the arrival of the food provided a perfect distraction. The servers were also dressed in tuxes with white gloves. Some carried in platters covered in silver, and others wheeled carts with elaborate statues made from food—castles of painted sugar, a woman with a dress made of lettuce, a peacock with all its feathers on full display.

"Tonight you will dine like the gods," Ignazio declared in his smoky voice. "I have chosen your dishes carefully, and I trust you will be pleased with my selections."

Parsnip soup garnished with a pomegranate seed was placed before me. I wasn't fond of parsnips, and when it came to pomegranates, I generally disliked the seeds and avoided them whenever I could. While I loved the juice and the pop of the seed's skin against my teeth, I didn't like their pith and grit. I eyed Gala's seafood stew with jealousy as she lifted a spoonful of tomato broth and shrimp to her lips.

"You do not like parsnips?" Paolo asked me in halting English. I started to respond, but Dalí interrupted.

"You are in Bomarzo now, and I declare you Proserpina! You must eat the pomegranate seeds."

I was alarmed by his insistence but decided to play along. "If I do, I'll be trapped in the Underworld." I lifted a spoonful of soup to my mouth but avoided the jeweled seeds.

"Eat the seeds," Dalí instructed me, jabbing his finger toward my soup.

"Fine," I said hesitantly and took another spoonful, with one ruby-red seed. The combination of flavors was unexpected; it filled my mouth with a savory sweetness I had never experienced. I closed my eyes to immerse myself in the pleasure. The moment my eyelids dropped, I was plummeted into the middle of a spinning mélange of images and feelings—a palace with ephemeral Gothic spires, dark and beautiful; hands hot on my shoulders and a breath in my ear; and finally, the sensation of being dragged away from someone I deeply and dearly loved. Then it passed and I could taste the pomegranate juice on my tongue once more.

Startled, I opened my eyes again and found Ignazio staring intently at me from the doorway. For a second, I couldn't breathe under the weight of his gaze. The stare broke when the wind suddenly gusted around the corners of the castello with a loud whistle, causing the fireplace to flare up. Alarmed, I looked back to see if Ignazio would tend to the fire, but he was gone.

I was staring into my soup, trying to understand the odd daydream, when Dalí's arm brushed against mine.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

He took up my soup bowl and placed his vichyssoise in front of me. "This soup was wasted on you—you ate a seed, and you weren't whisked off to the Underworld." He seemed disappointed. "And I prefer it to a bowl of cold leeks and potatoes."

He spooned the soup into his mouth.

"Delicious! Poetic! Now I am Proserpina!" He waved his spoon in the air as he spoke.

I was shocked and a bit irritated. The soup had been good after all, far more so than I could have anticipated, and I would have been happy to finish it.

Thankfully, the soup course was an anomaly, and we were all served the same dishes for the rest of the meal. Following a pasta course, which included tortellini in brodo , spaghetti with chiles, garlic and olive oil, and garganelli with mushrooms, the servants brought out platters of roasted pheasants with their heads and feathers made to look alive, foie gras tarts, a tower of sausages made from goose and duck, and a boar's head with an apple in its mouth.

I shook my head when a cheesy soufflé was placed in front of me. "I don't know how I can eat all this."

"Me either," Jack said.

"Just have a little of everything," Gala instructed. She was looking at Jack, not at me, and I wondered what might be going on under the table that I couldn't see.

Between courses, Ignazio returned with a little digestivo on a silver tray. "Ratafia," he said as he placed the glass in front of me. His arm brushed my shoulder as he set it down. I recoiled from the intense heat of his touch, which sent my heart racing again.

"Mi dispiace," he said. But when I looked up, his slight smile made it clear he wasn't sorry at all.

I smelled the glass of liqueur.

"Cherry, nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove," Paolo said, anticipating my question. He tilted his head back and downed his glass. "Every nonna has her own recipe."

I sipped it and was delighted. It also had the fortunate effect of making me feel like I had not yet indulged, when just ten minutes before I was sure I might burst.

Dalí declared it the most exciting meal he had ever eaten. "Someday, I will write a cookbook," he declared. "I will fill it with the magic of Dalí and the magic of the food that can satisfy Gala."

The wine had started to go to my head and emboldened me. "Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?" I asked the maestro.

"Darling, I am the only Dalí! How else am I to talk about myself?"

I chuckled along with everyone else, but I couldn't help but wonder if the performance ever stopped. Dalí was gesturing again, telling a vivid account of when he wrote a story at the age of seven about a child taking a walk with his mother during a rainstorm of falling stars. But mixed into his tale was a brief, unsettling remark about the child's encounter with a group of people, described with a choice of words that hinted at prejudice. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there, subtly coloring the whimsical imagery with something darker. Everything else he said was curious, outrageous, and endlessly fascinating. It was easy to be enthralled by him. But I wanted more—I wanted to know how he painted and created—not this endless show of artistic narcissism. I hoped that when he painted me, he would be different, and I would discover the real genius of Salvador Dalí, unmarred by those subtle undercurrents.

"I think these are the monsters in the garden," Jack said when he beheld the platter of cookies shaped like elephants, mermaids, sirens, unicorns, dragons, and a little sitting bear. "They are the same as the statues Ignazio described when he first told us of the boschetto ."

"The symbol of the Orsini," Paolo pointed out, holding up the bear.

I chose a cookie shaped like Cerberus, dipped it into the silkiest, most decadent chocolate mousse I'd ever tasted, and bit off one of its three heads.

Dalí wagged a finger at me. "Why do you eat your protector with such gusto?"

"My protector?"

"That beast guards the Underworld, and thus you, little Proserpina. You need to let his strength fill you up with each bite, not let your teeth deflate his spirit."

I gave him a weak smile. He was really taking the idea that I was Proserpina too far. "I see." I examined the rest of my cookie and carefully broke off another head, wondering if the rest of the week would merely be an exercise in bending to Dalí's will.

When the plates were cleared, Ignazio brought out more prosecco and a bottle of whiskey. As he poured, Dalí suggested that Gala read her tarot cards for us.

"My Gala, Galachuka, Gravida, my Lionette! She who is never wrong," Dalí said, his voice full of awe. "My wife is prophetic, angelic, demonic, the very picture of desire." He leaned over and kissed Gala's cheek.

"It's true that Gala's never wrong," Jack said to me. "And she's clairvoyant."

Of course she is , I thought wryly.

Jack noticed my skepticism. "She really is. She can sense things that we can't. It's uncanny."

Gala beamed at Jack as she began to shuffle the cards.

"Let's start with you, Salvador," Gala said, and Dalí pulled a card and laid it on the table. It showed a man with his hand in the air, holding a wand, with a cup, sword, and pentacle on a table before him, and an infinity loop over his head like a halo.

"The Magician. You always draw that card." She laughed.

"That is because I am el mago ! It's the card of infinite possibilities of creation through the force of one's will." Dalí smiled at me and took a sip of his whiskey. " Sì , this is a good omen for my painting."

"The Magician is a conduit between the spiritual and material realms," Gala told the rest of us. "This connection gives Salvador the energy he needs to transform his visions into reality. He's right about it being a good omen." She ran a hand along her husband's cheek. "You'll have the power to manifest what you desire while you are here."

Gala reshuffled the cards. "Now, one for our week here at Bomarzo." This time she had Jack pull a card. It was an ominous one, featuring a satyr with bird feet and goat horns, a man and a woman chained to the pedestal upon which he perched—the Devil.

Gala furrowed her brow. She was silent for so long that Dalí reached out a hand and put it on hers. "My Gravida, are you all right? Is it bad?"

"I don't know." She picked up the card and looked at it. "This card means entrapment, emptiness, lack of fulfillment. Obsessive or secretive behavior. Fear, domination. I fear there is a force at work here that will not be in our control."

"That sounds so dire," Ignazio commented. He had returned to refill our glasses. "There must be more to such a reading, no, Signora Dalí? What if it was a tale of two lovers?"

"Yes, the card could be interpreted as lust, temptation, or hedonism."

"The pursuit of life's earthly pleasures," Ignazio said, handing me a new goblet of prosecco. I was careful not to touch his fingers as I took the glass. He turned back to Gala. "Will you read a card for me?"

Gala brightened at the suggestion. She shuffled the cards and Ignazio plucked one depicting Adam and Eve with an angel looking down over them.

"Interesting. It appears I've drawn a card that reflects my theory—The Lovers," he said.

"But it is reversed," Gala said, noting that the card was upside down.

"What does it mean?" I asked.

"Imbalance. Something is opposing the lovers, keeping them from being together."

Dalí tapped a finger on the card, indicating the fruit tree behind Eve, around which a snake was entwined. "Some scholars believe Eve didn't eat an apple, and it was actually a pomegranate."

"I've heard that, too," Ignazio chimed in. "I believe it to be true."

Dalí clapped his hands together. "If only you had pulled that card, Julia. Proserpina you would truly be!"

Ignazio picked up the card, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it, then handed it back to Gala. " Grazie , Signora Dalí."

"You're welcome," she said, sliding the card back into the deck, clearly disarmed.

"Julia, it's your turn," Jack said. He nudged Gala, who tore her eyes from the door Ignazio had disappeared through and returned her attention to the deck.

"Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Your turn, Julia."

But I didn't want a card to tell me about my future. I wanted to know about my past.

"I would have preferred The Lovers," I muttered when I saw that I'd pulled the Death card. It featured a knight waving a flag emblazoned with a double rose somewhat similar to those I'd seen all over the castello , the emblem of the Orsini family. There were bodies strewn about the feet of the knight's skeleton mount, and a pope in front of the horse, pleading with Death.

Gala shook her head. "You know nothing. This is a very good card."

"I don't see how."

"Oh, but it is. You're undergoing a transformation. The old you will die, and the new you will be created. Don't be a ninny, Julia. Let go of your stupidity, of what you know, and accept what comes your way, no matter how much it frightens you. Let yourself be ripped apart and made anew."

Despite her cutting remarks, Gala was oddly jubilant, as though she had just given me her own great gift.

"I don't need a new me." I stammered, unable to tell her I was desperate to know about the old me.

"I have reinvented myself almost every day, and look where it has got me," Dalí interjected. "I am the greatest living artiste . I am the dream, the madman who is not mad. I am Dalí!"

Distraught about the notion of reinventing a me that I didn't know in the first place, and tired by the events of the day, I excused myself a little while later. I set my hair in rollers, put on my pajamas, and climbed into bed. I was tipsy, and I hoped my fuzziness would carry me into a deep sleep. But when I rolled over and put my hands under my pillow, I encountered something there. I pulled it out and turned on the lamp.

It was a tarot card. The Lovers.

My breath short, adrenaline rushing through my veins, I flung it from me as if it were on fire. How had that card ended up under my pillow? It was the card Ignazio had pulled. Was he the one to place it there? But how had he gotten it from Gala? Did he have a deck of his own?

When I had calmed, I went to retrieve the card but couldn't seem to find it. I turned on the rest of the lights and searched all over for it—under the bed, in the bedding, behind the nightstand, at the edges of the room. But to no avail. The card had disappeared.