Chapter 5

5

The afternoon passed in a haze. I dozed while Dalí painted. At some point, Ignazio brought out folding chairs for the others, who collapsed in them gratefully in between their forays into the garden. Orpheus returned and curled up in his spot, purring against my belly.

"Time to go." Gala shook my arm, rousing me. "This place is becoming creepy."

I looked around and saw that dusk had begun to fall. The sirens at the other end of the hippodrome glowed in the last rays of the day's light. Paolo was waiting, his camera bag and tripod on his shoulder. "Can I see?" I asked Jack, who held the canvas as Dalí packed up his easel.

He turned around to face me, bringing the painting into my view. My face had been sketched in great detail, and the outline of my body was there, and I was hardly surprised to see a pomegranate floating in space, a few inches from my figure. But rather than being held by Proserpina, as I had expected, my image was in what I could tell would become the mouth of a terrible orco , the beginnings of a vast ocean beneath and a wide pink-and-blue sky above.

"Why am I in the Mouth of Hell?" I asked Dalí.

His eyes bulged in a mix of surprise and incredulity. "Where else would Proserpina be?"

"Judge not," Gala warned me.

I nodded, unsure what I would have said, even if my opinion was wanted. But I was glad he hadn't decided to have me model in the mouth of the orco .

Ignazio was waiting for us at the truck to take us back up to the palazzo. On the way, the others filled me in on the parts of the garden I had yet to see.

"There is an old stone amphitheater, covered in moss," Paolo said. "They must have put on some magnificent performances there at one time."

"The tilted house is my favorite," Jack said.

"Tilted house?" I asked.

"It's like a house in one of Dalí's paintings," Gala said, patting her husband's knee.

"No, it is like how it feels in one of my paintings," he corrected her.

We hit a bump and Paolo slipped off his seat, knocking into the wet canvas, the top of the orco and part of the ocean transferring to the sleeve of his jacket.

"Idiota! Stupido sciocco!" Gala cried out, smacking him across the face with the back of her hand.

Paolo drew back and looked down at the blue-and-black smear of paint on his clothing, mortified. Rather than reclaim his seat next to Jack, he sat down next to me, and I could see a red mark just beginning to bloom on his cheek. I felt for Paolo. It was the second time that day that Gala had slapped someone—and I still recalled the feeling of her hand hitting my cheek. Was she always so awful?

"My Lionette." Dalí put his arm around Gala to calm her, speaking to her in a mixture of Catalan, French, and English.

I surveyed the damage. "Dalí can fix anything," I said, looking at the canvas. I hoped that the situation would diffuse if I appealed to the artist's ego. "Do not worry."

Gala harrumphed and turned her head to look out of the truck toward the palazzo looming on the hill above us, but my tactic worked on Dalí. "A trifle," he exclaimed after he'd lifted his head to survey the damage. "This is nothing. I can fix that with my eyes closed."

Beside me, Paolo released a sigh of relief.

"Grazie per la tua gentilezza," Paolo said, thanking me for my kindness when we got out of the truck and Dalí and Gala were out of earshot.

"Non era niente," I told him. For it was nothing.

"Questo è un brutto posto. Lo sento nelle ossa. E queste persone, non sì prenderanno cura di te. Stai attenta."

This is a bad place. I feel it in my bones. And these people, they won't take care of you. Be careful. I opened my mouth to respond, but Jack spoke before I could.

"Gala is prone to outbursts," he said calmly. "Don't take it personally."

Clearly, he hadn't understood the cameraman's words of warning. I wanted to ask Paolo what he meant, but he had already turned from me and was hoisting Dalí's easel over his shoulder.

"Julia, may I speak with you?" Ignazio asked as we trekked up the long stretch of road toward the Orsini palazzo.

"Sure," I said, although my heart had already begun to pound at his nearness.

He fell in step with me, waiting until Paolo and Jack were some distance ahead of us before he began to speak. "They told me you felt an earthquake when you were in the garden," he said, finally.

" Sì , I did. So did Jack, but the others said they did not feel it. I don't know how—it was quite strong."

"I felt it too."

I looked at him, shocked. "You did? But the others didn't."

He gave me a dark, sly smile. "I am more accustomed to the unusual nature of the garden than they are. Where were you when it happened?"

"In front of the statue of the woman with the mossy legs and the vase of flowers on her head." I didn't want to tell him I knew her name.

He nodded. It seemed to be the answer he expected.

"I regret that the boschetto wasn't kind to you today. I imagine fainting in the mouth of the orco , then feeling an earthquake so shortly after must have left you unnerved."

He sounded truly sympathetic, and despite my better judgment, I warmed to him a little.

"You haven't eaten much today. You must be famished," he said.

My belly rumbled then, and I hoped he couldn't hear it. "I am."

"There will be a big feast tonight. Partridge, pheasant, perhaps a little pollo alla diavola ."

The devil's chicken. My breath caught, although I shouldn't have been as taken off guard as I was. It was a common Italian dish I had eaten many times before. It derived its name from its spicy nature and because it was traditionally cooked over coals, not because of any sinister association.

"Are you the devil?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I didn't know what provoked me to be so coy and I could only hope it came out as a joke. I dared a glance at him.

"Only if you want me to be, Julia," he replied with a wink.

My jaw dropped a little and I paused, unsure what to make of such a clear, brazen suggestion.

"Julia, are you all right?" Jack asked me as we entered the palazzo. "You look like you've seen another ghost."

I shut my mouth and strengthened my resolve. "I'm swell. Really."

Ignazio informed us that dinner would be served in two hours and that we were free to roam the premises if we desired.

"Perhaps you could give me another tour," Gala purred. "I was so tired when we first arrived."

"I would be delighted to answer any questions you have," Ignazio responded, quashing any hope of her getting a private tour from him. He ignored her pout and turned on a heel to head down the corridor.

"Jack can give you a special tour, Galachuka," Dalí offered in an attempt to appease his wife. "I will go with you—for inspiration," he added, giving me a little jab in the ribs with his elbow. "Perhaps you need inspiration, too, little goddess. Come back with us." His eyes roamed to my chest, then flitted over to Jack.

"I think I'm inspired enough," I said. There was something about Dalí and Gala, with their peculiar aura and unsettling demeanor, that made the idea of any closer encounter with them deeply unappealing. I could embrace the unconventional, but the thought of entangling with them churned my stomach in a way that no adventurous spirit could overcome.

I excused myself and went to my chamber, which I was relieved to see was just as I had left it. I half expected to find some new surprise under my pillow, but it was crisp and smooth. Throwing myself onto the bed, I stared at the frescoed ceiling, unable to believe the events of the day—the boschetto , the doves in the tempietto , fainting, the earthquake—it was all too unbelievable to be true. I thought about Ignazio's words—he regretted that the boschetto hadn't been kind to me, as if a garden had a choice in how much kindness it imparted on someone. As if he could control it. Who was this man?

Realizing it would do me no good to lie there letting my thoughts run rampant, that I was only ratcheting myself up, I decided to freshen up and to take the opportunity to explore the palazzo on my own. I started with the library we'd passed when Ignazio was showing us to our chambers. The shelves had beckoned me with the delicious odor of old books and the tantalizing thought of discovering something about this unnatural place.

It was just as you might imagine an old library in a castle would be. The walls were lined with thousands of books from floor to ceiling, with two ladders on wheels and a track to reach the highest shelves. A massive globe stood in an alcove near the window where a large desk and chair were positioned for easy viewing of the garden below. When I flipped the switch, the lights gave the room a cozy orange glow. Déjà vu ripped through me again, the sight of the library infusing a familiar sense of belonging within me, as though I had spent many an hour in this very room. I tried to tell myself that I had just been in a similar library in one of the many palazzi I had toured in Rome, but I knew that wasn't true. It was this library that was familiar, and it bothered me that I couldn't remember why.

Wandering along the shelves, I admired the dusty volumes, mostly written in Italian, though I did notice some Latin, Greek, and French titles too. I was astounded to see that many were hundreds of years old. Just as I was about to pull a volume of Dante's poetry off the shelf, the sound of a book falling to the floor on the other side of the room startled me. I whirled around, expecting to find Dalí or someone else touring the palazzo. But there was no one else in the room. My heart in my throat, I went over to investigate the fallen volume.

It was a simple, black, leather-bound book, a little bigger than those Pocket paperbacks that were so popular. I picked it up and was surprised to find it was a journal written in crisp, clear Italian. A woman's hand. Flipping to the inside front cover of the book, I found both a date and a name. Giulia Farnese, 1560.

I looked around the library, suddenly terrified. What spirit wanted me to find the journal of Vicino Orsini's wife? For there was no other explanation—someone or something had pulled this book off the shelf. It didn't fall on its own. There were thousands of volumes in the library. Why the one penned by a woman who shared my name and was buried in the tempietto in the garden of monsters below? What message was I being sent? From whom?

"Who are you?" I whispered to the empty room. When there was no response, I calmed myself with a few deep breaths, then took the book to the plush couch on the other side of the library, one of the few items in the room that wasn't a relic of the past but a modern addition. I sank down into the cushions and opened the journal. The writing was clean, but my Italian was intermediate at best, and many of the words were archaic, having been written so long ago.

I could understand the basic gist of the text but felt like there was more to it than I was grasping. Why else was I supposed to see it? The first few pages were full of anecdotes about Giulia's seven children—Corradino, Marzio, Alessandro, Scipione, Orazio, Ottavia, and Faustina—and spotting the word incinta , I gathered that she was pregnant again. I tried my best to scan through the journal, to see what could be so vital for me to know, but it was hard.

Just then, I heard Dalí call my name. Jumping off the couch, I rushed across the room to put the journal back before he found me with it. I don't know why I did it, other than I didn't want to share my discovery with the others. Jack appeared in the doorway as I slid the journal back onto the shelf.

"Ah, there you are," he said. He entered the library and looked around. "So many books. How could you read all of them in one lifetime?"

"It would be hard," I admitted.

"Did you find anything good?"

"There are a lot of interesting tomes on these shelves," I said, not wanting to admit I hadn't looked at any of them except the one that had fallen on the floor for me to see.

He approached the book display on a podium near the window. "What's this one?"

The cover had beautiful gold etching and contained only a single word: Poliphilo . A more extended Latin title was on the spine. Carefully, I opened the book and found the inside filled with beautiful woodcuts—wondrous images of people, animals, and what looked like a garden. The text seemed to be a mix of Greek, Latin, and even hieroglyphics, and the typography was unique, often creating shapes on the page with the words.

Jack leaned in to look at the images, putting his arm over my shoulder as though we had long been friends. "What is this book?"

I showed him the spine. "Hypnero...to...ma..."

"Hypnerotomachia!" Dalí exclaimed, coming up behind us, Gala in tow. "Hypnerotomachia Poliphili," he said with ease. " Que fantástico. It was published in 1499. What a find this is. The Strife of Love in a Dream. "

"You know this book?" I asked, stunned by his seemingly boundless intellect.

"It is the story of Polia and Poliphilo. Of course I know of it. It is a story of love, of dreams, of architecture, of ecstasy!"

I thumbed through it and came upon an illustration of an elephant with an obelisk on its back.

"Hey, I know that elephant," Jack said.

I did too. It was the same as the Bernini statue in front of the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, near the Pantheon in Rome, though noting the book's year of publication, this image probably inspired the sculpture. Dalí had always said he had taken his inspiration for his spindly elephant with an obelisk on its back in his Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second before Waking painting from the statue, so I should not have been so surprised that he knew of its original source.

"It's a famous book," Ignazio said from the doorway. "A story of love in a fantastical place. Vicino Orsini designed much of the garden based on the dreams within the Hypnerotomachia . It's interesting that you discovered this book tonight. Your dinner is based upon a meal that Poliphilo had during his dream."

"Who was Poliphilo?" I asked.

"He's the illustrious hero of the tale. The story is that Poliphilo can't sleep because his beloved, Polia, has shunned him." He paused and looked at me, as though there was some understanding between us, which was certainly not the case. "But," he continued, "he falls into a fitful dream, in which he is transported into a forest, where he encounters magnificent temples, dragons, wolves, nymphs, and other beasts as he searches for Polia despite the danger and distraction."

"Are they ever reunited?" Jack asked.

"Polia spurns him over and over, but eventually, when Poliphilo is on the brink of death, the goddess Venus convinces Polia to accept him. She kisses him, and he rouses from his fever, much like the prince and princess in Sleeping Beauty . But just as they are about to embrace, Polia disappears as Poliphilo wakes from his feverish dream."

"Love is cruel," Gala said. She sounded bored.

"Indeed," Ignazio agreed, turning his gaze to me once more.

"I don't blame Polia for running," I said, forcing myself not to look away. "Such infatuation is rarely wanted."

Ignazio was not deterred. "Sometimes people don't know what they truly want. Sometimes they are victims of the lies they tell themselves."

"I always know what I want," Gala said. "And, right now, I want dinner." She tried, once again, to take Ignazio by the arm and lead him away. This time he let her.

Seeing them together left me deflated. It was the oddest feeling, akin to watching an ex-lover go off with his new girlfriend. I was pondering the ridiculousness of such a sentiment when Jack put an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the library.

"Such magnificent backsides," Dalí commented from behind, thwapping me on the side of my leg with his cane.

"I'm not sure whose derriere he prefers more—yours or mine," I said to Jack as we descended the elegant staircase to the first floor.

"Likely mine," he said, laughing. "But I think he's mistaken." He stole a glance at my behind.

At this, I warmed. While I didn't think I wanted Ignazio's attention, having Jack's wasn't something I minded at all.