Page 36 of In the Garden of Monsters

I nudged back. “No, not much.”

Paolo also looked tired.“Stai bene?”I asked him.

“Sì, Signorina Lombardi. I am well. But I stayed up too late reading.” He gave me a sheepish smile. I wished I could have asked him what he had found in the diary, but that would have to wait.

Gala appeared then, went straight to the window and threw the curtains wide open along with the glass and the shutter. Bright sunlight accompanied by a crisp breeze immediately wafted in. I pulled my sweater closed. “No clothes today, Julia,” she said, stopping behind my chair and running her hands through my hair, arranging it on my shoulders. “It will warm up.”

“I will capture the goddess within you,” Dalí declared. “Proserpina is as beautiful as death. On the canvas, I will show this to the world, your deliciousness offered up from the grave, teasing the rest of the gods.”

Ignazio and Jack would both be gazing on my naked body. I often felt naked enough under Ignazio’s stare. And Jack had yet to see my body in the light. I groaned inwardly, but I had known this would happen, so I plastered on a smile.

Ignazio entered the room and all eyes turned toward him.Like a magnet, I thought. Gala went to him and linked her arm to his. “How is our handsome host today?” she purred.

But he smoothly untangled himself from her, not bothering to acknowledge her question. Instead, he turned to me. “Julia, Signora Rosati has graciously agreed to let you use the telephone. A servant will accompany you now to her house.”

“Who do you have to call?” Gala spit at me, obviously furious. “You have a job to do today.”

“Galachuka, darling, let her go,” Dalí said. I was glad he was feeling charitable. For all his faults, he was kinder than his wife.

“It won’t take me long,” I said, praying silently to whatever god might be listening that she wouldn’t dock my pay again. I grabbed a pastry off the plate in front of me and followed Ignazio out of the salon before Gala could say anything else.

“Did you have a restful night?” he asked as he led me out of the palazzo.

I took a deep breath, reassuring myself that he couldn’t know of my dream. “I did,grazie.”

He didn’t follow up on that line of questioning, and I was relieved. Instead, he told me a little about the widow Rosati. She was highly revered in the town and very wealthy but a little doddering and often forgetful. Then he handed me off to a tall and gangly servant, Minos, who didn’t spare a smile or a word for me. He led me through the warren of Bomarzo’s narrow streets. Stopping at the door to a large medieval house covered in vines, he motioned for me to be the one to knock, then sat down on a nearby bench and stared off into the distance.

I knocked on the door. For a long moment, I was sure no one would answer but was finally rewarded with the sound of a person shuffling through the hallway, then the lock unlatching on the other side of the door.

A man who could have been Minos’s twin stood there, in a shabby suit that looked like it must have been expensive long ago. “Signora Lombardi?” he asked. His voice was flat and empty.

“Sì, I have come to use the telephone,” I said in Italian.

He guided me down a dark hallway adorned with stately paintings of the family’s patriarchs, clouded with a varnish that hadn’t aged well. The house smelled old, a mixture of dust, mothballs, and heavy, flowery perfume, and the small salon where the telephone sat seemed to have been cut right out of the eighteenth century. Rich tapestries covered three of the walls and the fourth boasted an enormous fireplace that had just been stoked. The chairs and tables looked expensive, though worn, with scuffed legs and frayed cushions.

“Signora Lombardi, you wish to make a call?” came a voice from the red velvet couch by the largest shuttered window. Moving closer, I spotted a tiny woman dressed in black, with black lace edging her sleeves, hem, and high neckline. Even her hair was black as night, not a single gray to be seen, though her wrinkled hands and face gave away her very advanced age. She was at least ninety, or maybe even a hundred. Rising, she took up the jeweled cane at her side, hobbling over to me with surprising speed for someone so old. The scent of rain clung to her.

“Sì, Signora Rosati. Thank you for letting me into your home. I appreciate your kindness.” Her English was unusually clear, which surprised me, and I took it is a cue that I need not speak Italian with her.

But she just looked at me, squinting, a look of alarm spreading across her face. Then she began to shake her head, as though something were agitating her. “Who are you?” she asked in Italian, her voice suddenly becoming higher pitched. The servant who had brought me to the room laid a hand on her shoulder, and her confusion seemed to dissipate instantly.

“Signora Lombardi, pray tell, who are you calling?” she asked, returning to English, all signs of her previous agitation gone.

How odd, I thought, unsure what to make of her. “My roommate in Roma. I need her advice on a complicated matter.”

“If you need advice, I would be happy to provide that to you.” She smiled, but her eyes were cold.

I couldn’t fathom how this strange woman’s counsel would be helpful to me or why she would even offer such advice. “Thank you, but I am confident that Lillian can help me.”

She raised a thin eyebrow but said nothing, letting the servant lead her out of the room. When she was gone, I went to the black Bakelite phone and hastily dialed the number to our apartment, holding my breath, hoping Lillian hadn’t decided to go anywhere before she was due to work.

“Pronto?”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Lily, I’m so glad you are home.”

“Julia? Are you all right?”

“Sì, but I really needed to hear your voice.” I rushed into the story of the last few days, leaving out some parts because I knew I couldn’t stay on the phone long. But when Lillian heard of the fire, she was resolute.

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