I somehow managed to never lose my composure. Inside, however, I was—how can I put this?—screaming. And with that, Dalí announced, “Shall we go to dinner?” Accompanied by an entourage of the bizarre orgy people, we walked a couple of blocks to the restaurant, where we were joined by the Franco-American artist Ultra Violet, who was wearing a man’s shirt and tie with a velvet skirt. She sat next to me and, saying nothing, repeatedly tapped my leg with her cane. If she does that again, I thought, I’m going to smack her.
