The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (16 page)

“Poor man!”

“
Boh
. You mean poor boys. Landucci cut out the other boy’s liver, then had it cooked and served to his father. They say just as the man swallowed the last bite Landucci told him what he was eating. The man started to gag, but Landucci stabbed him in the heart before he could vomit. Said he deserved to die a cannibal.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Enrico puffed up like one of his own yeast loaves. “I have unimpeachable sources. Anyway, the story is well known. Ask anyone.” Offended, he disappeared behind an enormous mound of dough.

That evening, I carried only one tray of dishes and cutlery up to the dining room, enough for only three place settings. It seemed that while Venice spun itself into an overheated frenzy, the doge would sip cold love-apple soup under his bed canopy, and only three councilmen would come to the palace to eat a sensible meal of the same soup, cold chicken, and chilled cantaloupe.

I felt cheated.

When the double doors of the dining room opened, Landucci entered first. As I recalled Enrico’s gruesome story, the sight of him striding across the Turkish carpet gave me a horrible thrill—and yet there was nothing horrible about his person. In fact, he looked quite the distinguished gentleman. His face was stiff as wood and his mouth thin as a splinter, yet he was handsome in a sharp, flinty way. He had eyes of an indeterminate color, shifting to blue one moment, then to green, and then settling into gray.
He was tall and dashing, and he moved with patrician grace. He had the pale skin of one who lives a pampered life indoors. Only a thin, blue vein, pulsing slowly at his temple, suggested warm blood under his skin.

He must have been a vain man. His hair and beard were short and precisely trimmed, his clothing was fashionable, his fingernails were manicured, and he had a habit of flicking off dust motes with his silk scarf. He brandished the scarf to add emphasis to his words, and he held it to his nose whenever a servant approached. He dressed in ambiguous shades of gray—muted, elusive colors that matched his eyes.

Signor Castelli entered next. He was a large, square man, serious and capable. He pulled out his chair with one efficient move, sat erect, and cleared his throat, ready to do business. Behind him came Signor Riccardi—known affectionately as Old Riccardi—shuffling along with a walking stick and smiling gently. Old Riccardi’s face was so wrinkled it looked like candle drippings, but the smile creased his eyes pleasantly. I asked the maid about the rest of the council members, and she said, “They’re at home,
stupido
, like every year. This year, for some reason, Landucci wanted a meeting.”

In previous years, after the senators and their ladies entered the palace in stately assemblage, the festivities I had envisioned took place only in my mind. In truth, the highborn took refuge in the doge’s palace only to avoid pushing through the unruly mob in the piazza. They left discreetly through back doors and made their way home through small streets and narrow
rii
, undisturbed by the crowd. They may have stayed for one polite glass of wine, but there had never been a feast with music and powdered ladies whispering behind Chinese fans. And that night, there would be only a dull business meeting over an equally dull meal.

I’d put on a clean apron, washed my face, combed my hair, and hoped that the boisterous revelry in the streets wouldn’t interfere with the formal celebration in the palace. But now, as I watched the
three men mumble greetings and settle into their straight-backed chairs, the festivities in the street struck me as gay and inviting.

The men were impeccably dressed in summer silks—gray for Landucci and cool jewel tones for the other two, the blues and greens of the sea. As men of stature, all three wore hats. Stout Signor Castelli wore a circular flattop hat with a round brim, like a cake on a plate. Old Riccardi wore an arrangement of gauzy white cloth cleverly wound around his head so that it fell in graceful drapes to keep the sun off the back of his wrinkled neck. Landucci wore a voguish hat of starched gray silk with a neat brim. But in spite of the smart clothing and the music carrying in from the street, the mood at the table was subdued. The men sat far apart at the long table, as if making room for the aura of power that surrounded each one. All three wore beards, a feature that makes some men look wise but only made them look more formidable.

We served love apple soup first. Love apples, sometimes called tomatoes, were believed to be poisonous, but the chef grew them in his garden and knew the secret of rendering them harmless. He used them for soup as well as for a number of zesty sauces that greatly enhanced his reputation. Landucci sipped properly from the side of his round spoon. Old Riccardi slurped and dribbled into his white beard. Signor Castelli seemed to have little appetite.

Unsurprisingly, the love apple soup turned the conversation to the art of the poisoner, and Castelli told a favorite story of revenge. He’d once poisoned a bishop, a political rival, and then had the body squeezed into a child-size coffin and put on display in the man’s own church. He chuckled at his own wit and said, “Of course, the sweetest story of revenge belongs to Landucci. That business with the boy’s liver.” Castelli laughed, first a dirty little chortle, then louder with head thrown back, mouth agape, and tongue extruded.

“That was not revenge.” Landucci gave his gray silk scarf a sharp snap, and a dark flush crept up his neck. The vein at his temple pulsed. “That was justice.”

Castelli lost his smile at once. “
Scusi
, Landucci, I only—”

“I
loved
my son.” Landucci’s pallor ripened to a plum color, and another vein bulged in his neck. “Justice, Castelli. To sin against me so grievously required nothing less.”

“Of course,” Castelli blustered. “God’s own justice. Absolutely.”

Old Riccardi sighed. “When did such things become proper conversation for the dinner table?”

The men sat in silence while the maids served cold chicken on clear glass plates—oval medallions of white meat nestled amid simple greens and fresh herbs suggesting a sunny summer meadow. A garnish of thin lemon slices and paper-thin rounds of cucumbers added crisp textures and cleansing flavors. A cooling-down seemed appropriate at that moment, but the dish failed to mitigate the impressive color Landucci’s face had achieved.

A maid leaned over Landucci’s shoulder to refill his glass. She had, of course, heard the account of his double murder and, finding herself so close to the murderer, she began to tremble. The wine overflowed the glass and spilled onto the table. Flustered, she pulled the carafe back too quickly, and more wine sloshed into Landucci’s plate, onto his chest, and into his lap. Terrified, the woman put down the carafe, seized a napkin, and tried to blot the wine from his vest while she whispered frantic apologies. As she mopped up, she steadied herself with one hand on the table.

Landucci sat back, surprised. He looked at his stained vest and his chicken floating in wine. He murmured, “Clumsy slut.” He grabbed his fork in a tight fist and made a vicious stab into the back of her hand. Then he bore down until the prongs penetrated fully. After he let go, he pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from his vest and dabbed away bubbles of saliva from the corners of his mouth.

The woman stood still, her mouth wide open but making no sound. She stared at the fork handle that still quivered from Landucci’s thrust as blood pooled around the prongs embedded in
her hand. Her face turned waxy white. She gasped once and, very slowly, sank to the floor, staring at her hand in disbelief.

I stared, too, and tasted bile on my tongue.

Old Riccardi sighed again. “Landucci, for God’s sake, are you intent on ruining my appetite tonight?”

Castelli pushed a chicken medallion around his plate and said nothing.

Landucci nodded humbly. “
Scusate, sígnorí
. That was an unfortunate lapse of manners. I beg your pardon.” He gestured at the maid on the floor and said, “Someone get that out of here. And get me another fork.”

The two other maids on the landing said nothing, and their faces betrayed no emotion. One of them took a clean fork from the service tray and brought it to Landucci before helping the swooning woman off the floor.

The injured woman’s face remained a wax sculpture of horror until she reached the service door. Then her body convulsed, and finally tears sprang to her eyes. But when a sob escaped her mouth, the other maid clamped a hand over it and led her away. The fork handle bobbed grotesquely as she walked and left a spotty trail of blood on the stone stairs.

Landucci pushed aside his wine-soaked chicken, and a strained quiet came over the table. The other maid should have rushed in to clean up the mess, but she and I stood on the landing, temporarily immobilized by the sight of the bleeding woman hobbling down the stairs. In that still moment, the singing in the piazza rose to a joyous crescendo, and I felt a sick nostalgia for my old friends. The maid cuffed the back of my head, a signal to get on with the meal, and then she hurried into the dining room to take away Landucci’s plate.

I brought up the tray of sweet melon in a daze of shock and handed it to the maid, who took it without looking at me. Her face was blank, and I wondered whether she’d seen this kind of thing so
often it no longer surprised her, or whether she knew better than to show that she’d noticed anything.

Each slice of melon had been dressed with a few drops of Modenese balsamic vinegar to bring out the sweetness of the fruit and garnished with fresh mint leaves. It was served on alabaster plates, the swirling insubstantial white of thin clouds. I looked at the carefully arranged plates thinking that if I had to put anything in my mouth at that moment my throat would close in protest.

Old Riccardi wiped his forehead with a napkin and said, “I’m hot. Let’s finish our business and go home.” He speared his fruit and brought it to his mouth with a tremulous hand. He chewed with great care, like a man whose teeth hurt. “I’m too old to waste time,” he said with a full mouth. “I’d prefer not to die at this table, eh?”

Castelli began to choke. He coughed, drank some wine, and coughed again. His face reddened, and his eyes watered.

Old Riccardi asked, “Are you all right?”

Gasping for breath, Castelli nodded. “I’m fine.” He coughed again, then caught his breath and said, “Maybe you don’t have to die at all, Riccardi.” He paused to clear his throat and take a sip of wine. “Maybe the doge will find that book with the formula for eternal youth. What do you say, Riccardi? Would you like to be young again?”

“Not particularly.” Old Riccardi wiped his perspiring face with a napkin.

Landucci, whose high color had subsided, said, “Eternal youth.
Boh
.”

Again, Castelli demonstrated his ability to lose his smile in an instant. “Of course I was joking. I know that’s nonsense.”

Old Riccardi held up an arthritic finger. “Why so sure? If medicine can banish illness, why couldn’t there be an ultimate medicine to banish death? And what about the other formula—alchemy?”

“Come now, Riccardi.” Castelli offered him an indulgent smile.

Old Riccardi continued unfazed. “My jeweler says bronze is made from a formula. Just because we don’t know a formula for gold doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” Old Riccardi looked around the table, his faded eyes gone sly and amused. “Imagine the doge making enough gold to buy the
Cappe Nere
and getting rid of us. Eh? Eh?”

“Boh!”
Landucci threw his napkin on the table. “If that book holds anything of value, it will be those gospels that discredit Rome. And they’re probably not all in one book either. There could be many volumes, and surely there are copies. But if we could get our hands on just one, we could use it to control Borgia. Or”—his eyebrows shot up as if he’d just had a brilliant thought—“we could have copies printed in one of the new
stamperie
. We could have the thing read aloud on every street corner.”

“A popular revolt against Rome?” Old Riccardi’s voice was quiet and calm. “Then what, Maffeo?”

Landucci shrugged. “We might weaken Borgia enough for us to take the Papal States. Then France would court an alliance with us instead of Rome. We could unseat Rome and make Venice an empire.”

“And you the emperor, Maffeo?” asked Old Riccardi.

“Why not?”

Old Riccardi pushed the last piece of melon around on his plate. “If Borgia finds those gospels, he’ll destroy them.”

“That’s why we have to find them first.” Landucci leaned forward. “I want to double the doge’s reward.”

“Sì,”
said Old Riccardi. “We could do that. But then the doge might triple his. Where would it end?”

It was then that I noticed Castelli fiddling with his beard and keeping his head down as if some engrossing spectacle were taking place on his alabaster plate.

Old Riccardi said, “Out with it, Maffeo. What else do you want?”

Landucci’s eyes flashed like quicksilver. “This information has been protected for a long time, and many people must know many things about it. I propose we have the
Cappe Nere
pay visits to all the monasteries in Venice and the Veneto and bring us their copyists. I propose they also visit universities and libraries. Bring us the historians, biblical scholars, booksellers, translators, papermakers, calligraphers, illustrators, librarians, antiquarians, bookbinders, engravers, printers … Castelli, can you think of anyone else?”

“No.” Castelli continued his study of alabaster.

Old Riccardi stroked his white beard. “What will we do with all these people once we have them?”

“Question them, of course.”

“And you expect them simply to tell you what they know about writings that have been successfully protected for centuries?”

Landucci started to twist his silk scarf from opposite corners. “They’ll probably need an incentive.” The plum flush had begun to rise from his collar again.

Old Riccardi smiled. “The reward?”

Landucci stood and began to walk slowly around the table. He held one corner of his scarf in each hand, twisting as he walked. He said, “Certainly we’ll offer a reward. But we both know any successful campaign must persuade those less likely to be swayed by greed.” The vein at his temple had begun to pulse.