The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (17 page)

“Ah. So you mean torture and murder.” Old Riccardi was nodding. “The torture and murder of our finest minds. You would kill all of them, Maffeo? Where would that leave us? Again I ask, where would it end?”

“When I have my leverage over Borgia.”

Castelli tried to intervene. “Riccardi, be reasonable. We must beat Borgia to it if Venice is ever going to get out from under Rome’s thumb.”

Landucci had made his way around the table and now stood directly behind the old man. He said, “Power isn’t for the squeamish, Riccardi.”

“Why did you invite me here tonight, Maffeo? You knew I’d never agree to this.”

“Out of respect, Signor Riccardi. To give you the opportunity to agree.”

“I see.” Old Riccardi looked at Castelli, who had by then taken up the study of cutlery. “Everyone else has already agreed, then?”

“I’m afraid we have.”

Castelli murmured, “Please, Riccardi.”

“No.”

As Landucci slipped the gray silk around Riccardi’s neck, the old man closed his eyes, but they flew open when Landucci jerked the scarf tight. Landucci grimaced as he executed a brutal twist and held it firm. Old Riccardi’s eyes bulged, his mouth opened, his body bucked, then bucked again, and finally,
grazíe a Dio
, he sagged. Landucci lowered the old man’s forehead gently onto his last slice of sweet melon.

After Landucci slipped the silk scarf out from under the dead man, he sighed. “Pity,” he said. “Old Riccardi has succumbed to the heat. But he had a long life. It was his time, eh?” When there was no response, he looked at Castelli and spoke more slowly. “I said, it was his time, eh, Castelli?”

Castelli tore himself away from the contemplation of the table linens. “Yes,” he said. “It was his time.”

Landucci returned to his place and gulped down his wine without bothering to sit. “I’ll arrange to move a cooperative senator into Riccardi’s place on the council. After a decent period of mourning, we’ll offer the vacant senate seat along with double the doge’s reward for information about the book. Meanwhile, we’ll dispatch the
Cappe Nere
as planned.”

Landucci rang for the footmen, and as soon as they opened the
doors, Castelli rose and left without a word. Landucci addressed the footmen, who stood staring at Old Riccardi’s limp form, his cheek lying on the melon. He said, “Signor Riccardi has succumbed to the heat, may he rest in peace. Remove the body and inform the doge.” He tucked his scarf into his wine-stained vest and walked out.

Memories can play us false, and I know I didn’t really hear the clatter of cloven hooves as Landucci left. But if I were a dreamer or a poet, I might describe the thump and slap of a ropy tail, the odor of sulfur, and the hat betraying a glimpse of horn. Yet, Landucci, a cold-blooded murderer, truly loved his son. When Castelli had mentioned the boy’s death, Landucci’s face clearly showed a father’s grief. The murderer could feel love. At the time I wondered how it was possible to harbor both God’s love and Satan’s evil in the same heart. Now I think God and Satan have nothing to do with it.

After the footmen carried Old Riccardi away, I helped the maids clear the table and listened to the festival roaring in the street. My dear compatriots, so full of life—my
paesani
with their friendly lice, brown teeth, and honest black earth under their fingernails—at that moment, they seemed decent and solid people all.

But instead of rushing out to join them, I ran to the kitchen to tell the chef about Old Riccardi’s murder. To my disappointment, the chef had already left for the day, and Pellegrino would be in charge of the kitchen for the entire week of La Sensa.

In no mood for celebration, I retired to the servants’ dormitory and occupied myself with turning over the events of that evening in my head. I had many questions about what I’d heard. As for secret gospels to discredit Rome … well … I had heard that word—“gospel”—before, but I had no idea what it meant.

CHAPTER XII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
F
ORBIDDEN
W
RITINGS

I
suffered the whole week of La Sensa, fretting through distracted days and restless nights, disturbed by the commotion in the streets, by discordant music, drunken shouts, ugly laughter, and sudden screams. I twisted on my pallet enduring half sleeps tortured by dreams of fork-stabbed women and strangled men. Fortunately, no unusual challenges arose at work; the palace was quiet as the doge and other aristocrats remained sequestered during La Sensa, insulated from the frenzy in the streets, waiting quietly for the hilarity to run its course. Pellegrino ran the kitchen with ease, and I performed my duties in a sleep-deprived daze.

On the eighth morning, when the city lay in ruins from the festivities, I staggered down to the kitchen as exhausted as I’d ever been from any La Sensa. My gut burned, and the dry grit of sleeplessness scratched my eyes. I felt terribly alone with the horror I witnessed, and I ached to confide in someone. When the chef arrived and sat down at his desk, I stumbled over and blurted, “Landucci killed Old Riccardi, and he’s looking for the book.”

The chef straightened his toque and looked at me a long
time, his jaw tightening and releasing. He said, “I know. Everyone knows.”

“Oh … I just thought—”

“Pellegrino,” the chef called, “bring me a bunch of grapes and some raisins, eh?” Pellegrino brought the fruit, and the chef said, “Let’s take a walk, Luciano.”

“A walk?”

“Andiamo.”
He left the tall hat on his desk, pocketed the raisins, and strode toward the back of the kitchen swinging his bunch of grapes. I followed obediently.

We walked through the courtyard and out into the disheveled city. The chef shaded his eyes and peered down a canal varnished in morning light, then up at a Gothic spire soaring into a cerulean sky. He popped a grape into his mouth and said, “Nice day, eh?”

“
Sì
, Maestro.”

“Grapes?” He broke off a small cluster and held it out to me.

“Grazie.”

We walked in the general direction of the Rialto, strolling across stone bridges and down cobbled
calli
littered with debris from La Sensa. Sweepers pushed broken glass, paper buntings, and rotting food into the canals. The water swallowed the garbage and added it to the decomposing sludge that winter storms jostled out to sea. Venice seemed able to digest unlimited amounts of decay.

The chef stopped in front of a small church and pointed up at a stained glass window. “That glass is made right here in Venice.”

I had no idea what game we were playing. I nodded.

“Do you know how glass is made, Luciano?”

I’d seen Venetian glassblowers with long tubes pressed to their lips. They blew a pliable bubble of molten glass, which hung off the end, wobbly and malleable, and then they lopped it off and shaped it into bowls and vases before it cooled. But I didn’t know anything about their formulas or techniques. I said, “Not much.”

“Glass is two parts wood ash and one part sand that’s heated to melting.” He smiled. “Combine sand and fire and human ingenuity and achieve this.” He gestured at the stunning window blazing like a cache of gems in the morning sun. “Amazing, eh?”

“
Sì
, Maestro.”

The chef pointed to the glass saints clad in robes of sapphire and amethyst. He said, “You add cobalt to make blue, manganese for purple, and copper for red.”

“Sì.”
I was lost.

He gestured at the window. “Saints and virgins; that’s all they allow.
Boh
. What a waste of talent.” He lowered his voice. “There are ancient cave paintings in France, astonishing things. With few strokes and little color, they show the beauty and terror of nature—lines so fluid you expect them to move. Those paintings mark the birth of art, but very few know …” He glanced around and cleared his throat. “
Basta
. We’ll save that for another time.” He continued walking, kicking aside an empty wine bottle here, a half-eaten fig there, and I scrambled along. “So sand becomes glass; add a mineral and it glows with color. Would you call that alchemy?” He offered me more grapes.

I took the grapes, thinking,
Ahhhh, so
that’s
it
. “Is alchemy the secret in the book?”

“Is that what you want it to be?”

“What? No. I mean … I don’t care.” I ate a grape and remembered Old Riccardi talking about a formula to make bronze and asking, “Why not gold?” I said, “Is alchemy possible?”

“Many brilliant men dabble in alchemy.”

“You mean—”

“What do you know about this book, Luciano?” The chef stopped and faced me.

I scratched my neck to stall while my brain whirred, searching for the right answer. I wanted to ask “What do
you
know?” But I said, “The doge and Landucci want it for different reasons. But no
one seems to know exactly what’s in it. I’ve heard talk of alchemy and an elixir for immortality—”

The chef threw back his head and laughed so heartily I saw the horseshoe shape of his upper teeth. “An elixir. How completely they miss the point. What else?”

I kept my voice even. “A love potion?”

“Boh.”

Merda!
He was lying. I willed my face to go blank. “But, Maestro, I think love potions
are
known to some people. And I, for one, would find a love potion very useful.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Would you now?”

My blank expression collapsed, and my voice acquired an urgent edge. “I told you about Francesca. She’s in a convent, and I’ve embarrassed myself in front of her. Now I need a miracle to win her.”

“
Dio
, Luciano. She’s a nun. Don’t be a fool.”

I felt pressure behind my eyes, and I blinked fast. “Please, Maestro. Don’t ridicule me. I thirst, and she’s like salt water. The more I see her the more I want her. I suffer for her. She’s the light of my life.”

The chef sucked at his teeth and considered me. He said, “I’m sorry you suffer, but you’re mistaken. The light of your life is within you.”

“What?”

“Basta.”
He fixed me with a stern look. “This book. What else have you heard?”

I decided to try out the words that had meant so much to Landucci. “I heard something about secret gospels.”

“All right.” He nodded. “What about them?”

“Nothing. Only that Landucci wants to use them against Rome.”

“You can call that nothing?” The chef pulled a hand through his hair. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Maestro, what’s a gospel?”

His mouth dropped open a little. “Of course. How would
you
know the gospels?”

I winced at the slight emphasis he put on “you.” How would
you
know? Everyone in the world would know the gospels, but not Luciano, the
stupido
. I stuck out my chin to demonstrate my indignation, but the chef seemed not to notice.

He said, “I’ll tell you about the gospels, but you mustn’t go around repeating what I say. You could get into serious trouble. Can I trust you to be discreet?”

“Sì.”
Stealth had long been my way of life. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“
D’accordo
. You once asked why I was interested in the writings of the dead. In time, I’ll teach you to read and you’ll begin to understand. For now I’ll just tell you that some of those writings are gospels—stories about the life of Jesus. Of course you know who Jesus was.”

“
Sì
, Maestro. Everyone knows Jesus is God.”

“
Boh
. Jesus was a teacher.”

I wasn’t versed in theology, but this sounded heretical. “Not God?”

The chef sighed. “They talk about three gods in one or one in three, depending on who you ask.” He rolled his eyes. “What a tale. God arranges to torture and kill his son, who is also himself, in order to forgive sins not yet committed. It makes no sense. If a compassionate God wanted to forgive, why not just forgive? I’ll tell you why: There’s not enough drama in that. No blood, no pathos, it’s flat. But human sacrifice to atone for sin is a compelling idea borrowed from paganism. It’s primitive and emotional. It’s an old favorite.”

It was too much information thrown at me too quickly. I said, “I don’t understand three gods in one.”

“Of course you don’t. No one does. The church says it’s a virtue to be satisfied with not understanding. Questions are a nuisance.”

I scratched my head.

“Luciano. Pay attention.” The chef plucked a grape from the cluster and held it up. “This is a grape, eh? Smooth outside, juicy inside.”

“Sì.”

With his other hand, he dug a raisin out of his pocket and held it next to the grape. “A raisin, eh? Wrinkled and dry.”

“Sì.”

“As sand transforms into glass, a grape withers into a raisin.”

“
Sì
. Like magic.”

“No.” The chef gave me a warning look. “It’s a natural process. Take a handful of sand, a grape, or a gospel, then add something or leave something out, subject it to time or men’s meddling, and change is inevitable.” He ate the raisin and the grape and seemed pleased with himself.

I said, “The gospels have been changed?”

“Sì.”
The chef picked a piece of raisin from his teeth. “The gospels have been fought over, copied and recopied, translated and mistranslated.
Madre dí Dío
, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been wadded into balls and kicked around for sport.”

It seemed to me all that tampering would make them worthless. “How do you know what to believe?”

“Exactly!” The chef raised a stiff finger, and his eyes blazed like the glass saints. “Always examine what you believe. Christians call Jesus a god, as if that’s an original idea, but pagans have half-human gods all over the place.” He shifted his jaw as if someone had struck him. “Personally, I think creating gods in our own image is arrogant.