The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (18 page)

“And that business about a virgin mother? Ha! All the pagan gods had virgin mothers. But, ask yourself, why is a virgin better
than a natural mother, like my Rosa?” He sniffed. “As if women are polluted by men. It’s insulting. But Jesus knew better. Some of his closest disciples were women. God is inside
all
of us.”

“Really?”
Marrone
. If God was inside me, it meant there was hope for me. I said, “I like that idea. Why should it be a secret?”

“Power.” Chef Ferrero clenched his jaw. “Now we get to the heart of it. Let’s sit.” He walked to the canal and swept a scrambled mass of paper streamers off a bridge’s stone step. He sat there and gestured for me to sit next to him, which I did with a sense of unease—he looked pensive and grim.

The chef rested his elbows on his knees and said, “I want to tell you a story. Hundreds of years ago, a man named Irenaeus condemned most of the writings about Jesus as heresy, and they were driven underground. He chose four gospels he liked and devoted his life to creating a church around them. He called it the Catholic Church.”

“But the condemned gospels were saved?” I felt a twitch of understanding. “They’re in the book?”

“Some saved, some lost, some, we think, still hidden and undiscovered. We call them the Gnostic gospels—Gnostic means ‘wisdom,’ eh?—and what matters is their message. They tell us that we don’t need a church between us and God.” The chef locked eyes with me. “God is inside you.”

“Me?”

“You, me, all of us. Embrace yourself, Luciano. You’re better than you think.”

“But if the gospels have been changed, why should we believe the Gnostic gospels any more than the others?”

“If you’re going to believe anything out of a book, use your head.” The chef pointed to my forehead and raised his eyebrows. “The Gnostic gospels, and even three of the approved gospels, say that Jesus was a man who carried God inside him, just like the rest of us. Jesus wanted us to look within and see that part of ourselves.
His message was not about some kingdom
out there;
it was about enlightenment
in here
.” The chef laid the flat of his hand on his chest. “That message is repeated in many texts, but that ‘Son of God’ business is not. So, if you use your head, you can see that it makes more sense to believe the thing that is repeated and corroborated rather than the thing that is not.”

“
Sì
, but … Irenaeus is dead.” The chef had given me permission to think for myself and I was suddenly full of questions. “So, if the Gnostic gospels make sense why are they still secret?”

“Irenaeus may be dead, but his church isn’t. The idea that we need priests to intercede for us is convenient for a church that governs with absolute power. In fact, the beginning of the Roman church came about through a political power play. When Constantine, the first Christian emperor, moved his court from Rome to Constantinople, he left a supervisor in his place. That was the first pope.”

“A Roman supervisor?”

“
Sì
. It was a matter of the emperor keeping control over Rome.” The chef made a fist and clenched it so tightly his arm trembled. “It was an iron control that brought centuries of intellectual darkness when men who dared to think freely did so at their own peril. The church will do anything to maintain control. They’ve even waged bloody wars under the banner of religion, simply to hold on to their power.”

“Marrone.”

“History is instructive, but the church’s history … well …” The chef slumped a bit. “As you learn more—and you will because I’ll teach you—try not to let it make you bitter.”

I nodded. “I’ll try, Maestro.”

“Do you understand now? The Gnostic gospels have political power because their message undermines the church. Those gospels interest dangerous men, and you shouldn’t meddle in things you don’t understand. For Landucci and Borgia, this is about politics
and power. For the doge, it’s personal, but it’s still risky to get in his way.”

“How do you know all this, Maestro?”

He gave me an odd smile. “A teacher has a responsibility to get his facts straight.”

“A teacher?”

“Just remember, churches are man’s invention.”

I couldn’t help thinking about all the decent people who flocked to church every Sunday and fell on their knees. I said, “But people truly
believe
.”

“
Sì
. Blind faith is what allows churches to manipulate them.” The chef grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. He looked angry and his eyes pinned me in place. “Never believe blindly, Luciano. Never!”

I was fascinated by the chef’s passion, and a little frightened too. I said, “
Sì
, Maestro.”

He let go of my shoulder, and we sat for a while watching the canal. Eventually he murmured, “Poor Jesus. He was a good Jew, and he preached a decent method of living. Someone should try it sometime.”

“Jesus was a Jew?”

He nodded. “A devout Jew all his life. Jesus had no intention of starting a new religion. He obeyed Jewish law and preached only to Jews. He never told anyone to take his message to the pagan Greeks, but Paul did anyway. That’s how Greek myths got mixed in with Christian doctrine. What a mess. Like adding the wrong spice to a pot of soup. It changes the flavor, and not always for the better, eh?”

I thought of the Venetian Jews I’d seen in the Rialto, mysterious people in somber clothes, a people apart herded into their secluded ghetto and forbidden to come out after dark—and those restrictions imposed by Christians? I wondered what other ideas history had twisted. “What else is in the book?”

“Science, art, philosophy, history, animal husbandry …” The chef raised a hand and inscribed circles in the air as if the list was far too long to recite. “Even a little cooking.”

“
Marrone
. That must be a big book.”

He nodded. “A teacher named Socrates said that knowledge is the source of good and ignorance is the source of evil.” He gave a sad snort. “They killed him, too. People hate having their beliefs challenged. But trust me, there’s more to know in this life than church doctrine. Human potential is … well … maybe Jesus wasn’t the only one who could work miracles. Maybe we all can.”

I grinned. “Now you’re joking.”

He gave me a queer half smile. “Human beings have untapped potential. But they’re easily led because they don’t trust themselves. That’s why the church calls them sheep. Learn to trust yourself, Luciano.”

For the first time, I saw that accepting anything without examining it was not virtuous and I wanted to ask a question that, until that moment, had seemed vaguely blasphemous. “If we’re not supposed to think, why would God give us brains?”

The chef smiled. “Very good, Luciano.” He stood up and dusted off his pants. “I knew you’d understand.”

Seeing my maestro in good spirits comforted me. Perhaps the situation at the palace was not so dire. Perhaps the murders and machinations signified nothing more than individual men maneuvering to hold on to their power. Perhaps the real power lay in the chef’s secret knowledge.

Feeling reassured, my empty stomach began to overtake my interest in history, and I wanted something more substantial than grapes. We were in the Rialto, and the wheels of cheese, bushels of apples, and baskets of fish sharpened the hollow feeling in my stomach. I hoped the chef might buy us a bite of breakfast.

When Chef Ferrero stopped at the stall of a German baker, my stomach purred. Although the Germans were disparaged for their
rough manners and greasy food, when it comes to bread they have always been the masters. I almost groaned at the sight of lustrous rye breads infused with honey, a braided egg-bread sprinkled with toasted almonds, and a savory batard with flecks of dill in the burnished crust. The aroma made saliva well up and pool under my tongue.

The chef purchased a cinnamon sweetbread, and then we went on to the stall of a greengrocer, where he bought two bloodred apples. We took our breakfast to a small, quiet piazza and sat on a public bench in the shade of a neighborhood church. Before breaking bread, the chef asked, “Do you know much about making bread, Luciano?”

“A little.” At that moment I only knew the smell of it was driving me mad.

“Bread is one of man’s greatest feats of alchemy. Flour, water, yeast, a bit of salt, the right technique, and
presto
—bread.”

“I understand, Maestro. You alter something, and it becomes something else. Are we going to eat that?”

To my great relief, he broke the loaf and handed me half. I bit into it gratefully. While we chewed, we watched a squadron of old women in black dresses hobble into the church for morning mass. One of them gave a mean kick to a drunk passed out in the church doorway, a victim of La Sensa. She hissed,
“Ubríacone,”
shot him the evil eye, and scurried inside. The chef said, “You can’t escape the church. It lives inside people.”

With bulging cheeks and bread crumbs on my lips, I nodded politely. I’d had enough talk about the church for one day; I was more interested in the fact that some new bond of trust was being forged between the chef and me. I said, “Thank you for confiding in me about the Gnostic gospels. I feel privileged, Maestro.”

“And what have you learned?”

“That the gospels are powerful and worth preserving.”

“And?”

“I have God inside me?”

“Bene.”
The chef bit into his bread and chewed thoughtfully. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he said, “What I’ve told you is controversial, and talking about it could be dangerous. So keep your mouth shut, eh?”

“
Sì
, Maestro.”

“You may decline to know more if you wish.”

Me decline to know more? Not likely. Very carefully, I asked, “Maestro, do you have the book?”

The chef screwed up his mouth as if I had posed a difficult philosophical problem. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not?”

He bit off a corner of the bread and chewed slowly. “Let’s say I share certain information with others.”

“You could be in danger.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Perhaps on you.”

“Good. Then there’s no danger. I would never betray you.”

“That’s my hope.” The chef put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You are my hope, Luciano.”

I thought of his daughters—Elena, his pride; the twins, his wonder; Natalia, his joy. And I was his hope? Like a son? “Maestro,” I said. “I’m honored.”

“Good.” He took his hand away. “You should be.” He proffered one of the apples and asked, “Do you know the story of Adam and Eve?”

“The one about the first people?” I took the apple and polished it on my sleeve.

The chef nodded. “It tells of the creation of Eve from Adam’s rib.”

“That’s a strange idea.” I couldn’t think of any woman I knew who would appreciate that. I bit into my apple with a wet crunch.

The chef took a bite of his apple and then held it out to appraise the white flesh. He said, “The story of Adam and Eve isn’t supposed to be taken literally.”

“No?” I chomped down happily.

“No.” The chef watched me eat and said, “That story is a parable, like Jesus’s stories.”

I worked my way around the apple, thinking, Marrone,
the chef really knows how to choose well
.

“Your ribs are right here, over your heart.” Lightly, he tapped the left side of my chest. “Some of my writings say Eve’s birth from the region of Adam’s heart speaks of spiritual awakening. That this spiritual awakening marks the beginning of humankind.”

“That’s a better story.” I was down to the apple core, and out of long habit I began to eat it.

“
Sì
, a better story. But people may choose to embrace their spirituality or not. So there’s also a story about a fruit tree, the tree of knowledge.”

I nodded as I finished off the apple core, seeds and all.

“Adam chose not to eat from the tree, but Eve, his spiritual side, persuaded him to taste the fruit of knowledge. You see? Knowledge, Luciano—that’s how they awaken to the fullness of their humanity.” He watched me wipe apple juice off my mouth with the back of my hand and added, “The fruit they ate was an apple.”

“An apple?” My hand stalled at my mouth. My lap was covered in bread crumbs, but nothing remained of the apple. I felt the weight of it in my stomach, already becoming part of me. If I had ever wondered how closely my hunger for knowing
everything
might bind me to the chef, I knew the answer in that moment. I’d eaten the whole apple, and there was no going back.

*

That night, as everyone slept, I crept down into the kitchen to make another attempt at a dish to impress my maestro; I wanted him to know his faith in me was not misplaced. I fired up the brick oven, reminding myself that garlic has no place in a confection and butter becomes a layer of oil floating atop the cheese. I felt confident and excited; this time I would get it right.

I helped myself to the triple-cream cheese (still convinced it would make a delicious base) and then added a dollop of honey to sweeten it and heavy cream to thin it enough for my whisk. Since my last endeavor, I’d noticed that wine was primarily used in sauces and stews, and so, in a moment of blind inspiration, I added, instead, a splash of almond liqueur, which I hoped would add subtle flavor without changing the creamy color of the cheese. Instead of the roach-like raisins, I threw in a handful of chopped almonds that I imagined would provide a satisfying crunch and harmonize with the liqueur.

I beat it all to a smooth batter and poured it into a square pan, intending to cut rectangular slices after it cooled. I slid the pan, hopefully, into the oven. Once again, I watched the edges bubble and noticed, with satisfaction, that instead of an overpowering smell of garlic there was a warm seductive hint of almond in the air. The bubbles turned to a froth that danced over the entire surface, and I assumed this was a sign of cohesion. My creation would come out of the oven like firm custard with undertones of almond and an unexpected crunch. The rectangular servings would make an unusual presentation—neither cheese nor pudding nor custard, but something completely new and unique.