The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (20 page)

“But the chef—”

“
Merda
on the chef. The chef keeps you for a slave.”

“No.”

“You’re a fool. He’ll never promote you. Why should he? What has he taught you—to wash dishes and haul wood? Why doesn’t he
promote you? What does he keep in that secret cabinet you told me about? How did he make that magic sauce? He’s a strange one, your chef. People talk, you know. Maybe he’s a sorcerer.”

“Oh, Marco.”

“Then why all the secrecy? I bet his secret cabinet could tell a good story. I’ll bet he has all kinds of magic potions in there.”

“You’re crazy, Marco.” But he’d hit a few nerves. First, I did still wash dishes and haul wood. My one cooking lesson had been slicing an onion. Useless. I performed my chores well and faithfully, but he hadn’t even mentioned a promotion. The gospels were interesting, but they really had nothing to do with me. Second, the chef did keep a secret cabinet, and he did refuse to explain his Sauce Nepenthes. Third—most grievous of all, and something Marco didn’t even know about—the chef had lied to me about having a love potion. When Marco mentioned potions in the cabinet I remembered hearing Signora Ferrero pouring a drink in their bedroom while she giggled and teased; I remembered that rich, dark smell. Magic potions? Is that why he kept the cabinet locked?

A new thought presented itself: Maybe the chef was trying to distract me with talk of reading and secret writings so that he didn’t have to promote me.

Marco smiled his sly, brown-toothed smile and slumped back to the ground. “Believe what you want about your chef.” He lounged against the wall and knit his fingers behind his head. “But if you want to get that nun out of her convent, you’ll need plenty of help. Some say that book has a love potion. We both know that without a love potion or a pile of gold, she’ll never look at you. I bet some rich cardinal already has his eye on her.” Marco knew how to get to me.

He spotted the uncertainty in my eyes and he pounced. “We could be rich, Luciano. You could have Francesca. We could all go to the New World. Tell me, how could our happiness harm your chef. How?”

Marco saw my growing confusion and milked it. “As it is, with her in a convent and you so scared …” He shrugged.

“Who said I was scared?”

“You did. You won’t take a risk. Not even for Francesca and the New World. You’re a big disappointment, Luciano. I didn’t think you were such a coward.” Marco picked at his scabby arm.

Riddles about secret gospels suddenly seemed completely irrelevant. What did the manipulations of priests and politicians have to do with me? How
could
my happiness hurt the chef? Why
hadn’t
he mentioned a promotion? But still … “Marco, we’d better think about this. First of all, we can’t even read.”

Marco’s voice turned cajoling. “What’s become of you, Cabbage-Head? We’re smart. We can learn to read. We can do anything we set our minds to.”

He was right. We’d never let anything stop us before. Maybe I
was
getting soft. I’d promised never to betray the chef, but the love potion had nothing to do with his secret gospels. I was only slightly surprised to hear myself say, “I suppose I could keep my eyes open.”

“That’s my little brother.” Marco smiled and jumped up. I clamped a hand over my money-filled pocket, but he laughed at me. “Don’t worry. Why would I take a few coppers from the little brother who’s going to help me get the formula for making gold? Go do your errands, like a good slave.
Ciao
, Luciano.” He waved, and then he was gone.

I lingered in the foul cul-de-sac, biting my bottom lip and trying to understand what exactly had just happened. By the time I walked out to the street of copyists, Marco had disappeared amid the overlapping pillars of smoke.

I had stayed too long with Marco and I couldn’t spare the time to look for Francesca in the street of olives. The sun was high, and I consoled myself with the thought that Francesca, who shopped in the morning, had probably gone back to the convent by then. I
imagined her tatting lace handkerchiefs, her slim fingers manipulating thread and needles—lucky needles. I plunged my hands into my pockets and grumbled a string of curses as I retraced my steps to the fruit and cheese stalls.

I chose my pears carefully, examining each with eyes and nose and a light touch. I selected only the plumpest and rejected one with a faint blemish that the vendor tried to hide in his palm. I congratulated myself on my keen eye, knowing my maestro would be impressed. And it
would
matter because I was
not
a slave and he
would
promote me.

I bargained with the cheese merchant and watched closely as he cut a large wedge of Gorgonzola. When he weighed it, I stood near his scale so that he couldn’t cheat. Grumpily, he wrapped the cheese and dropped it in my basket. The cheese was ripe, the pears were perfect, and a few coppers still clinked in my pocket.

I should have been happy, but I walked back to the palace brooding over Marco’s insidious words. Slave?
Boh
, what did he know? I’d get my promotion, and if I learned anything about alchemy along the way, fine, I’d share it with him. As long as I didn’t betray the chef there would be no problem. It wouldn’t be hard to keep Marco away from the chef; he never came to the kitchen because he envied my job, and it galled him to see me there. Marco always waited for me to come to him. Marco would never cause a problem with the chef. Marco was …
right there
?

There he stood, in the courtyard, right next to the kitchen door, bold as day, waiting for me. He stepped into my path, saying, “Looks like a feast tonight.” He massaged his concave stomach and I heard the growl of that solitary carrot being digested. “Or do you eat like this every night?”

“Stop it. Here, take a pear.”

“Only one? You eat three times a day.”

“
Marrone
. All right. Take two.”

Marco plucked two rosy pears from the top of the basket.

I said, “Marco, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not? You owe me. Do you have any money left?”

Marco had the look of all street boys, a mingling of fear and defiance spilling from deep, hungry eyes, and I remembered the desperate feeling that went with that look. “In my pocket,” I said. “I have a few coppers left. Take them and get out of here.” I felt him dig the coins out of my pocket and I knew the chef would be furious. He’d think I’d been too stupid to pay the right price.

Marco closed the money in his grimy fist. “I knew I could count on you, Luciano. You’re not so soft. Together, we’ll get that book.”

“Marco—”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XIV
T
HE
B
OOK OF
S
USPICIONS

I
entered the kitchen like a backward sneak thief, intending to leave booty rather than take it. Quickly and quietly, I unwrapped the pears and Gorgonzola on a side table, hoping to bring in wood before the chef noticed I was back. Later, after he’d counted the pears, I’d feign my well-practiced innocent look while I claimed that I’d left two dozen pears and a handful of coppers on the table. I’d scratch my head and wonder out loud what might have happened. Maybe I’d nod toward Giuseppe and pull my eyelid. But as I turned to make my getaway, I found myself facing Chef Ferrero.

He stood with his head cocked at a skeptical angle, and he aimed a rigid index finger at the pears. The finger jabbed in time with his count: “
Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro. Cinque …”
He counted to twenty-two. “Didn’t I tell you to buy twenty-four pears, Luciano? I know you can’t read, but I myself taught you to count.”

“The other pears were no good, Maestro. Bruised. Ugly.”

“In the Rialto, where mountains of fruit come from every corner of the world, you found only twenty-two good pears?”

“
Sí
, Maestro.”

“Hmm. Where’s my change?”

“I have no change, Maestro.”

“I see. Pears have suddenly become very dear.”

I nodded. “Very dear.”

The chef regarded me with philosopher’s eyes for what felt like an eternity. He said, “You have hungry friends out there, don’t you, Luciano?”

“No! I mean …” I felt sweat blooming under my arms. I couldn’t lie to him. I would take my punishment. “Yes, Maestro. I do have hungry friends. I gave away two pears and the few coppers I had left.”

“They weren’t yours to give.”

“I know and I’ll make amends. Tomorrow, I’ll steal two pears to replace what I gave away.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I had to do it. If you saw his face … Have you ever been hungry, Maestro?”

“Yes, actually, I have been hungry. Not for a long time, but I remember. All right. Pears have become dear, and we’re lucky to get the last good ones, eh?” He ruffled my hair and passed his hand over my birthmark. “You have a good heart, Luciano. And you told the truth. That’s worth more than pears. Now bring in the wood.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf?”

“That’s it? That’s all?”

“What do you want? A medal for your kindness? Get to work.”

I walked away amazed. Chef Ferrero’s readiness to forgive was too far evolved for my suspicious, streetwise young mind to comprehend. In my world, we called people like him fools, yet I knew he was no fool. I simply couldn’t comprehend the scope of his kindness.

Marco, on the other hand, was easy to understand. Marco would be furious if he ever suspected I’d cheated him, and he wouldn’t
care a whit that it had been done for charity. And why should he? No one needed charity more than he.

I identified more closely with Marco than I did with the chef, and that’s why Marco’s corrosive words worked on me as I loaded firewood into a bucket. I muttered under my breath, “I’m
not
a slave.” But why was I still peeling potatoes and carting garbage? I’d been working for the chef for almost three months by then, the normal tenure for an apprentice. I’d mastered my tasks and performed them reliably. Why hadn’t the chef mentioned a promotion? And Marco was right about the secrecy, too. What did he keep in that little cabinet, and why was it locked and hidden behind copper pans?

Marco’s suggestion that I would always be a slave ate at me, eroding my trust a little more with each backbreaking load of wood. I stacked firewood in neat piles next to each fireplace, fitting the split logs together like a puzzle. Eventually, the rote motion quieted my thoughts enough to catch the whiff of a tense undercurrent in the kitchen, a murmur that filled the spaces between the ordinary sounds of a regular workday. I smelled the distinctive scent of gossip in progress, so I picked up my broom and positioned myself to hear more. I swept nonexistent dust near the feet of Enrico, who was pretending to assist Pellegrino in stirring the frumenty, a thick, rich pudding of almond milk, egg yolks, and saffron. The frumenty would be served with the venison steaks that were marinating in a dish of assertive Burgundy. Gray-haired Teresa stood nearby, humming and pretending to polish silver while she listened.

Enrico whispered as he stirred. “Not only the dungeon. They killed him.”

“Are you sure?”

“
Boh
. It wasn’t a cat squirming in that bag.”

“You saw?”

“Eduardo saw. They hauled a big, lumpy bag out of the water gate and rowed out to sea. When they came back”—he raised one eyebrow—“no bag.”

“Cappe Nere?”
Dante’s voice was barely audible.

“With the
Cappe Nere
, no one sees anything. These were just the doge’s men.”

“But are you sure it was—”

“Yes, the Spanish alchemist. Everyone is talking. No one has seen him, and his stall is chained up.”

“He must have sold the doge some potion that didn’t work.”

“Maybe an aphrodisiac.”

“For the doge? Ha! Even the Spanish alchemist has his limits.” Enrico moved closer to Pellegrino. “I heard it was a failed potion to revive the dead. Remember the peasant?” He pulled his eyelid.

I hadn’t heard the chef approach. He grabbed Enrico by the arm and whirled him around so forcefully the cook dropped his spoon, splattering frumenty all over the floor and onto his shoes. The chef’s eyes went hard. “If I wanted gossip in the kitchen I’d hire my daughters’ friends.”

Teresa disappeared, Pellegrino wiped up the frumenty, and Enrico raised both his palms and bowed as he backed away toward his floured table.
“Mí perdoní, Maestro.”

I, too, began to beg the chef’s pardon, but he cut me off, saying, “Back to work.”

That day I gladly performed my solitary and silent task of potato peeling. I sat on a three-legged wooden stool with a basket of dusty brown potatoes on my left and a clean empty bowl on my right. It was calming to strip off the rough skin, dig out the knots, and get down to the smooth white flesh. As the first dark strips fell on the floor between my legs, I regarded each one as a clue, reasoning that when I had enough of them, some kind of truth would stand out naked as a peeled potato. Four strips for the gospels, three for murders, two for formulas and potions, one for a locked cabinet.

The peelings rose in a solid pile between my legs, and the white potatoes mounded up like a sculpture in my bowl, but no matter how many times I rearranged my clues, they remained stubbornly
separate. Damn the potatoes. Damn Marco. Damn the chef and his secrets. Indignation rose like the pile of dirty potato peelings, and I watched the chef with mistrustful eyes. Was he ever going to promote me? Would he ever share the love potion? Was he only distracting me with talk of secret writings? And what was he hiding in that cabinet?

The chef was busy preparing his special venison sauce, and he had announced that he wished not to be disturbed. He walked past the big spice closet the cooks used and approached his private cabinet. He removed the copper sauté pan and unlocked the little oaken door with his brass key. Very quickly, with the same furtive manner as the last time, he took something out, slipped it in his pocket, and immediately relocked the cabinet.