The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (22 page)

Certain streets in Venice contrive to play tricks with sound. Some acoustical magic occurs when tall, crooked buildings lean over a curved and cobbled lane. Sound only penetrates at each end, while the middle remains quiet, insulated by old ghosts and layers of history. While neighboring streets rang with the world’s commerce, the street of copyists held its peace; it was quiet enough to hear the rustle of paper, the scratch of the quill, and the scrape of pumice stone against parchment.

One copyist sat idle with nothing on his writing board. He watched my approach, which in turn made him approachable. I laid my bleary list on his board and asked, “Can you read these words and tell me their meaning?”

He looked me over, up and down and up again. I appraised him, too. He was ancient; his rice-paper skin was truly gray, his straggly beard sparse and white. A milky haze of cataracts overlaid his once blue eyes. I wondered whether he could see at all, and then I realized those poor eyes must be the reason he had no work. The musty smell of old age seeped through his clothes, and his left hand, knotted and crisscrossed with ropy veins, quivered in his lap. His voice was as tarnished and cracked as an antique mirror. He replied, “Can you pay?”

I took the ducat out of my pocket and held it up. I had observed that others in that street paid only with coppers; gold ducats were rarely seen there, and surely more than most copyists were accustomed to getting. The rheumy eyes glimmered at the sight of gold, but when he reached for it, I clasped it in my hand and said, “First you read.”

“How do I know you’ll pay once I’ve read?”

It was a fair question. I placed the ducat on his writing board, but before I removed my hand I said, “I’ll leave it there, but read before you touch it.” He nodded, and I lifted my hand. I thought I saw amusement in his face.

He said, “Let’s see what you have.” The old Jew lowered his head so close to the writing board that his beard brushed the parchment. He read the first word: “Cacao.” Then he looked up. If there had been amusement in his face it was gone now. He said, “This is a pod found in the New World. I’ve heard it can be made into a delicious confection, sometimes a drink.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “But only a small quantity exists in Europe, and it’s owned by the king of Spain.” When I didn’t reply, he bent over the parchment again and scanned the rest of the list. He took a breath, then asked, “Where did you find these words?”

The question made me feel cornered and panicky. I said, “I’m paying you to read, not ask questions.”

He stared at me another moment, then read the next word: “Coffee. This is a bean from Arabia. They use it to make a drink that gives men unnatural stamina and energy.” He waited for a reaction. When he got none, he continued. “Henbane—a simple herb. Gossip claims that it prevents aging, but that’s an old wives’ tale. It makes a decent tea.” His finger traced the next word: “Valerian. Another herb, a mild relaxant.”

Leaning over to peer at my own scribbling, I recognized that last word as the one I had copied from the bottle I thought the chef had used to make Sauce Nepenthes. I said, “A mild relaxant? That’s all?”

He looked up, annoyed. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?” One bristly eyebrow lifted crookedly. “Of course, if you take too much …” He rocked his head from side to side.

“What happens if you take too much?”

“I suppose it could affect your mood or put you to sleep. How should I know? I’m a copyist, not an herbalist. Do you want to hear the words or not?” He bent back to the parchment, and his trembling finger pointed at the next two words. “Chrysanthemum and ginseng. The first is a flower grown in China for tea. Ginseng is also from China, but I don’t know its precise use. I think it might be a flavoring.” Then, mumbling, “Or maybe that’s ginger.”

His head hung over the next word so long I began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. Or died. I said, “Go on.”

He looked up, blinking, and I noticed that the tremor in his hand had become more pronounced. I said, “Well, what is it?”

He shook his head. “‘Amaranth’ or ‘amanita.’ It’s poorly written, and the ink is smudged.”

“What are they?”

“Don’t be impatient.” He stroked his flimsy beard. “I’ve seen both those words in Greek texts. I think this word is ‘amaranth.’
It’s a grain. The amaranth leaf symbolized immortality in ancient Greece, but I think amaranth is extinct. Hasn’t been any amaranth in … who knows? Ha! How do you like that? The symbol of immortality died out. Ha!”

“Yes, very amusing.” I wasn’t smiling.

The Jew said, “Maybe the word is ‘amanita,’ a poisonous mushroom. But I can’t tell. This writing is terrible.”

That carried an unexpected sting. “I didn’t ask for your opinion of the writing.”

“All right, all right.” He made an irritated gesture. “The last word, then. This is interesting. The others all have some culinary use, but the last word is ‘opium.’”

I’d heard of opium, a medicinal substance used to alleviate pain. Opium was sold in apothecary shops, and it was sinfully expensive. I said, “Are you sure?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

I thought opium must have some culinary use I knew nothing about. I said, “What does opium do?”

“It’s for pain, but …” He gave me a thin smile. “Opium induces dreams, boy. When you ingest it, you have dreams so sublime that you’re drawn back, again and again, even against your will.” He waved a quavering hand. “Just as well you don’t know.”

“Can you cook with it?”

“Cook with opium? There’s a novel idea.” He stroked his beard again and his smile showed small, worn teeth the color of old cheese. “Well, why not? Ha! I suppose you could stir a bit of opium into the soup. That meal would give you sweet dreams all right. Opium soup. Ha!” He picked up the gold ducat. “Anything else?”

“Why the rush?” I wanted to know more about opium. “I don’t see any other customers waiting.”

“Insolent brat.” He pocketed the ducat and waved the parchment at me. “You’ve had your service. Get going.”

So there it was. They were simply rare and expensive botanicals
used for confections, teas, and bread. And opium, besides relieving pain, gave sweet dreams. You could put it in soup and … and … have sublime dreams that make you want more?

Suddenly I knew what the chef did with his opium. Everyone called his white-bean soup sublime, and once they tasted it they
always
wanted more. The opium powder must be his secret ingredient. White-bean soup was on that day’s menu, and I took it as a sign that God was on my side.

It all made perfect sense. The chef kept his most fabulous ingredients secret to insure his reputation. As he said, what value would he have if everyone could cook as well as he did? Armed with my new knowledge, I decided to indulge in a celebratory peek at Francesca. I headed for the street of olives.

As I’d hoped, she was there, waiting behind the mountainous Mother Superior, who was engrossed in beating down the prices of the Sicilian olive seller. Francesca took the opportunity for what Mother called “gawking.” Her cheeks were charmingly flushed, and her eyes moved restlessly over the crowd. Excited breathing lifted her small breasts under the brown habit, and the sight quickened my own breath as well.

Francesca had the unmistakable look of one of those girls who found themselves in a convent for lack of other options. Girls had three choices: marriage, the convent, or the brothel. A girl with no dowry could forget about marriage, and thus, many girls found themselves reluctantly working for God or the Devil. I saw how hungrily she watched people, how the lively swirl of the market animated her face, and I wondered how she endured that silent black-and-white existence behind the high stone walls of the convent. I’d never been in a convent, but I imagined solitary nights in her cell and dull days on her knees chanting a repetitious rosary or reading from her breviary.

Reading
.

The plan to ask for help in reading my “shopping list” arrived in
my head fully formed, but finding the courage to actually approach her was more difficult. I fell back on the old street sense that had taught me to grab the turnip and run. My legs moved toward her without the consent of my brain. To my surprise, she smiled and said, “The cantaloupe boy. Come to praise my nostrils?”

Merda
, she remembered. I said, “I wasn’t myself that day.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you’re the first boy I ever saw tongue-tied?”

“Um—”

“Don’t worry. It was sweet.”

“Oh. Well, I have this … I work in a kitchen, you see, and I have this shopping list, but I’m having trouble reading it.” I held it out but I don’t remember whether I specifically asked her to read it. I only remember the green-apple fragrance of her breath, the shock of her eyes meeting mine, and the magnetic current that pulled me to her. I remember the fan of her eyelashes as she lowered her eyes to read, and I remember the translucence of her fingernails, the pale pink nail bed and clean white rim, as she pointed to each word. And, of course, the beguiling scent of her. I caught the smell of soap and baking and, under that, a flowery musk, mysterious and exciting. Her scent conjured a dreamscape of everything I longed for.

Francesca didn’t read as well as the copyist. She sounded out “ca-ca-o” and “cof-fee,” smiled at me, and shrugged with one insouciant shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t know what they are.”

“That’s all right.” I moved an inch closer.

“Henbane. That’s for tea, but too bitter if you ask me.” She read the next word easily. “Valerian.” Then she chuckled.

“What’s funny about valerian?”

“Valerian isn’t funny, but …” She ticked her head toward Mother Superior and rolled her eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“Valerian is something like weak wine. Mother nips at it in the pantry all day to calm herself. It makes her forgetful, and by evening,
she’s forgotten everything that vexed her during the day. Valerian is quite dear, but no one complains of the expense because it makes Mother easier to live with.”

“Chrysanthemum” and “ginseng” proved difficult to pronounce, which afforded me an opportunity to move closer and hold an edge of the parchment as if I, too, were trying to make out the words. I maneuvered my hand so that our fingers touched and, to my surprise, she didn’t move away. For a moment I flattered myself that she enjoyed my touch, but when I stole a sideways peek at her face, I saw that she hadn’t even noticed. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration. She read “amaranth” aloud, and then, “No, that can’t be right. Maybe it’s ‘amanita.’ Hmmm …” She tapped a finger on her chin.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think someone made a mistake. Amaranth is a grain, but I’ve heard it hasn’t grown since, oh, I don’t know—a long time. And amanita is a poisonous mushroom; surely you wouldn’t shop for that, either.”

“Hmmm.” I tapped my own chin. “Someone probably made a mistake.”

Francesca read the last word and shook her head. “This is strange. This word looks like ‘opium,’ but no one would put that on a cook’s shopping list.” She moved closer to me, her glorious eyes alight with mischief and her scent making me light-headed. She whispered, “Have you ever tried it?”

She was so close, so conspiratorial, so intoxicating. I felt my face begin to redden. “No. Sort of. Well, I mean, it’s only for soup.”

“Soup?” She stepped back and regarded me coldly. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No! Never …” Oh,
Dio
, what had I done?

Mother Superior’s voice rose above the crowd. “
How
much for garlic olives? Are you mad? You’re already robbing me for the oil-cured!” She turned to Francesca with comically rounded eyes,
shouting, “Can you believe the gall of this thief?” In her anger she seemed not to notice me at all.

When the nun turned away, I said, “I was only joking about the soup.” I wasn’t about to go into a lengthy explanation of how the chef manipulated people with food. “I wouldn’t make fun of you.”

“Hmm.” After a moment she said, “You’re odd, you know that?”

“Well I—”

“Never mind.” She handed me the parchment. “I like odd.” She glanced back at the older nun and said, “Mother says I’m odd, too, but that’s only because I don’t want to be like her. Look at her.” Francesca gestured at the ruddy-faced nun arguing with the beleaguered olive merchant. “She knows how to get the best prices, and she says I should listen and learn. But how can I bother with the price of olives when there’s so much to see? Just look at this marvelous city. Do you roam around all by yourself?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“What fun!”

It didn’t seem advisable to point out that scavenging food and sleeping in doorways hadn’t been that much fun.

“You’re lucky.” She made a sweeping gesture at the market and exhilaration suffused her face. “Look at all this. Look at that red turban. Did you ever see such a rich color? And look there, that black man with the ropes of blue beads around his neck. Isn’t he beautiful? Mother says he’s from a place called Africa. Oh, just the name … Ah-free-cah …” She closed her eyes and her teardrop nostrils flared. “Smell that? It’s the smell of life. It makes me want to shout and sing. If I were a boy, I’d hire out to sea and travel the whole world.”

I thought I’d never met anyone less suited to be a nun. I said, “Why a convent?”

Francesca flipped back her veil as if it was a luxurious mane of hair. There was something cool in the gesture, and I feared I’d offended her. She said, “Why a kitchen?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just wondered—”

“We take what we can get, don’t we?” She fiddled with the rope at her waist. “My parents died a long time ago. You know how it is. My choice was nun or courtesan. But a good courtesan needs a protector. I didn’t know anyone to mentor me, and a girl alone on the street ends badly. At least in the convent I might catch a bishop, maybe even a cardinal. Hey, what’s wrong with you? Close your mouth, eh?”

Just then, Mother’s voice rose to shriller heights, and I was grateful for the reprieve. Francesca seemed strangely casual about being a courtesan. Was she only trying to seem worldly? Surely my fresh-faced darling would have
some
reservations about prostitution. Wouldn’t she?