The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (27 page)

That night, I stood behind the barely open service door of the dining room, alert and ready. I heard the customary pleasantries followed by the inevitable lip smacking and praise for the food. The doge appeared clear eyed and aware, no trembling hands or quivering chin. Over the soup course, he broached the subject on both their minds. “Your Holiness has offered a generous reward to halt the spread of heresy. That book could be yours within the week.”

Borgia grunted, “People are fools. The book is best kept out of their hands.”

The doge used his spoon to make figure eights in his bean soup. “I imagine you’ve made inquiries all over Italy?”

“Sì.”
Borgia slurped his soup. “We questioned Savonarola for weeks before we hung him. Infernal pest. The Inquisitor questioned him so thoroughly we had to hurry the hanging before he expired from the questioning. But sadly”—Borgia shrugged—“nothing.” He picked up his bowl and gulped the last of his soup.

The doge sighed. “I fear I, too, will end with nothing. I was outbid by my own council, and now, of course, no one can match your reward.”

“The reward is merely a distraction. Those who know anything vital won’t surrender it for a reward. They’re on some sort of mission.
Boh
.” Borgia ran a finger around the inside of his soup bowl and licked off the last of the bean soup. “Only I and your Council of Ten have the resources needed to deal with that kind of fanatic. We have methods. If we can make one subversive talk, we’ll have a trail to follow. Crack just one, and we’ll get to the bottom of this … this book conspiracy.”

“By resources, you mean the
Cappe Nere
?”

“And my Swiss mercenaries.”

The doge caressed the stem of his wineglass. “I have a proposal for Your Holiness.”

“Speak up.”

“We both know the book is probably in Venice, and it
could
come into my possession first. With all due respect, I have resources of my own. If I find the book first, I’d be willing to assist you in destroying any bothersome heresies.”

“In exchange for what?” Borgia smiled like the pirate he was.

“A gentleman’s bargain. We agree that no matter who finds it, we’ll share it.”

Borgia looked amused. “If I find it first, why should I share it?”

The doge leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I can provide enough intelligence for you to acquire Venice as the newest member
of the Papal States. All I want from that book is anything that might be pertinent to my health. The rest is yours.”

Borgia shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his good luck. He raised his wineglass. “I drink to your health.”

The doge touched his glass to Borgia’s, and they drank.

When the maids served the veal in Sauce Nepenthes, Borgia said, “Ah, here it is. Now we’ll see whether your chef deserves all the extravagant praise from Herr Behaim.”

The men ate with gusto, but after complimenting the dish and agreeing on its pleasing nuances, they became distracted. They started sentences without finishing them, drifted onto tangents, and allowed long, unsocial silences, each lost in his own befuddled reverie. Only when the subject of table manners came up did they converge onto a shared passion: their superiority to the French. Having invented the fork, the elite classes of Italy looked down on the vulgarians who still dipped their fingers in the gravy. Borgia chuckled, “Last time I dined in France, King Charles crouched over his food like a gargoyle.”

The doge sniggered. “Between courses, Count Dubois scratches his private parts.”

“I know.” Borgia bobbed his big shaggy head. “And I had to ask his wife to stop sniffing my food like a stray dog.”

The doge choked on his laughter, and wine shot out of his nose. He caught his breath and said, “They have to be told everything—‘Please,
monsieur
, don’t wear your toothpick in your collar like a bird carrying a twig to its nest.’” He wiped a smear of Sauce Nepenthes from his chin with the back of his hand.

Borgia slapped his knee and roared. “After blowing your nose, madam, please don’t look into your handkerchief as if pearls had been deposited there.” He shifted in his chair to pass gas and widened his eyes in mock embarrassment. “Bean soup, eh?” He roared with laughter.

They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. They pounded
the table and hooted while they recited a litany of boorish French traits—their terrible food, their dismal fashion sense, their sexual perversions—but they said not another word about the book.

*

I didn’t expect to see another Venetian in Rome and so, when I arrived on the service landing the following day to help the maid clear, I was taken aback to see Maffeo Landucci sitting in the same chair the doge had occupied the previous night. Lunch was finished, but the men were still engaged in conversation.

Borgia said, “You have an advantage, Landucci. The book is probably in Venice, and I know you already have the
Cappe Nere
combing the city and countryside.”

“We both know there must be copies in many places.” Landucci pulled the gray silk scarf from his sleeve and flicked it at a speck of dust on the table. “Has Your Holiness checked the Vatican library?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Landucci shrugged. “The first book will lead us to the rest. But Your Holiness will make a formidable opponent no matter where the first book is found.”

Borgia sat back and crossed his muscular legs. “You may rely on that.”

“If my
Cappe Nere
unearth something first, it’s quite true that I’ll have an advantage, but it could be a mutual advantage.”

“You begin to interest me.” Borgia’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes were steady and piercing.

Landucci perched his elbows on the table. “If I find the first book, I’ll make a public show of presenting you with it. You can do what you like with the thing, but you’ll introduce me to the right people, in the right manner. I won’t belabor the point, but I’m younger than you. Endorse me as your successor. Connect me. After that”—he shrugged—“when the time comes for Your Holiness
to claim your eternal reward, I could secure the papacy with a promise to make Venice one of the Papal States. I’ll share the book in return for your support in the College of Cardinals.”

“And if I outlive you?”

“Then you will have lost nothing.”

Borgia sat back and regarded Landucci with a mixture of contempt and respect. “Of course, you’d never try to hasten my departure from this earthly realm.”

“Your Holiness, I need your wholehearted endorsement.” Landucci seized his wineglass and raised it high. “I drink to your long and healthy life.”

The two predators drank without taking their eyes off each other. After Landucci left, Borgia sat alone, hunched over his empty plate. Later that day I heard chambermaids discussing the odd fact that the pope had spent the entire afternoon in the underground vaults of the Vatican library.

*

On our last evening in Rome, my maestro and I went walking along the Tiber. Chef Ferrero excused us from the kitchen, saying, “I don’t want to leave Rome without paying homage to her magnificent sights.” The Castilian chef waved him off like a bothersome insect. But I smelled a ruse—my maestro cared for food, not architecture.

As I suspected, the chef paid little attention to the fountains with lusty cherubs spouting and gushing, or to the cathedrals as ornate as wedding cakes. We waded through the extraordinary to-and-fro of Rome, the busy anthill life of the natives. Rome, like the Italian personality, has quick blood, a feeling of cheerful chaos. Housewives argued with vendors, young men preened for pretty girls, and children yelped and darted between people’s legs. A well-dressed lady came out of a shop to check the quality of cloth in daylight while she wagged a warning finger at the shopkeeper. A man selling watermelons called to passersby: “Good to eat and
drink and wash your face!” We saw cobblers tooling leather, and we heard men singing, women chatting, and the ironmonger’s ring of metal on metal. …

Borgia was evident or implied in everything. The Borgia family crest, a charging red bull on a gold background, hung on church doors, over balconies, and in shop windows. The papal flag fluttered in the breeze and clapped against gray stone walls. Barrel-shaped nuns, Borgia’s handmaidens, strolled in pairs, and Borgia’s Swiss mercenaries strutted around in crisp, blue-striped uniforms with sabers clattering at their sides.

In every street, we saw Borgia’s clerical army. First, a baptism: a priest in a lace surplice followed by altar boys with angel wings attached to their shoulders, and the young parents carrying a squalling infant newly cleansed of original sin. Moments later, a funeral: Prancing horses decorated with black plumes and silver ornaments drew a black carriage accompanied by a retinue of weeping relatives and, of course, the priest. The ubiquitous priests, Borgia’s spiritual soldiers, escorted the faithful from cradle to grave.

At the Tiber, we sat on a grassy slope. The chef sat with his arms around his knees and stared at the river. He said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Luciano.”

“And I to you, Maestro. Did you know Landucci is here?”

He looked surprised, then annoyed. “
Dio
. I should have expected it.”

“He met with Borgia today. He wants to trade the book for Borgia’s support in the College of Cardinals. He wants to be the next pope, but he told the council he wants to overthrow Borgia. He’s playing both sides.”

The chef wagged his head sadly. “See how they scramble over one another like rats after cheese? In the hands of men like that, civilization will perish like Atlantis.”

“What’s Atlantis?”

“Another time.” The chef put a hand on my shoulder. “Well done, Luciano. You’re a worthy protégé.”

The chef seemed satisfied with my report, so I decided the moment was right to broach the subject of my promotion. “Maestro, did your mentor promote you after he took you into his confidence?”

“Yes, he did.”

“With respect, Maestro …” I lifted praying hands to my chin. “As your protégé, I beg you to promote me.”

A thoughtful look passed over his face, then he said, “You’re right.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

He said, “When we get back to Venice, you’ll be a vegetable cook. Dante will instruct you.”

I had expected some argument and could barely grasp the idea that I was really, finally, moving ahead. The thrilling thought of myself steaming spinach and stuffing artichokes overwhelmed me. When I found my voice, I said, “
Grazie
, Maestro,
mille grazie
.” The long-awaited promotion had been awarded just like that.

He said, “When you took responsibility for breaking into my cabinet without laying blame on anyone else I saw your manhood. And today you’ve shown yourself capable of understanding how these
criminali
maneuver themselves into power. Yes, you’re ready. You’ll be a vegetable cook.”

“I humbly thank you, Maestro.” I inhaled deeply and even the sin-soaked Roman air tasted sweet just then. Feeling powerful, feeling that the life I’d dreamed about was truly beginning, I said, “Maestro, if you knew a love potion that could help me win Francesca, would you share it?”

The chef swatted a bothersome mosquito. “There are no love potions, Luciano.”

Merda
! Why did he keep lying about that?

The chef said, “We have more serious things to talk about. If you’re going to move along in the kitchen, you must also move along in other areas. Tell me, what do you think of Borgia?”

I said, “Borgia’s powerful.”

“Powerful, eh? That’s a small word for it. Borgia wields more power than any head of state in Europe. Kings are crowned by the pope—and toppled as well. His Swiss mercenaries are a formidable army—three thousand soldiers and four thousand infantrymen. His cardinals and bishops are vested with enormous estates and huge financial resources. Yes, he has wealth and military strength, but what do you think really gives Borgia his power?”

“With money and armies, what else does he need?”

“The people, Luciano.” The chef unhinged his jaw in a way that made him look cross. “The church can lose money and land, but the faithful will always fight to get it back. Millions of people pledge Rome their unquestioning obedience. People think they need the church for their salvation, and the church wants to keep it that way.”

“I understand, Maestro.”

“Good.” He touched my chest lightly. “Remember, don’t look up; look in. Jesus said that. Lao-tzu and Buddha said the same thing.”

“Who?”

“Buddha and Lao-tzu were teachers long before Jesus. There have been many like them—Epictetus, Zoroaster, Confucius, Aristotle … and they all wore sandals.” The chef stared at the river, and his eyes lost focus. “It’s curious, but when you see sandals, a philosopher can’t be far off.” He blinked, and his eyes sharpened. “The wisest teachers have all told us to pay attention and wake up. They mean for us to wake up to our own divinity. But imagine what would happen if people woke up to the idea that they don’t need priests, that they only need teachers.”

“Are you sure of that, Maestro?”

“Absolutely. That’s what the Guardians are—teachers. Not only do we collect and guard knowledge, we pass it on. So the next question you must ask yourself is whether you’re willing not only to learn but also to teach. It’s a grave responsibility. Some of the things we teach put us in the way of men like Borgia and Landucci.”

“Maybe the best way to teach would be to make all the writings public.”

“Not yet. The Guardians are too few, and our means too limited. I wanted you to come to Rome so you’d understand the power arrayed against us. Knowledge is our weapon. Some of us are working on a way to use the new printing process to turn the forbidden writings into quick-books, but it must be done in secrecy until the tide of knowledge is too strong to stop. Someday, perhaps we’ll be able to print books faster than they can burn them, but right now it’s too slow, too dangerous. People get ugly when the things they hold dear are threatened, and these men hold their power very dear. Are you ready to oppose them?”