The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (29 page)

CHAPTER XX
T
HE
B
OOK OF
F
RANCESCA

D
id you miss me?” Marco looked surprisingly happy to see me, though he’d never admit it. “How was Rome?”

“Corrupt.”

“So you felt right at home.”

“Worse than Venice.”

“Not possible.”

We sat alongside a canal on a quiet
rio
leading to the Rialto. After running my errands for the chef, I’d brought Marco a piece of cheesecake. I enjoyed the extravagant praise he heaped on my creation, but I didn’t tell him I’d made it. I felt guilty for my increasingly good fortune compared to his misery, and I also didn’t tell him I’d been promoted to vegetable cook; he was already envious enough.

Marco spoke around a mouthful of cheesecake. “Listen, Cabbage-Head, I’ve been talking to people about the things in the chef’s cabinet. You know that grain that’s not supposed to grow anymore? Well, it does and you can buy it right here in Venice if you have enough money and know where to look.”

“You mean amaranth?
Boh
. You’re a turnip.”

“
Sì
, amaranth. Guess what it’s for?”

“Bread.”

“He’d like you to think so. It’s called the leaf of immortality. It’s magic.”

“Marco, that’s ridiculous.” But I squirmed, remembering the copyist laughing over the idea that the leaf of immortality had died out, and then seeing a sack of it in the chef’s root cellar. Marco was right about amaranth being available; I needed to distract him. “Guess what Borgia had in his kitchen.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Marco shot me a contemptuous look. “Listen, I’ve talked to a lot of people, and I’m telling you the old Greeks knew some way to use amaranth to extend life.” He gave me a mean jab. “I bet your chef does, too.”

Dio
. “Marco, do you see any immortal Greeks walking around?”

His eyebrows perked up. “How would I know if I did? Anyway, that’s not all. Opium isn’t for soup, Cabbage-Head, it’s a strong painkiller. You can buy it in apothecary shops, but some people use it for pleasure and they can’t stop and it kills them. Opium has no place in a kitchen.”

Damn. I’d always admired Marco for his enterprise, for the way he found things out, put them together, and made them work to his advantage. But now he was using his ingenuity to ferret out the chef’s secrets and it frightened me. I said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marco leaned back on his elbows. “Believe what you want. But your sneaky chef is up to something and I want to know what it is.”

“Marco—”

“Open your eyes! I think your chef knows something about this book, and he’s going to get caught. The
Cappe Nere
are all over the place.” Marco made a slicing gesture across his neck. “But us, we’re invisible, Luciano. We’re nobody. If we found the book, we could disappear with it. We might be doing your chef a favor. If he’s buying opium, he’s not innocent.”

My stomach churned. Francesca seemed to think opium soup
was a joke, and the chef never did explain what he used it for. If opium had no use in a kitchen, why
did
he have it? Was it possible that the Guardians had a darker function than what he’d told me? Was he getting ready to spring some sinister purpose on
me
? I didn’t know what he did with his opium but I couldn’t let Marco see my confusion. I said, “The
Cappe Nere
aren’t interested in the chef, and neither should you be.”

“Big shot, eh?” He angled his head at me. “Big shot knows everything the
Cappe Nere
are interested in. Listen to me good, Signor Big Shot. I’m getting that book with or without you.” He flicked his hand under his chin.

“Marco, I don’t know what the
Cappe Nere
are up to, but it wasn’t amaranth that I copied. It was amanita, just a mushroom. And the chef keeps opium for pain. He gets headaches.”

“I’m not falling for that. You’re still trying to protect your chef, eh, slave?”

“Slave?”
Marrone
, why did he have to push me like that? “For your information, I’ve been promoted to vegetable cook.” I regretted it immediately, but it was too late.

Marco picked at a scab on his arm. “When were you going to tell me? I thought we were partners.”

“Marco, there’s nothing to be partners for. The chef knows nothing about alchemy. I know nothing about anything.” I avoided his eyes. “You’re impossible, you turnip. Leave this alone, eh?”

As I walked away, Marco called out, “It’s not over, Luciano. You still owe me.”

*

I was bursting with the need to tell Francesca about my promotion and I headed for the street of olives. Vegetable cook. How could she not be impressed? I wanted to see her eyes widen and that fetching smile spread across her face. Then I remembered: I’d already lied to her about being a vegetable cook.
I stopped in front of a carpet shop, trying to concoct some pretext for talking to her. I could hear the click of the abacus inside as the merchant calculated the price of a rug for a woman who stood by, stroking the richly patterned border. That merchant spoke to women every day because they wanted to hear about his carpets. What did Francesca want to hear about?

Life.

Stuck in that convent and starved for details about the world, she’d eat up gossip about the book—the doge looking for immortality, the
Cappe Nere
rounding people up for Landucci. And I could tell tales about my trip to Rome, where I’d seen Borgia himself and a leopard in his kitchen. I could weave stories to amaze and astonish her. I raced through the street of olives looking everywhere, scanning the people in front of each stall, but she wasn’t there. Maybe she was shopping elsewhere that day. I elbowed my way past the fishmongers’ stalls, where morning light made the sardines shine like silver coins. I picked through a shamble of vegetable stalls and fruit carts, where the air smelled like an orchard tinged with salt. The milling crowds of the Rialto combined Greeks, Germans, Turks, Africans, Arabs, and Orientals, a compression of all Venice—but no Francesca. After running up and down a maze of
calli
, I found myself, once again, in the street of olives. Venice, the trickster, had had her way with me.

I dragged myself onto a rickety dock and sat watching a gondolier: his red-striped shirt bright against the blue sky, and his gondola cutting through the green water with a ruffle of water tickling the bow. Church bells tolled the call for midmorning prayers, and I became aware of the time. I jumped up and hurried through the street of bakers, where I spotted Francesca’s portly Mother Superior sailing along, sweating and fretting, with an unfamiliar pasty-faced novice behind her carrying a basket full with bread and rolls. Francesca was probably still being punished for her friendliness toward me.

My errands were finished, and I wanted to know where she lived. I decided to follow them home.

*

The convent was a medieval building with keyhole-shaped windows. It sat back off a quiet canal and hid behind a forbidding stone wall covered by cascades of jasmine, a profusion of dark green leaves and tiny starburst flowers, white as a bride’s veil. The house had probably been built as a second home for some Turkish trader, and the small rooms of the harem had converted easily into cells for the nuns. The larger chambers, originally designed for pleasure, made ideal common rooms and chapels.

Mother Superior stepped up to the wrought-iron gate, and as she turned a massive key in the lock, I glimpsed Francesca through the scrolled ironwork. She was kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds with an air of ennui. She looked up at the sound of the gate opening and saw me, waving behind Mother. Before the gate swung shut, I pointed to a small, wooden side door, and I thought I saw the subtlest of nods before she bent back to her work. I wasn’t entirely sure, but …

I couldn’t take the chance of missing her, the chance to speak to her alone. I sat on the ground under a mass of hanging jasmine and leaned against the old wall. I imagined her stealing out the side gate to meet me and enjoyed a pleasant tingle of anticipation. Fearing discovery, we would whisper with our heads close together in delicious collusion.

Time passed and my excitement leveled out. The chef knew I had friends living in the streets, and I knew he’d allow me a little extra time as long as I finished my day’s work. As a cook, I was entitled to a bit more freedom than an apprentice.

I made myself comfortable against the wall, stretching my legs out in front of me, and began plucking white blossoms. The combination
of humid heat, the hushed lapping of water, and the heavy perfume of jasmine lulled me into a half sleep.

When the tolling of the noon bell from the convent jarred me awake, I found myself surrounded by a scattering of tiny white blossoms, and I looked up to see the sun directly overhead. I’d been gone from the kitchen for more than an hour, and anxiety made me restless. I walked to the wooden door and peered into the small rectangular opening cut out at eye level. No Francesca.

Should I stay and risk the chef’s anger or leave and miss Francesca? I was a prisoner of hope and I paced while preparing a story about obstacles encountered during my errands—endless lines in the market, a church procession that blocked the street, old friends who stopped me to say hello. Within minutes,
grazie a Dio
, the small gate squeaked open just enough to frame her face, lovely as the dawn. She whispered, “We get two hours for siesta. I can’t sleep so I work on my lace, but I hate the silence.” She shot a fast look over her shoulder. “Be quick, I can’t get caught.”

I was instantly stupid at the sight of her. “You risked this for me?”

She laughed, and it was a silvery sound, like the tinkling of small bells. “I thought you had something important to tell me.”

Her cool amusement might have been a warning to a rational man, but … “Oh, I do. Very important.”

“Well?” She wet her lips with a kittenish pink tongue.

Marrone
—that tongue bothered me. “Everyone’s looking for a book with a formula to make gold.”

“Alchemy?
Boh
.”

She wasn’t as easily impressed as I’d hoped. I said, “Not only that, some say the book has a formula for eternal youth.”

Her face went very still, and then she laughed again. “What nonsense.”

“No. I’ve been to Rome. I know things.”

“Rome?” She finally looked curious. “What things do you know?”

“Everyone wants this book. Rewards have been offered.”

“I haven’t heard about any rewards.” She pouted. “It’s like living in a tomb here.”

“The doge, the Council of Ten, even Borgia, they’ve all offered rewards. Money, a senate seat, even a cardinal’s hat.”

“Those are big rewards.” She appraised me with new interest. “What else do you know?”

Her interest made me reckless. “They say the book has the secrets of alchemy and immortality and I’m looking for it myself. I already have some clues.” I squared my shoulders. “If I found it, I could get you out of this convent. Would you like to get out?”

“Yes, but … What do you want from me?”

“I want to make you happy. Wouldn’t you like to be rich? And never get old?” I felt a vague uneasiness about going too far.

Her mouth twitched. “Now you truly
are
making fun of me. That’s cruel, you know. Have you nothing better to do?” She adjusted her veil. “Why are you making up these stories?” She sounded querulous, but there was hope in her eyes and hesitation in her voice. She wanted to believe.

“I’m not making it up. They wouldn’t have offered those rewards if there weren’t something very special in that book.” Her breathing had quickened—or was that mine? “There really is talk of alchemy and immortality. Isn’t it nice to think what you could do with all the gold you could ever want? And if you were immortal—”

“There’d be no hell.” Her eyes sparkled.

“No hell?” That had never occurred to me.

She opened the door wider and moved close enough for me to smell her green-apple breath and the soap in her hair. She whispered, “Why have you come to me with this?”

“I’ve watched you. You’re so beautiful … I want to take you to the New World.”

Her face opened. “The New World? I’ve heard about the New World.” A complicit smile lifted her pretty mouth. “That would be exciting.”

Then she stood back and looked me up and down, not the way the copyist had done, but carefully, slowly, deliberately noting every detail, every inch of me. Her gaze lingered on my birthmark, my shoulders, and my hips, examining, measuring, weighing, judging.… It was excruciating. Eventually, she shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you.” She looked over her shoulder again. “I have to go.”

She tried to close the gate, but I held it open with my foot and leaned in. I said, “I’m not making this up. You could come away with me. Think about it.”

She flashed a wicked little smile and said, “Talk is cheap. Show me something.” Then she pushed me out of the way and closed the gate.

Show her something? I backed away from the door, enchanted and hopeful. If I could get the love potion, I could show her something. I walked back to work, tripping over cobbles and bumping into people, drunk again on possibilities.

When I entered the kitchen, the chef said, “Took you long enough.”

“I stopped to see someone. A friend.”

He tilted his head and regarded me with suspicion. He said, “Your face is flushed.” Then he flicked a jasmine blossom off my shoulder. “You were at the convent. With that girl.”

“But … yes. I had to see her. I
had
to.”

The chef pulled his hand over his face and looked away for a moment. Then he said, “I was young once, and I loved someone the way you love her. But, Luciano—”

“I know. I know. I won’t see her again when I’m supposed to be working.”

“Oh, Luciano. Why a nun?”

“I’m going to change that.”