The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (35 page)

Marco shot me a warning look.

N’bali ran her fingers over the leaves, the bean, the pod, and the dried flower, then she untwisted the ends of the paper packets and touched the grainy powders in them. She laid both of her hands flat on the open cloth and closed her eyes. After a minute, she said, “Why do you ask me what you already know?”

“But we don’t know.” Marco wrinkled his brow. “That’s why we’re here.”

She studied me until I squirmed, then she said, “I see.” She picked up a leaf and waved it under her nose. “Valerian,” she said. “It calms the nerves, makes you forget your troubles. Of course, if you take too much, you forget everything from one moment to the next.”

Sauce Nepenthes
.

She picked up the other leaf and said, “Henbane. A small amount is good for quieting high-spirited children. But too much can injure the heart and bring on a deep melancholy.”

Pomponazzi and the doge weeping into their custards
.

She flicked a contemptuous finger at the shriveled flower. “Hibiscus. Some say it’s an aphrodisiac.” I held my breath. “But it’s just a flower. Some use it to make tea.”

I blurted, “Are you sure?”

She looked at me with a glimmer of amusement. “You are perhaps fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Something like that.”

She leaned her head back and let her eyelids droop; a full throaty chuckle bubbled up from deep in her chest. She said, “You’re right, an aphrodisiac. Eat hibiscus, and you will make love again and again.”

There had been no hibiscus in the chef’s potion. I wondered whether his potion might be an incomplete recipe. Maybe that was why things went wrong with Francesca.

N’bali took up the bean in one hand and the pod in the other. She said, “Coffee and cacao. These are from the New World. They can be made into stimulating drinks and sinfully delicious confections.”

Behaim calling the coating on his cookie delicious as sex
.

N’bali touched her fingertip to the powder, and her face darkened.

Marco said, “What is it?”

“Opium. This will take away pain and give you blissful dreams.”

Marco pushed. “It’s never used for cooking, is it? It’s a drug, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s a drug.” N’bali gestured at the herbs arrayed in front of her. “All of these things are drugs.”

“I knew it.” Marco pushed the other paper packet at her. “What is this one?”

She sighed. “This is tiresome.”

Good
, I thought,
she’s anxious to be rid of us
.

Marco pointed to the money in the wooden bowl. “We paid you.”

N’bali flicked a hand at the packet. “That is amaranth.”

“I knew it!” Marco slapped the table of idols so hard they jumped.

N’bali growled. “How dare you.” She scattered our herbs with a violent sweep of her long arm. Marco scrambled after them, but everything except the cacao pod disappeared into the woven floor mat.

Marco whispered, “What you have done?”

N’bali moved her head from side to side as if loosening her neck. She said, “I know what you think. Eat amaranth and live forever. My mother told me that legend, and many others: the Gates of Alexander, the Fountain of Youth, salamanders who live in fire, and the priest-king, Prester John.” She sneered. “He was nothing next to the illustrious Queen Eylouka. My mother told me everything. She knew about the book long before Venice started talking.”

I stiffened.

“My mother told me about many books, and about the fools and knaves who seek them.” She pointed a long, thin finger at Marco. “You want gold.” Then she pointed at me. “You want love. You both think the book can satisfy your desires.”

Marco jumped up and stood with his fists balled at his sides. “What do you know about the book?”

I stood between Marco and N’bali. “She doesn’t know anything. Nobody does.”

N’bali looked up at me and said, “Don’t do that.” She waved an apathetic hand at me. “You know your teacher has the book.”

Oh,
Dio
. The chef had never quite come right out and said it, but I did know. I’d known it for a long time, perhaps since Rome, but I wasn’t ready to say it so bluntly, and certainly not in front of Marco.

Marco turned on me. He nailed me to the floor with a look. He said, “You knew.” It was not a question; it was an accusation. We stared at each other.

N’bali said, “You should never look anyone directly in the eye like that. Some people have the power to kill with a look.”

Marco said, “You knew.”

I had no reply.

N’bali unfolded her legs and stood in one graceful motion. She reached out and touched my birthmark. I flinched, but she traced
its outline gently with two fingertips. She said, “
‘Mingi’
is the name given to all the ill fortune that befalls men. Certain things are sure to bring it about—twins, crooked teeth, and birthmarks.”

A terrible thrill raced up my spine, and I pulled my head away from her hand. She smiled her generous smile. “It’s all right. Your
mingi
can be overcome by a simple sacrifice. Someone must die, but don’t worry, someone will. You have only to wait. My people say patience turns milk to butter.”

My mouth went dry, but N’bali simply sat down and laid her hands in her lap, palms up. She sat perfectly still, her clean gleaming head balanced on her stem-like neck and her eyes unfocused, a picture of otherworldly serenity.

Marco and I backed away. When we reached the door, N’bali raised her hand and said, “It will be all right. Someone will die.”

Marco and I squeezed through the door together and clomped down the stairs. At the bottom, he hissed, “You knew.”

“Marco, you don’t understand.”

“I understand you’re a liar.”

“Let me—”

“I’m going to get that book from him. Don’t try to stop me.”

“Marco, listen—”

But he shoved past me and disappeared into a crowd of dancing Circassians.

Making my way through the
ristorante
, I kept hearing N’bali’s voice in my head:
Someone will die
. My thoughts were interrupted by a prickle on the back of my neck, that sense of being watched, and I looked back to see Giuseppe staring at me from a corner table. What was Giuseppe doing in a Circassian
ristorante
? He was one of those people who called the Circassians gypsies and then spat. He stared directly into my eyes, and I remembered N’bali’s warning about killing with a look. I turned away, but it was already too late.

CHAPTER XXVI
T
HE
B
OOK OF
I
MMORTALITY

T
he next day, I struggled with how to broach the subject of N’bali with the chef. My preoccupation was obvious. All morning the chef snapped his most common admonition: “Pay attention.” That morning I was so distracted he hit me with that phrase repeatedly, like a club. I was grateful when the time for my midmorning
panino
came around. I took my bread and prosciutto out to the courtyard and sat down to eat with my back against the water pump. As I finished licking salt and crumbs from my fingers, the chef came out and stood over me. He said, “All right, what is it? The girl?”

“No, Maestro.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and mumbled, “Something new happened. I’m afraid there might be trouble.”

“There’s already trouble.” The chef bent over with his hands on his knees. “But in my experience, trouble often brings opportunity.”

“There are soldiers all over Venice and everyone is under suspicion. I’m sorry, but I don’t see the opportunity in that.”

“It’s an opportunity to practice an Indian method of menu preparation.”

“Menus?” Marrone, I thought,
my maestro is too single-minded
.

The chef squatted next to me. “An Indian teacher named Deviprasad separated food into three types: root vegetables, which have the quality of inertia; meats and peppers, which promote excitement; fresh fruits and vegetables, which are ethereal. Every meal must create a balanced whole. Too much of one type can throw the meal out of balance.”

I spread my hands. “What has that to do with anything?”

“In uncertain times, we must keep ourselves as level as a balanced meal; we mustn’t become too apathetic or too excited or too distracted. Deviprasad instructed his apprentices to be patient and vigilant.”

“But—”

“Did you hear me? Patient and vigilant; that means paying attention.”

Patience and vigilance were fine, but he didn’t know about N’bali. “Maestro”—I thought it best to be straightforward—“I went with my friend Marco to see the Abyssinian.”

The chef pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “Why?”

“Saturday night, Marco broke into the kitchen. I caught him, but he’d already stolen things from your cabinet. You weren’t here on Sunday, and he was going to take them to N’bali with or without me. I know Marco, I thought I could handle him, and I wanted to protect you.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Maestro, N’bali told him you had the book. How could she know that?”

The chef shrugged. “She is an
adeptus
.”

“She said someone is going to die.”

“
Boh
. That’s like saying the sun will rise.”

The chef didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation. “I’m worried about what Marco might do.”

“Marco?” The chef’s eyes tightened in amusement. “There are more serious threats abroad than Marco, eh?”

“But—”

“Look, I appreciate that you tried to protect me, but you can’t control every situation.” The chef put a hand on my shoulder. “You need to learn how to stay calm through perilous times. Meet me in the kitchen tonight. Late, after everyone is asleep.”

*

That night, I stole down the stairs on bare feet. The stairway was dark and quiet, and I paused halfway down for no reason except that all things clandestine inspire hesitation. In the kitchen, the chef sat at his desk in a circle of yellow light like a puddle of melted butter, with his head bent over one of his cookbooks. I said, “I’m here.”

He looked up. “So you are.” He bade me come closer and pulled a chair around so that we sat facing each other. “Luciano,” he began, “you know about my secret writings.”

“
Sì
, Maestro, the book.”

“Well, there are many books. But I have a book of recipes that are the tools of the teacher. These recipes are code for knowledge that has come to us from many different places and times.”

“
Sì
, Maestro.”

“There’s one recipe that’s easily misunderstood, but its message is important.”

“
Sì
, Maestro.”

He flashed an odd little half smile. “It’s a soufflé made with amaranth. Some believe amaranth to be extinct, but it’s not, as you saw in the root cellar; it’s only difficult to find and quite expensive. The amaranth gives this soufflé a nice nutty flavor, but amaranth has an inflated reputation, and the recipe has inspired tales of immortality.”

“But there’s no immortality.” Confusion loomed. “Is there?”

“Not in the sense that it’s usually understood.”

“What does that mean?”

“We all die, but we all leave something behind. We achieve immortality by passing on knowledge.” The chef leaned forward until we sat almost nose to nose. I noticed new lines in his face and puffiness around his eyes, but he looked pleased with himself. He said, “The soufflé teaches the folly of pursuing immortality. Life is death. A moment arises, and it dies. There’s nothing but the present, and you can’t hold on to the present—you can only be in it. A soufflé awakens an awareness of the moment. It forces us to appreciate the rich and fluid now.”

I scratched my head. “A soufflé?”

He sat back. “
Ecco
, look here.” He pulled a ragged cookbook across his desk. The cover was made of some inferior hide, ripped and stained from careless use. The leaves were torn and patched, and loose parchments stuck out haphazardly. As the chef turned the pages, I saw entries written by many different hands. The letters seemed to take a multitude of strange configurations, and some looked like the letters I’d seen inscribed on the doors of the Jewish Quarter. About midway through the book, he turned it around to face me. The page he pointed to was lovely: the parchment tawny with age, the edges embellished with gold leaf, the script flowing. Exquisite little vines and flowers decorated each corner of the page. He said, “There it is: the amaranth soufflé.
Bellissimo
, eh?”

I said, “This is … the book?”

“Sì.”
The chef gazed at the page, and his expression grew abstract. He said, “
Madre di Dio
. Just the thought of immortality makes me tired.” He blew out a long breath. “You know, one of the forbidden writings calls spiritual awakening ‘the elixir of immortality.’ Maybe that’s where all the talk about elixirs began.”

“Wait. This is
the
book?”

“What’s the matter? You knew I had it.”

“But it’s so shabby. And it’s right here in the kitchen. Out in the open? On your bookshelf?”

“
Sì
. Hidden in plain view. It’s the best way. That’s one of the advantages of being a chef—my books interest no one but me. Everyone is looking for a rare and handsome volume, an oiled leather cover and illuminated pages, carefully preserved and well hidden in a monastery. That would be too obvious. No, we Guardians take the bits of knowledge we come across, we encode them as recipes, and we pass them along. This book is a teaching manual.”

“So, this is the book.”
Marrone
.

He stood up. “Come, Luciano. Now you’ll learn something.”

The chef walked over to the table in front of Enrico’s brick oven and selected a whisk. He said, “Understand, soufflés are about technique.”

“But why are we making a soufflé? What about the Gnostic gospels, and Borgia and Landucci and Marco and N’bali?”

“The Guardians have always lived with the threat of discovery. That’s why you need to cultivate patience and vigilance, and to do that you must be fully present.
Allora
, we make a soufflé.”