The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (39 page)

Landucci shrugged and picked up his glass. “I suppose we can dispose of him if we need to.”

As the council toasted their new doge, the maids served lemon meringue tarts for dessert.

“A lighthearted finish,” sang Castelli. “Delightful.”

I rushed down to the kitchen shouting that the council had elected Marsilio Ficino. The chef sank onto a wooden bench and nodded.
“Bene.”

“Maestro, please tell me.” I offered him my praying hands. “What magic herbs did you use to sway them?”

“Magic herbs? They were drunk.”

“They weren’t
that
drunk.”

“They were relaxed.” The chef patted the bench for me to sit next to him, and he put his arm around my shoulder. “Luciano, I told you, what looks like magic is skill. The lion reminded the council of what they already know, that they need fear no one in Venice. Also, the lion was sinfully oversalted, which made them drink too much. Of course, with their stupid method it could easily have gone another way.”

“But you gave Ficino a chance.”

“We do what we can.”

“I don’t know, Maestro. Meddling in the election seems dangerous. Landucci said he has a spy in the kitchen.”

“Spy? What spy?”

“I don’t know. He only said he has a man down here.”

“Well, then, luck was with us.”

But luck must have been elsewhere when, later, a more sober Landucci came into the kitchen to question the cooks about the properties of clover, the deboning of quail, and the acquisition of lion meat. The cooks answered carefully, saying, “
Sì, signore
. It was a clever meal. Our chef is a magician.”

“A magician?”

“Only an expression,
signore
. Our chef is skilled.”

The chef and I watched closely for the man who was too helpful, too familiar, but all the cooks were cool and polite. I’d begun
to doubt what I’d heard when, as Landucci walked toward the service door, Giuseppe caught his eye and they exchanged a look of collusion. Landucci nodded curtly and left quickly. The chef and I exchanged our own look. Minutes later Giuseppe slipped out of the back door. The chef tapped the side of his nose and motioned me out after him.

Giuseppe walked through the courtyard and around the front of the palace. There, under the Byzantine arcade, Landucci waited in the shadows. Giuseppe’s shoes rapped a sharp tattoo on the marble floor, so I took my own shoes off and left them behind a pillar. I glided silently from behind one post to the next. I needed to get closer than I would have wished to hear their hushed conversation.

Giuseppe’s voice floated on the night air: “… it’s more than just skill. I told you about that locked cabinet and his strange garden. And don’t forget he took that thief off the street. He even promoted him.”

“Yes, yes. He’s odd, but he’s just a cook.” Landucci sounded impatient. “Do you know anything I might care about?”

“Why did you come down to the kitchen tonight,
sígnore
?”

“A lion? I didn’t like that meal.”

“Yes!” Giuseppe stepped closer to Landucci, shaking a finger in his face. “His meals have unnatural power over people.”

“Step back, will you?” Landucci pressed his scarf to his nose. “What are you getting at?”

Giuseppe’s voice turned coy. “A few weeks ago, the little thief stole things from the chef’s private cabinet. He and his dirty friend took their booty to the Abyssinian.”

“A fortune-teller?
Boh
.”

“People tell her things. You told me to keep my eyes and ears open, so I followed them. After they left her room, I went up to see her.” Giuseppe sounded obscenely self-satisfied, and I was shocked. I thought he’d only been following us to harass me.

But Landucci sounded bored. “And?”

“The chef keeps opium in the kitchen.”

“A painkiller? So what? Maybe he has headaches.” But Landucci stood a little straighter. “Anything else?”

“I asked her if the chef knew something about the book. Boom! She shuts her mouth and shows me the door.” Giuseppe’s voice turned oily and insinuating. “Have you ever seen her? Bald and skinny, little chicken bones. I twisted her arms behind her back to … um … persuade her to talk. But she smiled at me. Stubborn. I got a hand around her throat; I squeezed just enough to show her I meant business. When I thought she’d had enough, I let her speak. She was coughing and gasping, but the black
strega
smiled again. She said, ‘You’ll never get the book away from that chef.’
From that chef!
He has it!” Giuseppe gave a mean snort. “I tried to get more but …
boh
. She died too easily.”

“She died?”

“Of … persuasion.”

I felt sick. N’bali had said someone would die. Had she known it would be her?

Landucci stroked his neat little beard, and Giuseppe danced nervously from one foot to the other. Finally, Landucci said, “The word of a fortune-teller isn’t worth much, but I suppose you want something for this.”

“Justice,
signore
. Although if there’s a reward—”

“Justice?” Landucci barked an ugly laugh.

“Will you arrest the chef?”

“I’ll have him questioned.”

“And his boy, too. They’re in it together.”

“I’ll send the
Cappe Nere
for them both.” He glanced out to the squadron of
Cappe Nere
on patrol in the Piazza San Marco.

Oh,
Dio
! It was all I could do not to cry out and run. I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand still and hear the rest.

“Bene!”
Giuseppe looked as if he might levitate.
“Signore—”

“Yes, yes, if this yields anything, there’ll be a job for you in the dungeon.”

“
Grazie, signore
. But the senate seat—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Sì, signore.”
Giuseppe offered an obsequious smile of fear.

“Pity.” Landucci seemed to be talking to himself. “You don’t find such a clever chef very often. It’ll be a waste if he, too, dies of persuasion.”

CHAPTER XXIX
T
HE
B
OOK OF
F
UGITIVES

I
flew back to the kitchen on bare feet, imagining I could already hear the
Cappe Nere
sharpening their knives. I charged through the back door panting, wild-eyed, breathless. “Landucci …
Cappe Nere
… they’re coming.”

The last two cooks in the kitchen, Enrico and Pellegrino, stopped tidying their stations to stare, first at me, then at each other. The chef lunged for his bookshelf, pulled out the battered cookbook, and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where, Maestro?”

“Follow me.”

We dashed out the back door. Bernardo caught a whiff of our excitement and shot out after us. The uneven cobbles of the courtyard hurt my bare feet, and I cursed myself for losing my shoes, but there was nothing to be done. When we opened the courtyard door, we saw Giuseppe coming around the corner. His eyes cut to the book under the chef’s arm, and he flashed a brown, malicious grin.

We wheeled around and fled back into the kitchen. Running past Enrico and Pellegrino, the chef shouted, “Giuseppe’s coming. Stop him.”

They smiled. Every cook in the kitchen would have welcomed
an opportunity to manhandle Giuseppe. Enrico called out, “With pleasure, Maestro.”

The chef called over his shoulder, “Landucci might be behind him.” He headed for the service door, but that door didn’t lead to the outside, it led up into the palace. We pushed through the door and the chef peered up the stairway. He rubbed his chin and said, “
D’accordo
. We go.”

As we mounted the stairs, we heard Enrico and Pellegrino hailing Giuseppe like an old friend. “The maestro’s gone. Have a drink with us, eh? What? When did Giuseppe ever refuse a drink?” Then came sounds of a scuffle.

I knew it would only take minutes for Landucci to order the
Cappe Nere
out of the piazza and into the palace. We climbed as fast as the chef’s middle-aged legs would allow, which was not fast enough for me. Only moments after we passed the landing to the palace’s main rooms, we heard voices on the other side of a door. Landucci said, “The chef is still in the kitchen, but the boy might be in the dormitory. Arrest them both.” The door opened, and we heard boots on the stairs—the
Cappe Nere
went down to the kitchen as we went up. I said, “Maestro, where are we going?”

The chef was winded. “Come on,” he panted. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t remember how many doors we passed, but I remember thinking we should open one of them and find a way out of the palace. When we finally stopped, I was winded, but the poor chef was flushed and gasping. We were standing in front of an arched door with a wreath of flowers painted around the handle. The chef eased it open a crack, peeked in, then swung it wide and motioned me in ahead of him.

It was a bedroom. The chef went straight to the wardrobe and flung open the door. While he rummaged through the clothes, I scanned the room. The bedchamber was well appointed, with a soft satin coverlet on the single bed and a collection of porcelain kittens on a night table. A swath of ivory silk tented the head of the
bed, and a man’s shaving things lay in tidy array next to a washbasin bordered in pink rosebuds. Every detail in the room appeared carefully chosen and precisely arranged. It was the sanctuary of a lonely man.

The chef said, “The majordomo takes his evening stroll at this hour. We have a little time.”

The wardrobe was filled with neatly hung clothing: richly embroidered robes, silk doublets, velvet cloaks, and a row of beaded slippers, some with curled toes. A faint whiff of lilac came from the clothes. The chef grabbed a white shirt with puffed sleeves, a simple vest, and a pair of black trousers and tossed them to me. For himself, he chose a magnificent violet doublet with gold piping and matching trousers. The fit was not perfect for either of us, but the clothes buttoned on him and didn’t fall off me. Good enough. Over his fine suit, the chef wore a long, sweeping cloak of royal blue wool with a crimson silk lining. It hooked at the neck with a gold clasp and draped generously down his body, leaving plenty of room to hide the book. He topped off his grand outfit with a hat bearing an extravagant ostrich plume. When he set that hat on his head, he became a different man. He handed me a simple green-hooded cape.

The chef closed the wardrobe and shoved our kitchen clothes under the bed; then he sat down on it and bade me do the same. He still wheezed from running up the stairs, and his words were halting. “Tonight, I’m a saddened dignitary come to pay respects to our ailing doge. You’re my page.”

“
Sì
, Maestro. But I have no shoes.”

He noticed my bare feet for the first time and said,
“Dio.”
He went back to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of green silk slippers beaded in a pink floral motif. “Here. They’ll have to do.”

Unhappily, I slipped them on.

He sat beside me. “Now, what happened with Giuseppe and Landucci?”

“Giuseppe told him you have the book.”

“How could Giuseppe know?”

“When I went to N’bali, Giuseppe was there. After I left, he talked to her.”

“Dio.”

“I didn’t know he would talk to her. I thought he was only there to harass me.”

“Dio.”

“Maestro, Giuseppe killed her.”

“Scoundrel!” He grimaced and blew out a long breath. “But there’s no time for regret. We have to get out of here.”

He pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Luciano, do you understand what will happen if we get caught?”

“I think so, Maestro.”

“We’ll be killed the Venetian way—beheaded. But first, the dungeon.”

I swallowed hard. “
Sì
, Maestro.”

“You could disappear. Leave this room now. Go back to your friends on the street. There are so many like you out there, you’d be invisible.”

I never thought going back to the street could sound so appealing, but I said, “I’ll stay with you.”

The chef squeezed my shoulder. “I knew I chose rightly.” His eyes filled, and he turned away. After a moment, he said, “Luciano, if we end up in the dungeon, remember this: In the end, you’ll die no matter what you say or don’t say. Use your rage to win.”

“Win what?”

“If you tell your torturers nothing, you die victorious. They’ll have nothing, and you will have died for a purpose—to protect the Guardians. That’s as good a death as any man can hope for.”

Sweat broke under my arms. “I hope I can do that.”

“I hope you won’t have to.” He stood up. “Pull up that hood and keep your head down. We can’t have the servants recognizing you.”

“Maestro?”

“What?”

“Won’t they go to your home? What about your family?”

“My wife knows that if I don’t come home when I’m expected she must take the girls and go to her sister’s house. If she doesn’t hear from me, they will flee to Aosta.”

“You already had it planned?”

“Of course.”

We went down to the palace’s main floor, and the chef swept into one of the public halls like the noble man he was. He affected a haughty expression, which transformed his face, and he tapped his lip as if in deep thought. No one interrupted him. I walked behind him with my hood up and my head down, as always, the invisible servant.

There would be no skulking around corners for this chef who hid his precious book in plain sight. He marched boldly up to the palace’s main entrance and stood there, brazen as a gold tooth, tapping an impatient foot and flicking a finger at footmen who hurried to haul open the heavy doors. He strode out into the Piazza San Marco with me three steps behind, and I brimmed with secret delight as two
Cappe Nere
stepped aside to let us pass.

We ambled around the piazza for as long as we dared. I assumed that the chef was trying to think of a place to go. He was not accustomed to hiding in the streets and unwilling to put his friends at risk. After we’d covered the perimeter of the piazza three times, people glanced our way, apparently noticing that we were walking in circles. We went down a side street, crossed a bridge, and wandered into increasingly narrow
calli
. There, people stared at us because of our elaborate costumes. The magnificent clothes had served us well for escaping the palace, but if a nobleman were going any distance in Venice he’d travel by private gondola. We ducked around the back of an inn, and the chef removed the royal blue
cloak and the plumed hat. I shed the green cape and vest, but I still needed the flamboyant beaded slippers.