The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (8 page)

Spontaneously, the girls launched into a loud, vigorous rendition of “Cielo Luna” while they helped Camilla stack dishes on a
tray. I heard the chef’s solid tenor join in for the chorus, and then I heard Signora Ferrero’s soprano. Even old Camilla chimed in with her wheezy voice. Whenever someone went flat, they laughed, and soon the song became ragged with laughter and friendly jibes and the happy clatter of plates and cutlery.

They never sang when I was there.

When I was there they were sedate and polite. When I was there, they behaved in a manner appropriate for Sunday visitors—outsiders. But that night, without me to inhibit them, they were a real family, stuffed with lamb stew, tripping over each other’s voices, laughing and singing. …

I listened in the dark, alone and hungry, and I understood. I wasn’t a member of the family at all. They had never accepted me; they had tolerated me. The ache of exclusion made me resentful, and slowly, I worked up enough anger to seal off the soft spot. My guilt slipped away unnoticed.

When the singing died down, Signora Ferrero whisked the girls upstairs, and I chanced another peek in the window. The chef sat alone at the table, fiddling with the stem of a half-full wineglass. His high spirits had vanished with his family, and he stared morosely into his wine until his wife called him up to bed.

At the edge of my vision, I saw the dining room lights wink out as the chef doused the candles, and then I heard his shoes scuffing the stairs. I craned my neck and leaned back over the stone banister to look up at the bedroom windows. At first I saw nothing, but after a moment, I caught a scant glimpse of the chef and his wife silhouetted in candlelight behind the muslin curtains of their balcony door. I straddled the banister, held on tight, and leaned out at a precarious angle to get a better view.

The chef ran his fingers through his hair, and then he made agitated chopping gestures with the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. Signora Ferrero stilled him; she laid her palms on his shoulders and began a slow massage. She whispered in his ear until
his posture relaxed, and he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. They talked, but I couldn’t hear them. I needed to get up there.

The long stone balcony of the
píano nobíle
was lined with clay pots and urns of different sizes, all filled with cheerful red geraniums. The largest of them was about three feet high, and I thought that if I stood on it and stretched my arms overhead, the extra three feet might be just enough for me to reach the floor of their small bedroom balcony. I stepped onto the rim of the clay pot and steadied myself before reaching up for the slate floor. I lengthened my spine and extended my fingers. The pot rocked underfoot, and my heart speeded up as I swayed to catch my balance. After I righted myself, I managed to get my hands on the bottom of two wrought iron spindles above me.

As I pulled myself up, the flowerpot again wobbled under my toes, tipped, rolled, clattered over the floor, and crashed down the stairs to the cobbled street below. A few pot shards splashed into the canal. I held my breath and hung there, dangling between the two balconies. The muscles in my arms burned as I tightened my fingers around the iron spindles.

The chef rushed to his balcony doors. I heard the creak of a rusty hinge, and he called out, “Who’s there?”

Marrone
.

Signora Ferrero sounded unconcerned. “A cat probably knocked over some geraniums.”

“
Dio
. Cats.”

“I’ll send Camilla to the flower stalls tomorrow.”

My wrists ached, my hands had begun to slip, and I felt the weight of my body pulling away from my shoulders. But dropping back down would make too much noise, and I might be seen running away. I hung there.

The chef stood at the open door and huffed. “Venice. Nothing but cats and sinners.” I imagined him shaking his fist at the night.
“But there’s a nice breeze tonight.” He left the door open, and his footsteps receded.

The muscles in my arms quivered as I pulled myself up with raw hands, taking care not to grunt by keeping my lips pressed hard together. I swung one leg up to the slate floor and the scraping sound made Signora Ferrero say, “I think that cat’s on
our
balcony now.”

The chef clapped his hands and yelled, “Shoo!” Signora Ferrero laughed, and her laughter covered the sound of me hoisting my body over the railing. I crouched in the recess beside their open door and leaned my head back against the wall while my breathing slowed and the cool night air turned my sweaty face clammy.

The chef and his wife moved about the room, preparing for sleep. Like all good Catholics, they put out the light before they undressed down to their underclothes and slid modestly into bed. But once they were under the sheets, I heard murmurs and kisses and the easy whispers of casual intimacy.

I couldn’t believe that
that
night, of all nights, he would blithely make love to his wife as if nothing unusual had happened. I heard the swish of bed linens, a yawn, and a pillow being plumped … then nothing. What were they
doing
? I resisted the impulse to knock my head against the wall in frustration. But wait—they hadn’t yet bid each other good night. Surely they wouldn’t go to sleep without that pleasantry.

The chef whispered something, and as I strained to make out his words a scarred and scabby cat leapt silently from the next balcony, jumped down from the railing, and sauntered along the slate floor. It hopped onto my lap and brushed its tail against my face. I pinched my nose to hold off a sneeze and shoved the presumptuous animal off me.

Signora Ferrero’s sleepy voice floated out the door. “… so he poisoned a peasant. It’s despicable but hardly his first murder. Why do you care so much about this one?”

“
Cara
, he tried to revive a dead man.” The chef made a disgusted sound through his nose. “First he kills him, and then he pours something down his throat to bring him back. Insanity! I’m sure it has to do with that book. It’s all this mad talk about formulas for immortality and alchemy. … Everyone’s going crazy. Some scheming alchemist probably duped the doge into buying a potion to defeat death. I just hope he was clever enough to get out of Venice before the doge tried it. The old man probably paid a fortune for a vial of cat piss.”

“A potion to defeat death? Is he so great a fool?”

“He has syphilis and doesn’t want to die. People believe what they want to believe. But if the doge starts killing to find that book, people will panic, and the rumors will get wilder. The doge is bad enough, but imagine the carnage if Landucci or Borgia become interested.”

“Boh.”
Signora Ferrero loaded the word with contempt. “Landucci is vile. And Borgia, calling himself pope—he’s a disgrace. Do you know he has more than twenty bastards? No wonder they call him the father of Rome.”

The cat beside me arched its back and spat, but not at me. Another cat had alighted on the railing, and they stared at each other with feline scorn. Both reared back and raised their hackles. I thought,
Oh
, Dio,
not a catfight
.

Signora Ferrero spoke through a yawn. “Landucci and Borgia are too smart to be bothered by silly rumors. The doge is just desperate. He may not live long enough to find his chamber pot in the morning, much less that book.”

The chef mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and his wife’s voice turned consoling. “Amato, calm yourself. Even if the doge finds this book, what difference would it make? There are no magic formulas. It might be best if someone did find the book and put an end to the gossip.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why are you upsetting yourself? There’s no alchemy, no immortality. As for love potions …”

I stopped breathing.

Her voice turned coy and teasing. “Come here,
amore
.” She murmured something, the bed linens rustled, and she laughed girlishly. My heart hammered in my chest, pounded behind my eyes, and throbbed in the tips of my fingers. I knew I should leave, but—did they have a love potion?

She said, “Our potion is no use to the old doge, but for you and me … come here,
amore
.” I heard another shifting of bedclothes, another whisper, and a low giggle. “The girls are asleep, eh?”

“I have things on my mind.”

“So serious,” she purred. “A tiny sip will make you feel better.” There was more rustling of bed linens, the sound of a drawer sliding open, glass clinking on glass, liquid being poured, and then a strange smell seeped out to the balcony: smoky and nutlike—it made me think of burnt chestnuts—a strange, dark aroma that was somehow bracing. I heard the lady’s provocative hum, like a woman eating a delicious fruit. She said, “Shall we indulge,
amore mio
?”

Meanwhile, the cats faced each other with arched backs.

The chef said, “Not tonight, Rosa.” There was a pause, then more movement in the bed.

“Amato”—she sounded surprised—“you’re really turning away from me?” I heard the chink of a glass being set on the night table.

“I’m sorry,” said the chef. “I can’t stop thinking about … there’s more to that book than you know.”

“What more?” A moment passed. “Amato? What is it?”

As I waited for his answer, I pressed my back hard against the wall to stay clear of the cats. The fur on their backs stood straight up, inflating them to twice their size. They bared pointy white teeth, one spat, the other hissed, and then they sprang. I didn’t know which to fear more, being injured in the war of claws or being discovered by Chef Ferrero. Their shrieks tore through the night,
and the sound was raw and bone chilling, like the screams of tortured babies.

From the bedroom, I heard, “
Dio
. Now what?” The chef rushed to the door and pulled it wide open. I felt his presence just inches from me, peering out into the darkness, and I pressed my back harder against the wall, my eyes shut tight like a child who thinks if he can’t see, he can’t be seen. Sweat prickled at my hairline.

The chef said, “Get out of here!” A slipper sailed out of the bedroom and hit one of the cats squarely on the head.

Immediately, the screeching subsided and I opened one eye. The cats had backed off to skulk in the shadows, eyeing each other, canny and vicious, sizing up the next assault.

“Dio,”
said the chef. “Maybe we should get a dog.”

I saw his bare foot advance from the recessed doorway and my stomach turned over. At the same time, Signora Ferrero said, “Come back, Amato. Tell me about this book.”

He hesitated, then said, “
Sì
. I think they’re finished.” The foot retreated. The chef went back to his wife, and silence fell on the bedroom. Water lapped at the chef’s gondola, and the cats issued muted warnings.

After a minute, the chef said, “Rosa, you’re my touchstone.”

“Such drama. What is this about?”

“This bizarre murder is significant. I believe the time has come to tell you about the book. But you can never repeat what I say—not to anyone. And if there’s trouble, if ever I don’t come home from work, you must go immediately to your sister’s house. But don’t stay there long. As soon as you can, go to your father in Aosta. He can hide you in the mountains.”

“Now you’re frightening me. Amato, please, what is this about?”

The bed creaked as the chef moved closer to his wife. I inched nearer the door, cupped a hand to my ear, and struggled to hear. He said, “Rosa—”

One cat rose vertically into the air, like a sorcerer’s marionette, and hurled itself at the other. Howls ripped through the night. The cats were only an arm’s length away, and I saw claws tear across a yellow eye. I squeezed myself into the corner between the wall and railing and raised my forearm to protect my face. There was a savage grappling accompanied by demonic screeches.

The chef yelled,
“Madre de Dio!”
and again leapt from his bed and came to the door.

“Amato,” called Signora Ferrero. “Don’t go out there. You’ll get scratched.”

Another slipper sailed out and he yelled, “Get out of here, spawn of Satan!” Then he slammed the balcony doors shut.

With a whine and a whimper, one cat slumped in a matted heap. It appeared dead, and the other cat arched its back and yowled its triumph. But no, the defeated cat rose again. Back from the dead, it leapt from the balcony and disappeared into the night. The victor curled up to groom its paws while its hackles settled.

I had pressed against the railing so hard that my ribs ached, and now, with the balcony doors closed, I could not hear what the chef told his wife. There was only a weighted silence until I heard Signora Ferrero’s muffled exclamation,
“Madonna mia!”

I stole another peek into the bedroom and saw Signora Ferrero clasped in her husband’s arms, weeping.

CHAPTER VII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
V
ISITATIONS

M
y maestro seldom talked about himself. He had a reputation for being secretive and somewhat odd. People noticed curious things about him—small things by themselves, but together they made Chef Ferrero as enigmatic as the Hindu incense merchant in the Rialto, only half-visible behind his screen of scented smoke.

When the chef chatted with the cooks, he managed to combine friendliness with a restraint that went slightly beyond professional distance. When he worked, he was the consummate
artiste
, silent and serious, examining his culinary creations with a sophisticated palate and a discerning eye. When he prepared his personal recipes, the special ones he didn’t share, his obsession with privacy was so complete that the cooks grumbled about the tall hat making some people self-important. Even the paternal pats he gave me felt covert, and he always walked away before I could respond.

He didn’t react to things the way most people did. When the doge disinterred St. Mark’s bones in his search for the book, the kitchen staff, along with the rest of Venice, exploded with indignation, but the chef made no comment. I asked him whether he thought the act was sacrilege, and his answer was strangely irreverent.
He said, “St. Mark’s bones aren’t his legacy, they’re just bones. Reminders of things to think about, but just bones.”