The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (11 page)

The rain abated briefly and allowed me to hear the raspy old voice, which had gone soft and low with his reminiscing. “It was all new for Amato.
Complètement nouveau
. I believe the boy was overwhelmed, so submerged in luxuries that it seemed to him the great house and everyone in it comprised one noble entity. In that house, he heard the murmurs of important men blending with chords from the family harp.
Mais bien sûr
, even the children loved music in that house. Amato observed lazy afternoons and listened to the gushing of
les jeunes filles en fleur
. Ah, those girls—every room flooded with the perfume of the gardenias they tucked into their bosoms.

“The grand family spent their days in pampered leisure and floated through nights in high canopied beds. The maids scented the pillows with fresh lavender and warmed the linens with heated bricks swaddled in Florentine wool. Ah, the House of Este …” His head drooped and he mumbled reveries into his chest.

I listened to the rain drumming the roof and imagined my maestro as a young rustic in the House of Este, gawking at the easy extravagance and wanting to be part of it. Then the shutters banged, and the rain intensified, hammering the window, rendering it opaque and darkening the room. The old man went on. “Every Sunday, Amato’s day off, he rose long before dawn and rode to Vicenza on a dairyman’s wagon. He came back after dinner on a fruit cart. He traveled six hours each way to spend an hour or two on the farm.”

His eyebrows pinched together. “He was a good boy. He wanted to visit his mother, but I could see what was happening.
Oui
. It was inevitable. Amato began to notice the sour smell of his mother’s kitchen, the rawness of her wine, and the overripe cheese that was too precious to discard.” He nodded slowly.

“After watching the Este’s maids spread sun-bleached sheets on plush featherbeds, it pained him to see the flea-infested straw mattresses that lined the walls of his family hovel. He would have given his mother money if he had any, but as you know apprentices earn no wages.”

“Indeed. I remember a time—”

“One Sunday, Amato came back from Vicenza upset,
très vexé
. The boy had chastised his mother for her low habit of kicking the chickens that strayed into her house.
Oui
, and for the way she hawked up phlegm and spat into the fire. He spent that entire week feeling guilty. He was useless in the kitchen. The following Sunday he apologized to her, but she shrugged him off. His life was proceeding exactly as she had hoped, but for him the visits became uncomfortable. He began to stay away from home for two and three weeks at a time. She didn’t mind; she wanted him to learn.”

The old chef leaned forward, and his voice went crafty and confidential. “Amato learned this: Even though he’d been born a serf, he could become a member of the gentry, like me, a master chef. He could have his own home, a gentle lady for a wife, educated children, and a respectable profession to pass to his son.” He smiled and nodded—a contented old man. “
Oui
, passing it on is what gives our lives meaning, eh?”

“Yes,
monsieur
. Passing it on is everything.”

He leaned back in his cozy chair, looking satisfied. “Amato’s profession was his permanent escape from the barbarians.
Naturellement
, he threw himself into his work. He became a sauce cook at the age of eighteen. Impressive,
non
?”

“Indeed,
monsieur
.”

“
Oui
. I was proud of that boy. But at nineteen he met Giulietta.”

Chef Meunier poured another cup of wine with a shaky hand. He wafted it under his nose, slurped, and snuggled into his shawl. “Giulietta came to the House of Este as a serving girl. She was fifteen—
une enfant
. Her complexion glowed; her hazel eyes were clear and innocent.
Charmante
. The first time Amato saw her, his face opened like a flower, and he dropped his ladle. It was one of those moments when time stops and after it begins again nothing is the same.
Un coup
.

“Giulietta was
très petite
. Slim hips.
Diminutive
. Once, I heard Amato wondering aloud whether he could encircle her waist with his hands.” The old man produced an offended grunt. “That was no way to talk in my kitchen, but he was under her spell. He used to say that light on her black hair made him think of moonlight on the Grand Canal.
C’est ridicule
, eh?”

I thought of Francesca. “Not for a man in love,
monsieur
.”

“
Boh
. They were children.” Chef Meunier made an impatient noise from the back of his throat. “One day, Amato allowed a cream sauce to curdle, while he flirted with Giulietta—in
my
kitchen!
Intolérable
! I could see that Amato’s plan had changed. He wanted that girl more than he wanted to be a chef. But allowing a sauce to curdle?
Mon Dieu
, it was too much.

“I lost my temper that day. I banged on that pot of lumpy sauce with my wooden spoon, like so.” He smacked his chair arm twice. “I hollered,
‘Non! Non!’
I tell you, the way those two carried on violated the sanctity of my kitchen. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Non
. Amato worried less about my anger and more about what impression the scene would make on Giulietta.”

The old man sighed heavily and shrugged under his shawl. “A man is helpless in the face of love, especially a young one, eh?”

“Oh, yes.”

“The affair proceeded from daily flirtation to one night—
oh, that must have been a night to remember—the night Amato learned that,
oui
, he could encircle her waist with his hands. After that, it was hopeless; it was obsession. Everything else—his sauces, his mother’s dreams, his own ambitions—everything evaporated in the heat of their passion.” Chef Meunier shook his head and sipped his wine.

He looked out at the pounding rain and squinted as if trying to see the incident he wanted to recall. “One morning, Amato requested an interview with me. When I saw his face lit from within, I knew what was coming.
Oui
, Amato wished to marry Giulietta.”

“Had you spoken to him about the book?”

“Not yet.” He wagged his head. “But I shouldn’t have waited so long. I should have told him sooner that marriage would interfere with my plans for him, that it would make things
très difficiles
for us both. I said, ‘Amato, you still have much to learn.
Beaucoup
.’

“He said, ‘A married man can learn as well as a bachelor.’
Boh
. I made a face like so.” Chef Meunier cocked his head to one side and knit his brow in a skeptical knot. “I told him, ‘We must talk. Come to my house tonight, eh?’ Amato was annoyed, but he said that he would come.”

Chef Meunier looked around his book-cluttered room. “That night we sat right here, Amato and I. It must have been strange for him to see me so serious. Ah,
oui
, I know. In the kitchen I played the merry elf, rushing from one station to the other. Everyone thought me genial,
très clément
, even comical.
Oui
, I know.”

I remembered how Chef Meunier’s little belly used to bounce when he laughed, and how his tall white toque seemed to be almost a third of his height—a merry elf indeed.

“But that night, Amato saw this.” He leaned forward again and screwed up his face; a deep worry line appeared between his eyebrows and long creases bracketed his mouth. “I told him, ‘Amato, I have a legacy and I need a wise and moral man to be my successor.’”

“What?” I sat up straight. “You told him … about us? Just like that?”

The lower lip jutted. “Not all at once. You know how it’s done.”

I leaned back. “Yes, I know how it’s done.” The ebb and flow of the rain reminded me of my own convoluted journey, of the unexpected twists of fate that led me into a life of shadows and secrets.

Chef Meunier smiled. “Amato was
très
confused. He said, ‘As fine as your recipe collection is, I hardly think you need a saint to inherit it.’ Ach! He knew nothing,
absolument rien
. I used a grape and a raisin to explain how knowledge can be altered.”

I recalled a day, walking in the sun with my maestro, when he carried a bunch of grapes and pocketful of raisins. I said, “He initiated me with the same method,
monsieur
.”

He shrugged. “It’s standard.” His old face grew abstract. “I explained to Amato that some of us devoted ourselves to the accumulation of knowledge, to becoming teachers. He wanted to know more, but, of course, first he had to accept.”

I nodded. “It was the same with me.”

“Of course it was. Stop interrupting me. Isn’t it enough you make me remember what happened to my beloved apprentice?” He sniffed. “I told Amato that if he accepted what I offered, it must come before everything else—his wife, his children, his country. He asked, ‘Before God?’” The old chef threw his head back and laughed. “I told him, ‘God is another conversation.’”

“Indeed,” I said. “God is many other conversations.”

He snorted. “I put it to him bluntly; he had to give up Giulietta. Ah,
sacre bleu
! You would have thought I had asked him to give up both his arms, to cut out his heart, to lay his head on the block. He said, ‘I
love
her.’ ”

Chef Meunier looked tired, and I didn’t know whether it was from the effort of remembering or from the memories themselves. The room had become so dim that his face had darkened into planes and shadows. I lit the oil lamp on the tea table and poured myself
another cup of wine. It was no longer hot, but I settled back in my chair, comfortable in the warm pool of light that encompassed us. Wind and rain battered the window and slammed the shutters against the house, but Chef Meunier, caught up in his memories, seemed oblivious.

He said, “I gave him enough information to make his decision. Then he left. He later told me that he walked the dark streets all night with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. He listened to the echo of his footsteps on the cobbles, thinking and thinking.
Oui
, as we all did, I suppose.

“He didn’t come to work the next day. When we spoke again, he told me he was honored by my offer, but he thought it unfair.”

Chef Meunier raised his palm to stop my surprised retort. “
Oui
, unfair. Amato was standing on the threshold of a perfect life with Giulietta and he felt ambushed.
Embusqué
! As I said, he understood nothing.” The old man closed his eyes and murmured in French. When he opened them again, he looked sad. “In the end, Amato persuaded himself that he could have it all. He didn’t give her up, he asked her to wait.
Sot!
But he kept this from me until it was too late. He waited a full year to tell me about it. By then the tragedy was
un fait accompli
, too late to do anything.

“Without my knowledge, Amato had arranged a rendezvous with Giulietta in a secluded piazza. He said they sat on a bench holding hands, and she asked why Amato had missed work. He gathered his courage and told her their wedding must wait. She wrenched her hand away and asked, ‘How long?’

“He feared that if she left him he wouldn’t be able to watch her go. But she didn’t leave. She wept, then she pleaded, then she raged and beat his chest with her tiny fists. She accused him of having another woman. There were more tears, more accusations, and then, suddenly, she capitulated. I can imagine her straightening her little girl shoulders and saying, ‘Fine. I’ll wait.’ Amato had no idea that Giulietta had scheming instincts. Many women do, you know.”

“Sì.”
Francesca. Again.

“
Oui
. She intended to wait only as long as it took to become pregnant, which was not long at all. But when she came to him—with a thicker waist and her wedding dress already sewn—she was astounded to learn that Amato still wouldn’t marry her.” The old chef picked at his shawl as rain pummeled the roof. “Perhaps if he had come to me then … Ach, I flatter myself. The damage was done.

“Giulietta’s pious family threw her out. That was to be expected. So Amato took her to his mother’s farm to wait out her confinement. He visited every week—although, at the time I thought he was only visiting his mother—and every week Giulietta complained to him. His mother didn’t want Giulietta’s pregnancy to interfere with her son’s ambitions. The two women resented each other, and Amato felt pulled between them.”

“A tight place for any man.”

“Amato tried to reassure Giulietta. He took her for long walks across farm fields smelling of cut grass. They hid in the honeysuckle, where they made love and then lay in each other’s arms listening to the crickets. It hurts me now to think of it.”

Crashing thunder caused him to fall silent, and I struggled to imagine my maestro as a young fellow swooning in a patch of honeysuckle. I had known him as a middle-aged man with a respectable family. But we’re all young once. …

Chef Meunier shifted in his chair as if his bones ached. I was afraid discomfort might make him cut the story short, and I offered to fetch more hot wine, perhaps a pillow, but he said, “It’s only old age. Not important.

“Every week, Amato rushed to his mother’s farm, eager to lay his hand on Giulietta’s belly and feel the life stirring there. As her time came closer, he always burst into the little hovel expecting to hear the thin wail of a newborn. But he only found Giulietta, moving ponderously with one hand cupped under her belly, and
his mother, thin lipped, busy at the fire, and of course his brother, Paolo, watching the two women.

“One day, when Giulietta was past her time, Amato arrived to find only his mother and Paolo. He said his mother delivered the news with a stone face while Paolo looked away and fidgeted with his fingers. Slim-hipped Giulietta had died in childbirth, and the infant, a boy, had died as well. She said Giulietta hadn’t been made for childbearing and that the child was cursed.”