The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (21 page)

At that moment, the locked cabinet embodied all my questions about Chef Ferrero and my future in his kitchen. I went back to peeling: one stroke, two, three, and the white potato began to emerge from its brown jacket. I could see how the pattern of each strip of skin fit into the last, all conspiring to cover the potato entirely. One stroke at a time, and eventually you see it all. But,
marrone
, I was seeing nothing.

Marco was right. We had always been able to do what we set our minds to, and that day I set my mind to getting some questions answered. Marco had taught me how to pick pockets, how to shoplift, and how to open locks with a piece of wire. The night we broke into the shop of a Florentine wool importer to steal blankets, he said, “You don’t need eyes for this. Just a light touch and a good ear.” That winter, I slept warm on the street for the first time. I was accustomed to trusting Marco, but he had suggested that the chef was deceiving me, was perhaps even a sorcerer. That was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? The cabinet was suspicious, but practitioners of black magic kept dried snake eyes, raven’s claws, the desiccated noses of hanged men, rat entrails bound with hair, and the shriveled umbilical cords of stillborn
infants. The chef wouldn’t keep anything so loathsome in his pristine kitchen. Would he?

Sauce Nepenthes was certainly questionable, as was the chef’s habit of talking about obscure matters that had nothing to do with his profession. And, of course, there was the thorny matter of the love potion. Did he keep
that
in his cabinet?
Marrone
, what if the love potion had been in the kitchen, right under my nose, all this time?

Bene
. God helps those who help themselves. It was time to take matters into my own hands. I took a peek at the lock on the chef’s cabinet and knew it would yield to my wire.

*

That night, I rose from my straw pallet and tiptoed barefoot down the servants’ stairway with the wire in my hand. Watery light wavered through the kitchen windows and cast moving shadows on the walls. I moved toward the chef’s cabinet, thinking,
Just a quick look
.

But the shifting night shadows unnerved me. I decided to warm up to my mission by peeking into the big spice closet first. Unlocking the closet door didn’t feel like a violation—it was left unlocked all day for the cooks. Going in there would merely give me a closer look at what everyone else saw every day. In fact, it occurred to me that, by then, I probably should have been given a tour of the spice closet already. That thought helped me to feel indignant and justified.

I inserted my wire into the lock and pressed my ear flat on the door to hear the muted clicks. When I pulled the tall, narrow door open, a barrage of smells assaulted me. First a sweet blend of cinnamon and cloves with earthy undertones of thyme and oregano, then a piney whiff of rosemary and a heady punch of basil. The pungent mix stunned me, and I stood still, letting it envelop me. Equally dazzling was the knowledge that many of those spices had come from remote parts of the world. They were precious commodities
carried over deserts and mountains and oceans, too expensive for any but the richest kitchens.

My eyes bulged at the sight of a squat round jar of peppercorns so wide across I would need two hands to lift it—a rich man’s ransom in pepper. A handful of peppercorns cost the same as a week’s pay for a common man, and I’d often heard the expression “dear as pepper.” Merchants sometimes inflated profits by mixing in false peppercorns made of clay and oil. I pried off the wooden lid and ran my fingers through the peppercorns like a miser reveling in his gold. Some were broken, and the sharp smell made my nose twitch. No clay in there—a fortune in a jar.

Above the jar of peppercorns, I noticed a silver box delicately engraved with birds and flowers. I picked the flimsy lock, then lifted the lid and stared in wonder at a hoard of ducats and coppers glimmering in the fragile light. That silver box held the kitchen’s ready cash for small purchases. The chef made large purchases on the doge’s credit, but I’d often seen the majordomo casually drop a purse on the chef’s desk. The chef always emptied the money into that box without even counting it, and I’d never imagined there was so much. When the chef gave me or Pellegrino coins to run out for supplies, the coppers and ducats came from that box. He took out what he needed and tossed the change back in without making any calculations. It astonished me to think that what I considered a fortune was only petty cash, barely worth keeping track of.

I’d never touched a gold ducat before. I picked one up and felt awed by the weight of it in my palm. It was heavy and smooth and finely sculpted. All the coins were magnificent, and not only because of their value. They were mesmerizing to look at: Gold and copper, illuminated by wan moonlight, glowed like the chef’s onion skins transmuted to metal. Temptation twinkled for an instant, but no, I reminded myself, I hadn’t come to steal. The chef had said I was better than I thought, that I had God inside me. I replaced the ducat and closed the box.

Sated, I stepped out, relocked the closet door, and squinted at the copper sauté pan that concealed the chef’s private cabinet. Still, I hesitated. For one so curious I was curiously sluggish to get on with it. I looked around the kitchen for any chores I might’ve forgotten. I peeked into the stockpot to assure myself the simmer was holding at the right level, then I took up my broom to search for a missed lettuce leaf, a stray fish bone, a grain of salt. I concentrated on the floor … and yet, somehow, I kept seeing that copper sauté pan in my peripheral vision.

Bending to sweep under a chopping block, I noticed a beetle picking its way slowly over the uneven stone floor. I picked it up, saying, “Sorry, Signor Beetle. The chef doesn’t allow insects in his kitchen.” I carried the beetle out to the back courtyard and released it. Watching it plod away, I remembered tales I’d heard about Cala-brese witches who made a mashed insect stew for people to smear on an enemy’s front door. It was said to be a powerful curse with no antidote, and in Calabria people always inspected their doors before entering their homes.

Thoughts of the occult made me recall stories about Circassian witches who concocted purees of dog tongues, fish eyes, and goat intestines to ingest while they cast spells. Disgusting. The chef would never have anything to do with such filthy profanities. Perhaps the chef practiced some form of harmless white magic. Perhaps …

Get it over with!

Aware that the shuddering shadows and my strained nerves were goading my imagination, I hurried to the cabinet and quickly removed the copper sauté pan from its hook. Excitement caused me to fumble the pan and it fell on the stone floor with a ringing clang. I looked around to be sure the noise had not alerted anyone, and then I slipped the wire into the lock. Instantly, it became slippery from the sweat on my hands, and I cursed as I wiped my palms on my woolen britches. I forced myself to take a deep breath
and begin again. My lips pressed hard together in an effort to concentrate. When the tumblers fell into place, the small door creaked open a teasing finger’s width. I heard a sharp intake of breath and felt a surge of panic before I realized the sound had come from me. I gripped the door handle with trembling fingers.

At that time, I was ignorant of the story about Pandora’s box, of the idea that prying could unleash disaster and that some doors should never be opened. But even if I’d known that tale, I doubt that I’d have retreated. Prudence disregarded, wisdom yet to come, and curiosity blazing away, I pulled the door open.

What a relief! Three shelves held common glass bottles and jars, the same as those used for the herbs and spices in the cooks’ closet. Wonderfully dull. There were also a couple of small cloth pouches like those used for sleeping powders and smelling salts. Everything was neatly lined up and clearly labeled just as it would be in an ordinary apothecary shop. I opened a few jars and sniffed the contents—they all smelled like herbs and seemed to be culinary provisions. The chef’s big secret was just an innocent little spice cabinet after all, a place to keep those ingredients that were too rare or expensive to let the cooks use wastefully, if they knew how to use them at all.

The green glass jars full of dried leaves sparked a memory of the chef removing something greenish to make Sauce Nepenthes. I opened one bottle and made note of the verdant aroma. I removed a leaf and bit a tiny piece off the edge. It tasted unfamiliar but not unpleasant. There was a grassy aftertaste; it was clearly an herb. Everything else in the cabinet seemed equally unexciting. No nail clippings, no coils of hair, no putrefied remains, no smoky potions smelling of burnt chestnuts, and no books. That cabinet contained nothing more than the secrets of a great chef, the makings of his reputation. I let go a sigh of relief, feeling reassured that I’d learn to use them, as my maestro said, when I was ready.

I closed the door but hesitated before locking it. If those herbs
and spices were so rare that they had to be locked up, fit only for a maestro, a simple knowledge of them might impress the chef. He respected knowledge above all. If I could learn the names of a few of his treasured herbs, he might be impressed enough to promote me. After all, Francesca wouldn’t wait forever.

I imagined myself dropping the name of an uncommon herb into a conversation. The chef would smile and say, “
Bravo
, Luciano. I see you’ve been paying attention in the Rialto.” That kind of cleverness might secure my promotion and shut Marco up for good.

Of course, I couldn’t read the labels. I studied the words and began to see them as designs, lines and loops, dots and crosses, like little pictures. I could copy pictures. If I copied the lines and shapes faithfully, I could get someone to read them for me.

I went to the chef’s desk and removed a quill and parchment, but I left the bottle of ink alone, fearing I might spill it. Sitting on the hearth, with Bernardo curled at my feet, I mixed a puddle of black ink from ashes and water. By the faint glow from the embers under the stockpots, I painstakingly copied the shape of the letters from several bottles and one pouch. The quill skipped and blotched, and after it grew soft from my crude ink and heavy hand, I stopped to sharpen the tip with a paring knife. At one point, I drooled on the parchment because I’d unconsciously been working with my tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth. I blotted it with my sleeve, but saliva had smeared two whole words, almost a half hour’s labor. No matter. As Marco had said, I could do whatever I set my mind to. I sharpened my quill and went back to work.

I was astonished at what great drudgery the business of writing entailed, and I felt a twinge of gratitude to have been left illiterate. But the result of my effort was impressive. I said, “Look, Bernardo.” I held up the parchment to admire the finished product—a clumsy, blurry list of primitively scrawled words. My opus.

I replaced the quill and bottles just as I’d found them and relocked the cabinet. Then, I crept upstairs to the servants’ dormitory
and secreted the stolen words under my pillow. As I waited for sleep and pondered my next steps, I realized that I didn’t know anyone who could read the words for me. Drifting off, I had a semi-conscious vision of the pretty silver box and its cache of glittering ducats and coppers. Before sleep claimed me, I told myself that the money belonged not to the chef, but to the doge, that it was only petty cash and the modest price for the services of a copyist would never be missed.

CHAPTER XV
T
HE
B
OOK OF
H
ERBS

T
he next morning I bustled down to the kitchen earlier than usual, wire in hand. I opened the spice closet and helped myself to one ducat from the silver box before I started my morning chores. When the chef arrived, I met him at the door. “
Buon giorno
, Maestro. It’s a beautiful day, eh? Will I be going to the market again today?”

“Sì.”
He pulled on his high toque. “When I was there at dawn the peaches hadn’t come in from the mainland yet.”

“I’ll find you the best peaches in the Rialto.”

“Trying to make up for some lost pears, Luciano?”

I nodded. “I want to do a good job, Maestro.” And I meant it.

“Ecco.”
He disappeared into the spice closet and came out a moment later with a handful of coppers that he dropped into my jacket pocket. He said, “Bring me twenty peaches that are gold as a sunset, big as a fist, and smell like heaven.”

“
Sì
, Maestro. And may I take an orange for my friend Domingo?” I’d learned that orange slices cleanse the palate pleasantly after a meal of fish. The chef tossed me an orange, and I stuffed it in my other pocket. I considered another orange for Marco, but … he’d made me doubt the chef. No orange for him.

I sneaked upstairs to collect my stolen words. Bernardo was there, nesting on my pillow, and I moved him aside, saying, “Everything’s all right now. I have a plan to impress the chef, and soon we’ll be vegetable cooks.” I would buy the chef’s peaches, and I’d buy wisely, but first there’d be a detour. I retrieved my parchment and headed for the street of copyists.

I passed the fishmonger’s stall and gave Domingo his orange. As usual he gushed embarrassing gratitude. I barely escaped without him embracing me. At the entrance to the street of copyists, I fingered the ducat in my pocket and wondered how one selects a reader. Were some more educated than others? Could they all be trusted? I took slow, cautious steps through the murky street and studied their faces. It was the first time I’d ever really looked at them closely and individually. When I lived on the street, I usually rushed through, fleeing from irate merchants.

Some of the copyists sat in makeshift stalls; others simply placed a chair on the street and set a writing board across the chair arms. They were not all as old as I’d always thought. Some were quite young, perhaps only a few years older than Marco. Smoke from their coal braziers tinted their hair and complexions gray, and their pensive posture, with heads inclined over their work, made them look bent with age. The scholarly attitude of the copyists and the hushed ambiance of the street were contagious; all around me, people spoke in whispers as if in a church. I became aware of the sound of my own breathing.