The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (31 page)

Then I remembered.

Marrone
. A headache was a small enough price to pay. In spite of my discomfort, I felt cleansed, serene, and sated. In spite of the headache, a light euphoria lingered. I confided in Bernardo, “The chef says an aphrodisiac isn’t a love potion, but you know what a perfectionist he is. They’re just words.” I was convinced that when Francesca and I shared the magic black elixir, we’d bond forever.

I knew instinctively that my tryst with Francesca must take
place at midnight, when dull, ordinary people are asleep and it’s safe to do magic. I’d find a place to share the star-shivering night without fear of disturbance. I’d croon soft reassurances through the initial sickness, and then we’d soar together and melt into each other the way I’d melted into colors and sounds. We’d wake up in each other’s arms, affirm our love, and make tender vows.

I walked down to the kitchen on wobbly legs and sidled up beside Dante, who was chopping leeks viciously. He said, “You honor me with your presence?” He scooped up some chopped leeks and held them poised over a steaming pot. “Is Your Highness ready to observe this preparation?”

“Sorry. I was sick.”

“Sick.
Boh
.” Dante screwed up his mouth and looked behind him, hoping to see the chef marching over to upbraid me. While his head was turned, I grabbed a handful of chopped leeks and stuffed them in my pocket for Domingo. When the chef failed to come over and reprimand me, Dante scowled and clicked his tongue at me.

He dropped his leeks into the boiling water and added a dash of salt, a pinch of sugar, and a splash of white vinegar. “To enhance flavor and preserve color,” he offered grudgingly. While the leeks cooked, he ordered me to slice long thin ribbons of scallions so that we could tie glazed carrots in attractive little bundles to arrange on each dinner plate. He said, “Be sure the ribbons are long enough to make bows with generous tails. No dry ends. If that’s not too much trouble.”

I sliced thin green strips of scallion, thinking about Francesca’s demand:
Show me something
. Now that I had a genuine love potion, I could show her something all right, and I couldn’t wait. The wild joy of the previous night made everything in the kitchen seem trivial. I couldn’t bring myself to take scallion ribbons seriously. As Chef Meunier once observed, we are helpless in the grip of love.

I tried to pay attention to the scallions, but the peyote had left
my stomach queasy, and there was a faint prickling under my skin. That alone would have been endurable, but a tremor in my hands along with frenzied thoughts of Francesca distracted me further, and I cut my finger.

“
Mamma mia
, you’re bleeding on the scallions!” Dante pushed me aside.

“Sorry, Dante.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I … I told you. I’m sick.” I wrapped my finger in a cloth.

“
Boh
. You’re an idiot! Good for nothing. Hopeless.”

When the chef said I was his hope, that I had God inside me, and that I could be better, I felt encouraged to rise above myself. But Dante’s attitude worked an opposite alchemy: If he thought I was a hopeless idiot, why try to please him? I cradled my bandaged finger and ignored him as he clicked his tongue indignantly and threw away the bloodied scallions. At that moment, I cared nothing for Dante and his ruined vegetables; I wished only to be away from him and his abuse. Now I see the childishness of my reaction, but that day, shaky, fuzzy headed, and aching to show Francesca something, I chose to wash my hands of ill-tempered Dante.

I reverted to the theatrical training I’d acquired in the streets. Marco taught me to feign illness in order to draw attention to myself while he stuffed his pockets with the goods of whatever merchant took pity on me. If no one came to my aid, we’d move on to another street and I’d “take ill” again.

I doubled over, groaning and pressing my fists into my stomach. I wailed,
“Madonna!”

Dante glared at me. “Chef Ferrero,” he called. “Something’s wrong with the boy. He cut himself and now he’s useless, as usual.”

With my head bent to my knees, I watched the chef’s cordovan shoes approach. He stopped in front of me. “Sick, eh?” He lowered his head close to my ear and whispered, “I warned you, didn’t
I? Those drugs are probably too strong for a youngster, but you insisted, didn’t you?”

“Oh,
Madonna
!” I produced a loud belch.

The chef whispered, “You brought this on yourself. Now do your penance.” His shoes pivoted, and he walked away, raising his voice for everyone to hear. “Dante’s right, you’re useless like this. Get out of here. Come back when you’re fit to work.”

I walked across the kitchen half-bent, my hand over my mouth, cheeks ballooning in a pantomime of holding back sickness. Once up the stairs, I unwrapped my finger, shoving the stained cloth into one pocket and my soft toque into the other. I turned away from the passage that led to the servants’ dormitory and pattered quietly through the Hall of Doges, and then through a series of elaborate rooms, all empty but for an occasional maid dusting a gilded chair or polishing crystal. I cut around to a stairway that led out to the street, and I left the palace.

It was the hour of siesta, and as I ran through deserted residential streets, I heard music and murmurs coming from dim, half-shuttered rooms. At the convent, I hoisted myself over the wall using the woody, twisted jasmine vines for hand- and footholds. I dropped into a shrub hedge on the other side and, in a half crouch, scuttered across the deserted cloister and along the convent wall.

I dared a peek into each open window and saw sights I’ve never forgotten. In the first room, a thick woman in a white cotton chemise pulled a thorny vine tight around her waist until blood spots bloomed in a martyr’s ring around her middle. She winced and pulled tighter. Through another window, I saw a bony woman, wisps of white hair pasted to her sweaty forehead, kneeling on a scattering of raw rice; tears trickled down grooves in her weathered face.

As I stared, openmouthed, a goose waddled around the corner of the cloister and started up a terrific honking. The nun turned her head to the noise. I dropped flat on the ground, dug some leeks out
of my pocket, and threw them at the goose. The honking stopped, and I crawled on.

Francesca sat on her cot with a round pillow on her lap. Her nimble fingers moved over a complicated web of thread and needles as she tatted dragonfly lace. A lock of her hair had slipped over one eye, but she was so lost in her work she seemed not to notice.

Her veil hung neatly from a hook on the wall, but her habit lay in a rumpled heap on the floor. The cells had no chairs or tables, only a narrow bed, a clothes chest, and a prie-dieu. What else did a nun have to do but sleep and pray? Francesca’s blond hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, and I wondered whether such lavish length was allowed or whether it was her secret vanity. Her hair was so long and thick it would have been difficult to hide, and I supposed this extravagance must have been allowed until she took her final vows. Still, as a captive in that austere place, some indulgence in a sensual pleasure, whether allowed or not, would have been in keeping with Francesca’s nature.

I watched fine strands of hair move in a slight gust from the open window, and then, slowly, I straightened up until I stood in plain view, framed by the stone casements of her window. She felt my eyes on her, looked up, and set the pillow on her cot. She stood up and we faced each other in silent surprise, she wearing a thin cotton chemise trimmed in lace, and I naked in my longing. The sight of her alone and half-undressed made my knees weak. I held on to the casement for support.

She grabbed her habit off the floor and held it up in front of her. She blinked a few times, then slowly relaxed her grip on the fabric and smiled tentatively. Her lips parted, revealing sweet white teeth, and the effect was like a dress slipping off one shoulder. My knuckles whitened on the window casement. She said, “How did you get in here?”

“I climbed the wall.” I hoped my voice wouldn’t crack. “I have to tell you something.”

“More about that book?”

I nodded. “I’ve tried one of the formulas. It works.”

“Oh?” Curiosity caused her to lower her habit and step up to the window. “What formula?”

“It’s amazing. It’s, um …” I noticed a tiny bead of perspiration shimmering like a pearl in the hollow of her neck, and words died in my mouth. The shadow of one nipple and the undulating outline of her body were visible through her thin chemise. My throat constricted, and my mouth felt coated with plaster dust.

“Well?” She sounded annoyed. “What does it do?”

I unglued my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “It makes you feel, um … wonderful.”

After a tiny hesitation, she said,
“Boh.”
She turned her back to me and slid the habit over her head, shimmying to make it fall into place. I almost moaned as her ripe body disappeared under the grim brown robe. She said, “You’d better get out of here.”

“No. Listen. It makes you free, Francesca.
Free
.”

“You know my name?” She glanced at me while she tied the rope around her waist.

“
Sì
. And my name is Luciano.”

“What do you mean, free?”

“It’s a sweet black liquid. You drink one mouthful, and the world turns soft and bright. Confinements disappear.”

“It sounds like wine.”

“Better than wine. It’s an adventure. You can fly. You can touch the stars. You want to … you feel nothing but joy.”

“Why do you keep coming here?” She stepped closer to the window and put her hands on her hips like she meant business. “What does this have to do with me?”

I leaned into the window. “I want to share it with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I …” Did I dare? “Because I love you.”

A smile spread over her face, and then she laughed outright.
She sauntered back to her cot, sat down, and leaned back on her elbows. “You love me.”

“I do.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I’ve watched you, oh, many times. I saw you feed that stray dog. You love life. You make dragonfly lace. There’s something beautiful inside you.”

“You watch me?”

“Whenever I can. I want to take you away from this place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “For what price?”

“No price. Only the hope that you might come to care for me.”

Her brow creased in disbelief. “I don’t … I never … Surely you want something.”

“Only your happiness.”

She was shaking her head. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but even if I was curious about your potion—and I’m not saying I am—how could I try it?” She gestured at the walls of her cell. “I’m a prisoner.”

“But you got out during siesta. Can you get out at midnight?”

She ran a hand around the edge of the tatting pillow and her voice became small and unsure. “I’m not sure. I’ve never tried.”

“You could climb over the wall, like I did. Or I could come back tonight. We could drink it here in your room.”

She kept her head down while she played with her needles. When she looked up, a flush had blossomed on her cheeks, and her eyes were alive. “It would be safer to stuff a bulge under my bed-covers and meet you somewhere.”

“You’ll meet me? Really?”

“But I can’t go too far. I have to be back for prayers at dawn.”

Success! An idiot’s smile stretched so far across my face I felt my ears push up into my scalp. “I know where we can go.” Remembering the copyists, those strange Jews with their air of separateness, I said, “Meet me in the Jewish Quarter at midnight.”

“The Jewish Quarter?”

“It’s not far, and the Jews can’t come out after curfew. It’ll be deserted.”

“Oh, that’s smart.” She smiled and the soles of my feet tingled.

I said, “Until midnight.” Then I escaped across the cloister without feeling the ground beneath my feet.

I was so elated I almost forgot to stop at the fishmonger’s stall and give Domingo what was left of the chopped leeks. I backtracked to the Rialto and emptied my pocket in Domingo’s hands. I said, “Fry them in olive oil with your fish tonight.”

Domingo barely glanced at the leeks. He stared at me with such excessive gratitude I had to look away. He said, “You’re a good friend, Luciano.”

“They’re only leeks, Domingo.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did.

*

In the Hall of Doges, I encountered the majordomo picking his finicky way along the line of portraits, swishing a lilac-scented handkerchief at imaginary dust on the gilt frames. Instantly, I doubled over and “took ill” again. I tried to shuffle past him gagging and mumbling, but he blocked my path. He tapped the curled toe of his slipper and said, “The kitchen is the other way. Where are you coming from?”

Unable to invent a story fast enough, I whined, “Sick.” Then I produced a magnificent belch, clapped my hand over my mouth, and pushed my cheeks out until the skin stretched to a shine. The majordomo squealed and jumped back to avoid the defilement of his hand-beaded slippers. “Disgusting! Get out of here!”

I hobbled away. Behind me, the majordomo mumbled, “Some days I can barely go on.”

I’d been dismissed from work and so I spent the rest of the day
stretched out on my pallet, pulsating with anticipation. Just as well. It would have been impossible to concentrate on leeks and scal-lions on the eve of my rendezvous with Francesca.

I stared out the high window and watched the light on the sill change from afternoon glare to crepuscular glow to moon-shade.
Marrone
, the earth moved slowly that day. Eventually, exhausted servants straggled into the dormitory, and I pulled my knees up to my chest and emitted an occasional belch for effect. No one bothered me, and shortly before midnight, I stole away.

CHAPTER XXIII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
S
EDUCTION

I
have visited many canal cities that call themselves Little Venice, but it’s an empty brag. Walk along the
Canal Grande
on a summer evening and see how the water cuts a glittering swath between two hundred moon-drenched palazzi; feel the exhalations of Venice’s ancient stones releasing the spirits of infamous lovers and adventurers; listen for her treacherous voice in the whisper of a gondola slicing the water like a stiletto; walk into a fog-shrouded
calle
, and you’ll know: There is only one Venice, and happy love stories are not in keeping with her character.