The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (43 page)

“Why?”

“It was an act of compassion. After all, Jesus was suffering. The soldier knew the opium would either ease his pain or kill him mercifully.”

I was confused. “But the Romans are the ones who crucified Jesus.”

“Sì.”
The chef smiled ruefully. “They crucified Peter, too. And yet the church of Jesus is centered in Rome, and no one questions it.” The chef shook his head and sighed.

He continued, “Not all Romans wanted Jesus dead. That soldier was a secret sympathizer, one of many who dared not speak up. The same soldier pierced Jesus’s side. See the wound in the statue?” The chef pointed at the dusty crucifix, and I noted the slit between two ribs on the wooden Jesus. “He made a shallow stab so that he could declare Jesus dead and prevent the soldiers from crushing his legs as they did to the other two. Of course, the water that came from the wound meant nothing. Hanging on a cross will cause water to collect in the lungs. Some say the fact that there was blood with the water proves Jesus was still alive, because dead men don’t bleed.”

“So opium killed Jesus?”

“Maybe not. A certain amount of opium will put a man into a state resembling death. Accounts say Jesus suddenly ‘expired’ after
taking the sponge, but the soldier says Jesus lapsed into a deep opium sleep and later awoke in his cave tomb. His disciples started a rumor about resurrection in case he was seen.”

“Jesus survived the crucifixion?” It was difficult to keep my voice low.

“According to Thomas, Jesus returned to his disciples more than a year after the crucifixion. He told them he’d been in hiding and that they could join him if they wished. Jesus may have lived a long time and died a natural death.”

“Do you believe the soldier’s story?”

The chef leaned back in the pew and stared hard at the crucifix. “Jesus was a young, healthy man. He was only on the cross for three hours. Most people lingered on crosses for days. The two crucified with him had to have their legs crushed to hurry death. Why should Jesus have died so quickly, and immediately after receiving a drink? Yes, I believe the soldier’s account.”

“Marrone.”

“This business of resurrection is not an unusual story, really. It’s not surprising that the disciples would come up with that. Centuries before Jesus, there were at least three pagan god-men who died around the time of Easter—the spring equinox—and were resurrected after three days. Is that a coincidence? Or did the disciples simply adopt a tired old story to protect Jesus?”

“What do you think?”

“I think the soldier’s story is one of those writings that could be true, but that threaten the church, and that’s why we Guardians need to preserve it until a time when it can be examined and discussed openly.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know.” The chef cupped his hand on the back of my head, and it felt like a blessing. He said, “But right now, you and I can take comfort in knowing Jesus was a man, like us. Jesus didn’t resurrect himself like some trickster of death. If he knew he could
do that, what value would his death have? Jesus was purely and divinely human, and that’s the good news. What do human beings need with the example of gods? You have the same strength in you that Jesus had in him. Whatever happens, remember that.”

“But, Maestro, Jesus was one of a kind.”

“
Sì
. One of
our
kind. Jesus said, ‘All I have done, so can you do also, and more.’ Perhaps we’re all
adepti
in the making.”

“Like N’bali?”

“Like all those teachers in sandals.” He gave me his enigmatic half smile.

The widows ticked their beads, the chef bowed his head, and I considered this while I stroked Bernardo. That’s when I realized that Bernardo had found us when the
Cappe Nere
had not. I whispered, “Maestro, Bernardo outwitted them all.”

In spite of our circumstances, or perhaps because of them, this twist seemed like the most splendid comedy. Frayed nerves snapped and we laughed out loud. The black-clad widows turned and fixed us with furious stares. One shook a tiny fist, and that made us laugh louder. We hemorrhaged laughter. Uncontrollable spasms without lightness or joy rocked us to the core. I fell sideways on the wooden pew, shaking with laughter that surged over the razor’s edge we’d been walking for too long. The chef threw his head back and roared in a sumptuous, luxurious, overdue easing of tension. A cathartic explosion poured from our mouths, leaving us breathless and coughing, weeping and gasping, holding our ribs against the tearing pains in our sides. Eventually it subsided,
grazie a Dio
, and finally,
finally
, it stopped.

We sat in purged silence. Bernardo nuzzled his head into my chest and the chef once again bowed his head. The widows had long since shuffled out of the church, marvelously scandalized. Our sacrilegious laughing fit would make a good story that night on the street.

I said, “You told your wife about the Guardians.”

The chef nodded. “I’d hoped she’d never have to know, but after the doge began his campaign, yes, I told her everything.”

“Will she join you in Spain?”

“I hope, someday, that will be possible. But there is much to do before we think about reunions.”

“Won’t people ask questions when she turns up in Aosta?”

“She’ll say she’s a widow. My Rosa would give her life before she’d betray me. As I would die before betraying the Guardians.”

“Aren’t you afraid to die?”

The chef seemed more tranquil than I’d seen him in weeks. He said, “Staying alive for its own sake has no more meaning than a ticking clock.” He shrugged. “To die is nothing, but to live with purpose and integrity, that’s something.”

CHAPTER XXXII
T
HE
B
OOK OF
I
LLUSIONS

W
e found Domingo at the fish stall, and the chef handed over a purse full of ducats. Domingo had seen Giuseppe and a
Cappa Nera
watching his house when he went back to meet us, and he was jumpier than ever. He dug his hands into his armpits, stared at the ground, and mumbled a promise to make our arrangements. Then he turned away.

The chef touched Domingo’s arm. “We need a place to stay until tonight.”

Domingo chewed his bottom lip, and I sensed the urgency of his wish to be rid of us. I wondered how much loyalty bread and leeks and fennel really bought. How well did I actually know silent, solitary, sullen Domingo? I’d always assumed that all he wanted was to become a fishmonger, but what if he wanted more? Apropos of nothing, the chef said, “You can live a long, peaceful life selling fish once we’re gone, Domingo. It’s in everyone’s best interest that we board that ship tonight.” Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, but I was glad the chef had said it so I didn’t have to.

I said, “Domingo, you’ve been a good friend to me in my trouble.
Grazie
.”

Domingo nodded. “There’s a sailor’s bar called Vino Venezia on the docks, near the crabber’s boats. It’s a clearinghouse for smugglers, and there’s a cellar. Tell the barkeep you need a place to stay until tonight.” Domingo jabbed his chin at the chef. “Do you have more money?”

The chef jingled his pocket.

Domingo nodded. “The barkeep gets his cut of everything that goes in or out, especially people. He runs slaves and hides criminals. Give him four ducats. I’ll come there tonight, late.”

“
Grazie
, Domingo.” The chef stepped away from the stall and turned to go.

I started to follow him, but Bernardo was squirming under my arm. He missed his regular meals in the palace, and the smell of fresh fish was too much for him. He leapt from my arms, clamped onto a fat mackerel, and made off into the crowd. The fishmonger bellowed and chased him with a scaling knife. I wanted to go after him, but the chef held my arm. Domingo said, “Get out of here.”

I looked for Bernardo on the way to the crabbers’ boats, but he’d vanished with his mackerel. So there it was—Bernardo and Francesca both lost forever.

*

Vino Venezia stank mildly of fish and spilled wine. The smell might have been stronger, but the front and back doors had fallen from their hinges and not been replaced. A steady, salty sea breeze sailed through the place and freshened the air. The broken doors served as tabletops, and three-legged wooden stools stood scattered around them.

The bar and barkeep made a good pair, both crude and greasy. The barkeep looked up when we entered, but he didn’t stop wiping a smeary glass with his wine-stained apron. His eyes didn’t match his dull, meaty face—they were piercing blue, sharp as steel under
black eyebrows. His eyes gave him the look of a man who could produce a stiletto from his sleeve before you saw him move.

The chef spoke to him quietly. The barkeep put down his dirty glass and watched the chef place four ducats on the bar. He slid the money off the bar and into his pocket in one move, then made a lazy gesture for us to follow him. He hadn’t spoken a word.

In a small room behind the bar, the barkeep grunted as he lifted a wine crate off a stack in the corner, then another, and another. When he kicked aside the last crate, we saw a trapdoor in the floor. He knelt clumsily, sweating as he bent over his soft belly, and pulled the door open by a rope handle. I saw the top half of a long ladder; the lower half was swallowed in darkness. The barkeep lit an oil lamp and turned the wick down to conserve fuel. Holding the lamp, he started down the ladder, and we followed.

He led us into a musty cellar stocked with crates from which the stamp of the winery had been roughly scraped off. The only ventilation came from a small, open window up at street level. I could hear the slow drip of water behind the walls, and the earthen floor felt slimy underfoot. We were below sea level. First my skin crawled, then panic gripped me, and my breathing turned fast and labored.

The chef said, “Steady, Luciano. Here and now you’re safe. Breathe.”

I remembered the tunnel. “
Sì
, Maestro.
Grazíe
.” I focused on my breath—breathe in, breathe out—and the fear subsided.

The chef took the oil lamp from the barkeep and turned up the flame. The man pulled his eyelid to indicate that we were all thieves and could therefore trust each other. He lumbered up the ladder, pulled it up after him, and slammed the trapdoor shut. I heard the scraping of wooden crates being replaced.

“Find a dry spot,” said the chef. “Rest while you can.”

I sat on a wine crate and concentrated on my breath moving in and out, slow and steady. When my thoughts strayed to the
window, or the ladder, or the fear that Domingo wouldn’t come, I refocused on my breath. I closed my eyes and synchronized my breathing with a drip of water behind the walls, in and out, regular as a pendulum. At some point, I heard a tearing and rustling of paper.

The chef was barely visible in the guttering lamplight, but I made out the shape of him bent over his book and scribbling away with his quill. I remembered seeing him take the blue ink stone and quill from his house, and I thought it must wrench his heart to have to write to his daughters. Could he assure them that he would find them again, or did he have to say good-bye?

I said, “I’m sorry you have to be separated from your family.”

“So am I.”

“If you’re writing notes to your daughters, Domingo can deliver them for you.”

“Do you mind? Can I have some privacy?”

“Sorry, Maestro.”

I went back to my breathing. The scratch of quill on parchment receded, and just as I began to a feel a melancholic peace, we were disturbed by the sound of footsteps and crates scraping overhead. The chef and I looked at each other—it was much too early for Domingo. We watched the trapdoor open; a dusty ray of daylight slanted into the cellar and the ladder was lowered. Then one worn-out shoe stepped onto the top rung. It wasn’t the boot of a soldier,
grazíe a Dí
. The chef put the book on a crate and stood in front of it with his quill dangling from his hand. The next foot came down the ladder, then the legs and torso. A young man with a bundle under one arm climbed down. I said, “Marco?”

The trapdoor slammed shut with a bang. “What is this?” The chef’s lamp-lit face wavered between anger and surprise.

Marco stood at the foot of the ladder, and even in the cellar gloom I could see that he looked jaunty and pleased with himself. He said, “I brought you something.” Marco opened his bundle and
revealed a loaf of bread. “I went to the kitchen and heard you two had run out like madmen with
Cappe Nere
after you. Domingo told me where you were when I showed him the bread I stole for you. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“
Merda
. What do you want, Marco?”

He laughed. “That Domingo. He didn’t want to talk to me. So I asked him, ‘Do you want Luciano to starve?’ How often did he feed you?” Marco pushed my shoulder with his. “What’s the matter, Luciano? You weren’t planning to run out on me with the book, were you?”

“There’s nothing in the book for you, Marco.”

“Sure. That’s why everyone is so crazy to get their hands on it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re not going to cut me out.”

“Madre di Dio.”
The chef ran his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath. I was afraid Marco might try to take the book by force, so I moved in front of my maestro and stood with my feet apart. He’d have to come through me.

A mean smile spread over Marco’s face. “You think you can fight me?”

The chef stepped beside me. “There are two of us.”

Marco boosted himself onto a short stack of crates. “No one’s going to fight. You think I haven’t thought this through? Luciano, you should know me better. They’d never give someone like me a reward—much less a senate seat. If I brought them the book they’d only take it, and maybe even kill me.”

The chef said, “That’s right. So what are you doing here?”