The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel

The Chef’s Apprentice

Praise for Elle Newmark’s brilliant
national bestselling debut

The Chef’s Apprentice

“Vivid details. . . . Highly flavored.”

—
The New York Times

“Newmark does a fine job of building suspense and keeping the novel barreling along, and her knowledge of and affection for 15th century Venice adds charm to this nicely told adventure yarn.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A clutching story, with love interests and court shenanigans, odd fellows and weird sisters lurking in wait for their stage entrance, scenes of comic hilarity around the dinner table, and a high-spirited tribute to the fruits of knowledge. . . . Intelligence is the daily special on Newmark’s menu, served with facility and skill.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Newmark uses great historical detail and marvelous descriptions of food to make this debut historical novel come alive.”

—
Library Journal

“Vibrant . . . Newmark’s skill is as palpable as the sounds, smells, and tastes of the kitchens of Venice that she magically brings to life. . . . [The book] is as captivating as the streets of Venice itself, and readers will delight in a newfound appreciation of food, as well as a shared hunger for knowledge that should never be sated.”

—
Historical Novels Review

“Intriguing. . . . Newmark writes with the fluidity of cream, the boldness of garlic, and the astounding creativity of fresh ingredients mixed well. . . . It is as hard to find a book this well put together as it is to find a meal that satisfies so thoroughly. Its readers will savor every mouth-watering word.”

—bookreporter.com

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Elle Newmark, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

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Designed by Nancy Singer

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Newmark, Elle.

The book of unholy mischief : a novel / by Elle Newmark. -- 1st Atria

Books hardcover ed.

p. cm.

1. Cooks--Fiction. 2. Apprentices--Fiction. 3. Venice

(Italy)--History--697–1508--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3614.E668B66 2008

813'.6--dc22

2008038295

ISBN 978-1-4165-9054-5

ISBN 978-1-4516-2629-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4165-9792-6 (ebook)

For the teachers

The Chef’s Apprentice

Chapter I: The Book Of Unholy Mischief
Chapter II: The Book Of Beginnings
Chapter III: The Book Of Luciano
Chapter IV The Book Of Dreams
Chapter V: The Book Of Heirs
Chapter Vi: The Book Of Cats
Chapter VII: The Book Of Visitations
Chapter VIII: The Book Of Amato
Chapter IX: The Book Of Desires
Chapter X: The Book Of Nepenthes
Chapter Xi: The Book Of Landucci
Chapter XII: The Book Of Forbidden Writings
Chapter XIII: The Book Of Marco
Chapter XIV: The Book Of Suspicions
Chapter XV: The Book Of Herbs
Chapter XVI: The Book Of Thieves
Chapter XVII: The Book Of Growing
Chapter XVIII: The Book Of Borgia
Chapter XIX: The Book Of Things Unseen
Chapter XX: The Book Of Francesca
Chapter XXI: The Book Of Forbidden Fruit
Chapter XXII: The Book Of Half Truths
Chapter XXIIi: The Book Of Seduction
Chapter XXIV: The Book Of Tears
Chapter XXV: The Book Of N’bali
Chapter XXVI: The Book Of Immortality
Chapter XXVII: The Book Of Now
Chapter XXVIII: The Book Of Beasts
Chapter XXIX: The Book Of Fugitives
Chapter XXX: The Book Of Struggle
Chapter XXXI: The Book Of Opium
Chapter XXXII: The Book Of Illusions
Chapter XXXIII: The Book Of Revelations
Chapter XXXIV: The Book Of Bones
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note

If I have seen further (than other men),

it is by standing on the shoulders of giants
.

—SIR ISAAC NEWTON

The Chef’s Apprentice

CHAPTER I
T
HE
B
OOK OF
U
NHOLY
M
ISCHIEF

M
y name is Luciano—just Luciano. I’m Venetian by birth, old now and chained to my memories, compelled to return, link by link, seeking clarity.

There’s a matter about which I am sworn to secrecy, but times have changed since I took my oath. In my lifetime, I’ve witnessed man’s emergence from centuries of darkness. Great thinkers have unlocked our minds, and great artists have opened our eyes and our hearts. Some are calling it a renaissance—a rebirth—and it will reverberate far into the future because of a miraculous new invention called the printing press. Perhaps, now, it would be a disservice to the advancement of knowledge to remain silent. Perhaps the pendulum has swung a full arc, and the time has come for me to speak. If I proceed with caution … well, those who have ears, let them hear.

The intrigue took place in my youth, when I served as an apprentice to the doge’s chef in Venice. I first suspected some unholy mischief when the doge invited an uncouth peasant to dine with him in the palace. In the time-honored tradition of servants everywhere, I assumed my post behind the slightly open service door to the dining room in order to spy, and I marveled at the sight
of them together: The doge, chief magistrate of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, gracious and bejeweled, sat with his guest, a bewildered
paesano
with calloused hands, dirt under his fingernails, and unwashed hair that had been hastily wetted and pushed off his face to show respect.

The meal began with clear calf’s-foot broth served in shallow porcelain bowls so fine as to appear translucent in candlelight. The peasant offered the serving maid a sheepish smile and murmured,
“Grazíe, signora.”
His rough voice clashed with his meek demeanor.

She snorted at his ignorance—the absurdity of thanking a serving maid—then bowed to the doge and took her leave. Out on the landing, with me, she mumbled, “I hope that dumb
contadíno
enjoys his free meal. The doge is up to no good.” She shrugged and went down to the kitchen for the next course, but she needn’t have bothered.

The peasant stared into his soup bowl like a Circassian studying tea leaves. Having come from his world myself, I could read his mind: Surely, here in the palace, soup should not be gulped from the bowl as it was in his own dirt-floor kitchen. How should he proceed?

When the doge selected a large spoon from an array of filigreed silverware beside his plate, the peasant did the same. The shabby guest attempted to slide the soup silently into his mouth from the edge of the spoon, as the doge did, but gaps in his rotted teeth caused a loud, sibilant slurping. The man’s bristled face reddened, and he laid his spoon down in defeat.

The doge appeared not to notice. He smiled—a glimpse of gold winking from the back of his mouth—and generously filled a silver goblet with his private stock of Valpolicella, a dark red wine with a floral bouquet and bittersweet aftertaste. With a hospitable tilt of his head, the doge said,
“Per favore, sígnore,”
and offered the goblet to his chastened dinner companion.

The poor man smiled timidly and wrapped two meaty hands
around the goblet. He tried to drink his wine slowly, soundlessly, and this self-conscious attempt at delicacy allowed the wine to saturate his senses. Unaccustomed to such complexity of flavor, he drank the goblet down and finished with a lusty smacking of his lips. Flush with pleasure, he carefully placed his empty goblet on the lace tablecloth and turned to offer his thanks to the doge, but …
Marrone
!

The man’s smile twisted into a grimace. His forehead knotted like a ginger root, and he clawed at his throat. While he choked and struggled, his eyes spilled shock and confusion. He fell sideways off his needlework seat and tumbled headfirst onto the Turkish carpet with an inelegant thunk. His eyes glazed over with a dead man’s stare.

The doge, a feeble, syphilitic old man, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, then heaved his royal personage off the chair. He steadied himself on the table edge with one liver-spotted hand, knelt over the corpse, and reached into the folds of his robe to bring forth a vial of amber liquid. He pried open the dead man’s mouth, tipped the vial to lips already turning blue, and carefully dribbled in his elixir.

With a grunt of disgust, the doge poked his finger into the fetid mouth, pressing on the tongue to make sure the fluid trickled down the dead man’s throat. When the vial was empty, the doge released the sigh of a man who has completed a small but unpleasant task. He pulled out the lemon-scented handkerchief he always kept tucked in his sleeve, wiped his hands, and then pressed the handkerchief to his nose. He inhaled deeply, clearly relieved to be able, finally, to counter the peasant’s stench.