The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (32 page)

If Francesca and I had met in some innocent Little Venice—a pretty, well-tended village like Bruges or Colmar—perhaps the outcome would have been different. But the real Venice infects her inhabitants with the sin and pain in her own slatternly soul. We were doomed before we began.

I removed my magical carafe from the recess above the lintel and hurried through a maze of
calli
and
rii
. I crossed the bridge that separated the Jewish Quarter from the rest of Venice, hurried past a sleeping gatekeeper, and entered a dark Old Testament world. The streets were devoid of any Christian shrine—no tragic Madonna, no mutilated martyr—and the alleyways were so narrow that the
houses appeared taller than normal. Hebrew inscriptions carved over the wooden doorways looked alien even to my untrained eye, and the high wall that encircled that place enhanced its sense of otherness. There appeared to be no right angles, no perpendicular lines; the huddled houses sagged against each other, listed over the street, and held in their tangled smells of sweet wine and queer foods. I felt a simultaneous sense of exile and confinement.

The Venice I knew was open and sea swept, and so the dark, cramped ghetto roused my claustrophobia. My chest constricted; my breathing turned fast and shallow. The night felt more like a test of will than a romantic assignation, until the moment I arrived at a moonlit piazza and saw her standing beside an ancient, wide-mouthed well. She wore her brown novice’s habit, but she’d left her veil behind. Moonlight burnished her hair to a silver sheen. I approached her with a confident smile, but when I held up the carafe like a trophy, my hand trembled. Her voice was as shaky as my hand. She asked, “Is that it?”

I nodded. “We might be seen here. Let’s go into that
calle
.”

In the confinement of the dark
calle
, I again felt a twinge of panic. I tried to calm myself as the chef had taught me, but without him to steady me, I had difficulty slowing my breath. Francesca misunderstood. She said, “I’m excited too, Luciano.” It was the first time she’d said my name, and hearing it from her mouth soothed me. She stepped closer, and I saw that her breathing was as fast as mine.

She stroked my cheek.
Marrone
. Her fingers glided along the line of my jaw, and then she reached up and touched my birthmark. I let her trace its shape with her fingertip, and I felt branded. She said, “I like this mark. It makes you look different. And you are. You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

“How so?”

Her lips pressed in a moue of distaste. “Men leer and women treat me like a servant. But you … you’re different.”

Was she saying she liked me? I was afraid to believe it and glad I had the love potion to leave no doubt.

As her hand fell, she let it skim over my chest. She said, “This is the most daring thing I’ve ever done. I want to be free, but I’m afraid.”

“I’ll protect you.”

She tilted her head. “You would, wouldn’t you?” And she sounded surprised. Then she pointed to the carafe. “But I’m afraid of that.”

“I’d never hurt you.”

“No.” She gazed into my eyes. “I don’t think you would.”

My fingers felt numb, but I managed to pry out the cork and hand the carafe to her. As she brought it to her lips, I remembered that she needed to be back before dawn. I stayed her hand and said, “Only a small swallow, Francesca.”

She watched me for a moment, then—and for some reason I remember this in slow motion—she drank without ever taking her eyes from mine, as if I were her anchor. I felt powerful and protective. I took the carafe from her and allowed myself a conservative swallow, less than I’d taken in the kitchen. I recorked the carafe and set it on the paving stones, and we faced each other in the dark, each hoping our separate hopes.

She said, “Would you really take me to the New World?”

“Yes.”

“And would we be rich and have beautiful things?”

“Anything’s possible in the New World.” I stared, enthralled by her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the mingled scents of her, the miraculous fact of her presence, there, with me. I cupped her face and leaned down to touch my lips to hers—they were warm and smooth—and she angled her head back and closed her eyes. I pulled her close to me and felt the length of her pressed against me, the swell of her breasts, the arc in the small of her back, and my body responded. Her mouth opened slightly, and I tasted the
smoky potion on her breath. Her tongue grazed my lip, and urgency gripped me. I crushed her to me, but she broke away. I started to apologize as she doubled over and hugged herself. She groaned, “What have you done to me?”

I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her hair. “This will pass.”

“Oh, my God.”

“It’ll pass. I promise.”

“Oh, God.”

Then I, too, was overcome. Together, we sank to the ground against a crumbling plaster wall. I lost the ability to speak, but I managed to keep my arms around her and we suffered together. After some unknowable time, she relaxed in my arms. She said, “Oh. Oh, my …”

Through my retreating nausea I said, “I told you.”

“Oh. It’s all crystal …”

As my stomach settled, I made a clumsy attempt to pet her hair, but she pushed my hand away. She removed herself from my embrace and pulled herself up, her palms climbing the wall for support. She looked around as if she were lost in an extraordinary place, then she stretched her arms wide and walked away. “You were right. I’m free.”

“Francesca?”

“It’s so …” She wandered away in the dark saying, “Oh, my … goodness …”

I crawled behind her, calling weakly, “Francesca?” but she disappeared in the deep shadows of the ghetto. I scrambled to my feet, lurched, and fell forward with such force that I slammed my head on the paving stones.

I awakened splayed on the ground, faceup and staring at a striated moon, hovering between rooftops in a strip of night sky. Something was wrong; Francesca was supposed to be with me. I tried to focus, but objects moved and swam and blended in dreamlike
sequences. Thoughts disappeared before I could take hold of them.

The smell of the Jewish Quarter surrounded me, and I tasted grilled flatbread and soured cream and bitter herbs. I reeled into doorways, bumped my face, and reeled back out. At some point, I found myself slumped in a deep entryway, trying to remember how I’d gotten there. I heard sap running through the wood, and looking up, I became fixated on the Hebrew inscription carved into the lintel. I floundered at the mercy of every sound and smell and texture, and some part of me knew this was not right. Francesca was supposed to be cradled in my arms. Where was she?

The night passed like splintered images in a broken mirror: a desperate search for Francesca in the crevices of a brick wall, exaggerated sounds and smells, a face in the moon laughing at me, the sinking feeling of having failed, and in between, falling, over and over, into black chasms.

When it was over, I found myself lying in the piazza, arms and legs flung akimbo, looking at a silhouette of rooftops against the first hint of dawn’s uncertain light. I retrieved the carafe from the pavement and went in search of Francesca; I stumbled like a drunk, carrying last night’s bottle by the neck.

I found her curled in a doorway, half-awake and shivering in the damp air. Her brown habit was streaked with chalky residue, probably from the peeling plaster of walls she’d walked into. Silky blond hair straggled over her eyes, and when I tried to brush it off her face I found it stuck to her cheek by dried saliva. She said, “I’m thirsty.”

“There’s no time.” I pulled her upright. “Dawn is breaking.”

“But I’m … dawn?” She pushed the hair out of her face and looked up at the ghost moon in the early sky. I saw alarm in her face. “Dawn?”

“We have to go. Now.”

“Dawn. Oh,
Dio
.”

We staggered out of the Jewish Quarter in morning twilight, sea mist swirling at our feet. A tired prostitute on her way home laughed when we tripped over a snoring drunk who lay hidden in the low fog. The cry of an infant sailed from an open window, and the smell of fresh bread wafted from the street of bakers. I could hear both of us breathing hard, trying to hurry. Still slightly inebriated, we tripped on the cobbles and careened around corners. I became aware of Francesca mumbling under her breath.

“What did you say?”

She looked at me, and her eyes were wild. “It
was
magic.”

“It wasn’t, um, what I expected.”

“It was
magic
. What else is in that book? I want to know more.”

Marrone
.

“You said there were formulas for gold and eternal youth.”

“Those are just rumors.”

“But that’s what you said everyone wants.” She paused and looked at me. “I want it, too, Luciano. I want that book.”

“What?”

“If you got this potion, you can get the others. With those formulas we could go anywhere. Do anything.”

“But—”

“What’s one night of freedom? I want a life. Don’t you?” She moved away from me. “If you love me, bring me that book.”

“Francesca …” I reached for her arm, but she yanked it away and ran ahead. At the convent wall, she smoothed back her hair with her fingers and beat the plaster dust out of her habit. “We have to have that book, Luciano. It’s our only chance for a real life.” She climbed like a boy over the jasmine-covered wall while the dawn bell sounded from the convent chapel.

From the other side of the wall, I heard her farewell. She said, “The book, Luciano.”

CHAPTER XXIV
T
HE
B
OOK OF
T
EARS

M
y love potion had incited lusts in Francesca that I couldn’t satisfy. I had exaggerated myself into a corner and had no idea how to get out. I didn’t know where the book was, and even if I
could
bring it to her, she’d find nothing in it but gospels and history lessons. Then she’d hate me for a liar, and rightfully so.

The next day, while the chef watched me prepare an artichoke for stuffing, he asked, “Did you give Francesca your ‘potion’?”

“Sì.”
I pared the tips off the artichoke.

“Indeed?” He nodded. “And how did that turn out?”

I dug out the hairy center, careful not to damage the heart. “She didn’t exactly fall into my arms.”

“Indeed. And what did you learn?”

I shrugged.

“I see. You need more pain to learn this lesson. So be it.” The chef started to walk away, then turned back. “By the way …” He held out a few coppers.

“Sì.”
I dried my hands on my apron and took the coppers from him. “What do you want me to buy, Maestro?”

“Whatever you want. These are your wages.”

Marrone
. I’d never had wages before. “That’s for
me
?”

“You’re a vegetable cook, aren’t you?” He deposited the coppers in my palm.

I stared at the money. Five coppers! A modest week’s pay, to be sure, but I had no need of food or lodging. I decided right there that I would save every bit and add to it every week. I’d let it accumulate until I had enough to marry Francesca. If I could provide food and clothing and a place to live, I could get her out of that convent and she’d forget about the book. I slid the money into my pocket. “
Grazie
, Maestro.”

“You earned it. Now don’t ruin that artichoke, eh?”

I spent my days shelling sweet peas and grilling eggplant, and my nights counting my coppers. Using my fingers to add, I calculated that, at five coppers per week, I’d need twelve hands, or twelve weeks, until I could rescue Francesca. Some days, twelve weeks seemed impossibly long; other days, it seemed frighteningly quick. I opened a seam on the side of my pallet and hid my coppers in the straw.

Meanwhile, our syphilitic doge pursued his quest for eternal youth while Landucci and Borgia maneuvered for power. It was an ugly time. Venice and the Veneto were overrun with soldiers, the streets and countryside teemed with the doge’s guard, the
Cappe Nere
, and Borgia’s Swiss mercenaries—all of them ransacking homes, shops, schools, and churches, taking prisoners and spreading terror. Mania for information about the book had created a police state where everyone professed ignorance while passing rumors and suspicions under tables and behind backs. Neighbors betrayed neighbors to save themselves, and the dungeons filled with hapless suspects. Experienced torturers came from Rome, and two black-hooded Inquisitors were summoned from Spain, one of them a student of the infamous Torquemada himself. The Bridge of Sorrows bore an unusual amount of mournful traffic.

One day, it was my unfortunate duty to bring food to the dungeon.
Normally Giuseppe delivered those meals, but there were so many extra soldiers and killers to feed, it was necessary for me to help him carry the bags of bread and cheese. We were meant to leave it with the guard at the gate, but as we handed it over, a piercing scream assailed us from the bowels of the dungeon. The guard smirked. “The Romans sent over a Judas Chair. Want to see it?”

Giuseppe beamed a rotten smile. “Is there someone on it?”

“Sounds that way.”

They started off, and I said, “I’ll wait here.”

“No you won’t,
bastardo
.” Giuseppe looked at the guard. “This one thinks he’s too good to get his hands dirty.” He grabbed me by the back of the neck and pushed me ahead of him.

We walked down a tight spiral of stone steps; it became darker, the screams became louder, and then they stopped abruptly. At the bottom, the guard pushed open a low heavy door and I saw a naked woman strapped to a throne-like chair covered in iron spikes. Shadowed figures moved around her, and I gagged at the stink of urine and feces. The woman’s head was slumped over so I couldn’t see her face, but her whole body quivered. The only light came from tall candles shivering in the corners; the only sound was the skit-tering of rats. To prevent escape, the woman’s arms and legs had been tied to the chair with leather straps. The cool voice of a
Cappa Nera
said, “Wake her up.” A tall man in a black hood wrenched her shoulders tight against the spikes; he grunted as his thick fingers pressed hard into her flesh, and her head jerked up. Her eyes were round with terror; her face was bruised and swollen and twisted in agony. She howled, and blood dripped steadily beneath the chair.