The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel (41 page)

The chef said, “No,” and swatted Domingo’s hand away.

I said, “It’s all right. Give it to me, Maestro,” and he handed it over without hesitation. I set the book down, and Domingo and I stood on crates to brace the chef under his shoulders. We hauled him halfway through the window, far enough for him to get one leg over the sill. Then he swung the other leg up and over and jumped down into the little room. I picked up the book, wiped some dried mud off the cover with my sleeve, and gave it back to him.

He tucked it under his arm, saying, “
Grazie
, Luciano.”

In that tiny, cluttered room, the three of us were forced to stand uncomfortably close to each other. I smelled stale fish on Domingo’s clothing and rank canal slime on the chef and myself. I saw tension in the chef’s face and worry in Domingo’s eyes. This time, I was not bringing food; I was bringing trouble. I started to explain, but Domingo held up his palms to stop me.

He turned an imaginary key at his lips. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “I’ll help you because you’re my friend. Let’s leave it at that.” His eyes moved skittishly from the chef’s face to the book under his arm. He’d heard the same rumors everyone else had heard, and he talked often with Marco. No doubt he’d already guessed the truth.

The chef said, “We have to leave Venice.”

“We want to go to Spain.” I said it so impulsively that I surprised myself. But Marco and I had so often planned to sail for the New World from Spain that it was the first place that came to mind.

Domingo nodded. “Spain is a good idea. From there you can go to the New World. No one will find you there.”

“I’d like to take my family.” The chef shifted the book to his chest and hunched his body around it. “By now they’ll be at the home of my sister-in-law. Domingo, you could go there and—”

“No.” Domingo shook his head emphatically. “It’ll be hard enough to arrange an escape for two. A whole family? Never.”

The chef’s face seemed to cave in on itself, and his eyes sank deeper into their sockets. He whispered, “
Dio
. What have I done?”

Domingo said, “Give the book to Luciano. He’ll take it to Spain.”

“I can’t do that.” The chef tightened his arms around the book. “He doesn’t know how to use it yet.”

I felt a surge of relief to think we wouldn’t be separated. I said, “The chef can’t go home anyway. The
Cappe Nere
are looking for both of us. We both have to get out of Venice.”

“Cappe Nere? Merda.”
Domingo rubbed his pimpled forehead. “All right. A freighter sails for Cádiz in one day. You can stay here till then, but be quiet.”

I said, “
Grazie
, Domingo.”

The chef turned away. It took a moment, but he said,
“Sì, grazíe.”

I was glad to hear we had one day. That would give me time to see Francesca. Perhaps I could … maybe she would … I didn’t quite know what to expect from her, but I couldn’t just
leave
.

Domingo said, “How much money do you have?”

“Enough.” The chef spoke quietly. “I’ll meet my wife tomorrow at her sister’s house. Luciano, you’ll come with me.”

“I can’t. I mean, you don’t want me around when you see your wife.”

The chef turned a serious face to me, and I saw an angry edge in his look. “You have some other plans for tomorrow?”

Marrone
. I couldn’t lie to him. “I’d like to say good-bye to Francesca.”

“Oh,
Dio
, Luciano.” The chef rubbed his face like a tired father.

“But, Maestro—”

“We’re in enough trouble. You want to make it worse? You want to put her in danger, too?”

“I won’t get caught if I go alone.”

Domingo stepped between us. “Don’t argue, someone will hear. I can’t do anything for you tonight. We should all get some sleep.”

The chef gave me a stern look and turned away.

Domingo balled himself up in a corner and pulled a burlap sack up to his chin; he closed his eyes tight, determined to see nothing. The chef sat on the book and leaned his head against the wall, but he didn’t close his eyes. Since there wasn’t enough room to stretch out, I sat with my knees pulled up to my chest and pretended to sleep while I watched the chef through slitted eyes. After he yawned for the third time, he bunched a burlap bag between his head and shoulder for a pillow and closed his eyes. I waited until the buzzes and snores became regular, then I rose, silent as smoke, and slipped out the window.

I ran along the docks, feeling safe without the chef and his book. As he said, one more disheveled boy was nothing special on those streets. By then, my beaded slippers were torn and so caked in mud they looked like the miserable, broken-down shoes any downtrodden boy would wear. A moist wind ruffled the water and cooled my brow. For some reason, that light touch on my face gave me hope that Francesca might … she just might come away with me.

The irony of the chef’s willingness to leave his beloved family while I still schemed to be with Francesca didn’t escape me. But I bit off that thought and swallowed it whole. Guilt, like a rich meal eaten too quickly, lay heavy inside me.

The hour was late, and the only noise—raucous laughter in the distance—came from a sailor’s bar. When I turned into a dark
calle
, the street curved unexpectedly, and I ran along a canal I didn’t recognize. The moon multiplied itself in the black water of the canal, and the angle of the light made me question whether I was going in the right direction. I never got lost, but that night, guilt confused me. I turned another corner; the convent should have been just another turn to the right—but no. A gaming house spilled light
and noise into a small piazza. Through the open door, I saw men drinking and gambling while
Cappe Nere
walked among them, asking questions.

I backed away and tripped over a pile of rags; the pile groaned and moved. A blind beggar sleeping in the street sat up, and the light from the tavern illuminated his blank eyes. He held out a withered hand. I turned and ran, but the beggar called after me. “Alms,” he wailed. “Alms.”

I walked on, whispering, “I can’t. I just can’t.” The beggar couldn’t hear me. I was talking to myself, and to the chef.

At the convent, I climbed over the jasmine and scrabbled along the convent wall. When I reached Francesca’s open window, I stood and softly called her name. She stirred immediately and sat up in bed with tousled hair. She slept more lightly than Domingo; perhaps she was less innocent. She came to the window in her flimsy, lace-trimmed chemise, and it took a mighty effort for me to speak with composure.

I said, “I have the book.”

“The book?” She was instantly alert.

“I leave Venice tomorrow, and you can join me later. I’ll send money.”

“You really have the book?” She tossed her hair in a nimbus of moonlight. “The book of magic?”

“It’s not magic, Francesca.”

“But you said—”

“Francesca, it’s a cookbook.”

“A cookbook?” She stepped back. “What are you playing at?”

I leaned into the window. “It’s not an ordinary cookbook. It has recipes used to teach things. There are gospels—”

“Gospels?” I watched her eyes go dull.

“I can’t explain, but the book is important.”

“So there’s no magic?”

“No.”

“But there is a reward.”

“Yes.”

She picked up her brown habit and swung it lightly on one finger. “Where are you going?”

I hesitated. If she didn’t want to come with me, would she turn me in for the reward? I searched her face and saw curiosity, enthusiasm, desperation for a better life, but no malice and no treachery. I said, “Spain.”

“Really?”

“Tomorrow night.”

She kept swinging the habit on her finger. “I’ve heard things about Spain. The sisters say it’s full of Moorish castles and gardens with reflecting pools. Orange trees and fountains.” She glanced over her shoulder at her solitary bed, the tragic crucifix and bleak bare walls. “I’d like to go to Spain.”

“Yes!” I said. “We could be married in Spain.”

“But first you’ll get the reward.”

“No. I’m taking the book to Spain.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s not my book. I’m going to Spain with the chef.”

“Wait.” Her lovely eyes narrowed. “It’s a cookbook and you’re going to Spain with a chef? You’re still going to be a cook?” She was shaking her head, backing away. “That’s not the kind of life I want. I could stay here and catch a rich cardinal.”

“But—”

“I used to be poor. I know how people treat you when you’re poor. I can’t go back to that. I can’t be a cook’s wife.” Her chin trembled and her voice came out strained. “You said we’d be rich.”

“But we could be together in Spain. I thought you—”

“Yes, Luciano.” She came back to the window, and moonlight bathed her face. “Yes, I’d rather be with you than some fat old cardinal. But we can’t always have what we’d rather, and you’re asking too much. I can’t be poor again. I can’t.”

“We wouldn’t be poor—”

“No? Are vegetable cooks wealthy in Spain?”

“I already make five coppers a week—”

She looked incredulous. “Five coppers? Five
whole
coppers?”

“But someday I’ll be a chef and—”

“Sell it. So what if it’s a cookbook? They all want it. Offer it to the highest bidder. Then we could go to Spain and really live. We could have a pink villa by the sea. With servants! We’ll give ourselves titles and be invited to the Spanish court. I’ll make the most beautiful lace mantillas, but only for myself. I’ll have silk gowns, and you’ll have a carriage with white horses. We could—”

“Francesca.”

She stopped, then she leaned over the windowsill and placed her palm on my chest. My heart thudded so hard I knew she could feel it. She said, “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Of course I love you.”

“I love you, too, Luciano.” She stood on her toes and pushed her upper body over the sill until her cheek grazed mine. She moved easily, supple as a cat. She kissed me, oh so gently, on the lips and murmured, “Do you like that?”

The chef’s voice came into my head.
Dig into yourself and find strength
. I closed my eyes and said, “Please don’t.”

She kissed my closed eyes so tenderly I moaned. She said, “Isn’t that nice, Luciano? Hmmm?” She traced her fingertip around my lips, brushed her lips over my neck, and breathed a humid breath into my ear; the thrill rippled down to my toes.

Dig
.

“I love you, Luciano. We can have children, if you like. We can have a wonderful life together.” She touched her lips to my ear and nipped at the lobe. She stroked my hair and whispered the words I’d longed to hear since the first day I saw her. “I’ll go with you and give you everything you want.” She laid her head on
my shoulder, and the scent of soap and baking unleashed memory and desire.

I said, “Then you’ll come with me?”

“Yes.”

Marrone
. It was really happening.

Her voice had a velvet undertone. “Just sell the book.”

I began to imagine how it might be done without hurting the chef. Why should I care whether Venice or Rome prevailed? I knew I could get my hands on the book. After all, he’d freely handed it to me twice that night. He trusted me. The difficult part would be getting him on that ship and out of harm’s way without it. Perhaps Domingo would help me; he might hold the chef while I tied him up. Maybe Marco would help us carry him aboard the ship if I promised him part of the reward. We’d have to gag the chef to keep him quiet. It was a painful thought, but at least he’d be out of danger. Then I’d go to his sister-in-law’s house and tell Signora Ferrero where he was. His family could join him in Spain instead of disappearing into the mountains of Aosta.

Once they were all safely away, I could make a deal with Landucci. Of course, he couldn’t be trusted. I’d send word through a string of anonymous couriers. Maybe a nun could deliver a sealed message thinking it was church business, a message offering to sell the book. Yes, a note telling Landucci to bring half the money to a ship bound for Spain. No—can’t let him know our destination. Have him bring the money to a ship bound for Constantinople, or to some bar in the thieves’ district. I could agree to have the other half payable after he took possession of the book. I’d have to check the shipping schedules; it must be perfectly timed.

After that, a sailor could deliver another note telling Landucci where to find the book and where to leave the rest of the money. Francesca could write the notes, and I could hide the book in an obscure corner of Venice. We wouldn’t try to claim the rest of the
money—that would surely be a trap. But half would be plenty. By the time Landucci found the book, Francesca and I would be out at sea, bound for Spain and then the New World. Yes, it could be done.

The silence of that moment was almost total. Only the voice of Venice, the whore, lapped at my ears, whispering,
Sell. Sell
. Then I heard the voice of the chef:
You can be better
.

I looked into her hopeful, luminous face. “Francesca.”

“Yes, my love.”

“I can’t.”

She stiffened and then stamped her foot. “No!” She stamped again. “No! No! I can’t stand this! You have a way for us to be together and you won’t take it.”

“But I
will
send for you.”

“To live like a peasant in some Spanish hovel? If I wanted to settle for that I wouldn’t have joined a convent.”

“You wouldn’t be a peasant.”

She clasped her hands, and her voice turned soft and imploring, but I heard an edge of desperation, too. “It’s just a book, Luciano.
Dio
, it’s a cookbook. Sell it, and I’ll go anywhere with you.” She looked up at me, begging. “We could be so happy.”

“Francesca.” I took her face in my hands and my fingers tangled in her hair. “We don’t need to be rich. I love you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.” I reached behind her neck and pulled her to me. I kissed her hungrily, ferociously. When I finally let go, I stared into her face. Her lips had a swollen, softened look, like bruised fruit. I said, “We can be happy just as we are.”