Read Online The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel by Elle Newmark - Free Book Online
Authors: Elle Newmark
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striped pole, rocked easily. It was a comfortablehome, appropriate for a respected citizen like the doge’s chef. It was exactly the sort of home I wanted for Francesca and me.
I paused in the deep nightshade of the piano nobile ’s long stone balcony, and my excitement waned with the advance of guilt. Until then, I’d always come to that house as a welcome guest. The chef had put a paternal arm around me, fed me, smiled on me, and welcomed me into his family. Now, prowling like a criminal, I felt the pinch of disloyalty. I thought about leaving, but I was young and burning to know … everything . I crept up the stairway to the piano nobile and slithered along the balcony’s smooth stone floor, careful not to disturb the flowerpots lining the wall, until I reached the brightly lit window of the dining room. Blood pounded in my ears.
Adolescent ignorance regarding the natural complexity of life led me to imagine that the chef and his wife would be conveniently situated, near enough to facilitate my eavesdropping, but not near enough to detect my presence. Of course, they’d begin discussing the doge the moment I came within earshot. I anticipated the chef telling his wife all that had happened, explaining the reasons and consequences in clear detail, and signaling the end of the story by going directly to bed. Ha!
I snatched a look into the cheerful dining room and saw that it was warmly lit by at least a dozen chunky beeswax candles. The chef and his family sat around their long chestnut dining table, bathed in mellow candlelight, relaxed and chatting after their evening meal. Pressed against the wall, I listened. Smells of lamb stew and fresh bread wafted out to me, and I remembered that I’d not eaten my own evening meal. My stomach contracted, and I willed it to be quiet.
Signora Ferrero spoke of an altercation with the butcher. She never referred to him by name, but called him il ladro— the thief. She said, “It’s not my imagination. He cheats my sister, too. The man has a fickle scale and a heavy thumb.”
The chef murmured something vaguely agreeable.
The daughters spoke of teachers and school friends. As members of the gentry, the girls would never become fluent in Latin and Greek like aristocratic children, such as the pope’s daughter, Lucrezia Borgia, but they’d learn to read and write and do their sums. Elena said she wanted to study astrology, but the chef said, “Better to study the work of that young teacher from Poland, Copernicus. He has an interesting theory that the earth revolves around the sun, although you shouldn’t bring his name up in public, eh?” The room went silent, and I peeked in. Elena stared at her father with a perplexed look, and little Natalia laid her cheek on the table and yawned. The chef said, “Never mind. We’ll talk about Copernicus when you’re older.”
I listened to the mundane details of the family’s day and waited for the chef to mention that there’d been a murder in the palace, but he only sympathized with his wife’s complaints and listened to his daughters’ reports. After a while, I realized he was, of course, waiting to be alone with his wife. What father would discuss murder in front of his young children? The girls would go to bed, and then he would tell her— everything .
Eventually, I heard the scraping of chairs, the clink of forks, and the clash of dishes as Camilla cleared the table. I pictured the old servant’s bony hands piling up the plates, her long dour face with its humped nose, her thin gray hair twisted into a diminutive knot on top of her head. I’d watched Camilla clear that table many times. Once again, guilt intruded. How could I spy on these people? Apart from La Canterina, they were the only family I’d ever known. Shame on me. If I crept away immediately, it would be as if I’d never come. I started to back away from the window—and that’s when they began to sing.
Spontaneously, the girls launched into a loud,
I paused in the deep nightshade of the piano nobile ’s long stone balcony, and my excitement waned with the advance of guilt. Until then, I’d always come to that house as a welcome guest. The chef had put a paternal arm around me, fed me, smiled on me, and welcomed me into his family. Now, prowling like a criminal, I felt the pinch of disloyalty. I thought about leaving, but I was young and burning to know … everything . I crept up the stairway to the piano nobile and slithered along the balcony’s smooth stone floor, careful not to disturb the flowerpots lining the wall, until I reached the brightly lit window of the dining room. Blood pounded in my ears.
Adolescent ignorance regarding the natural complexity of life led me to imagine that the chef and his wife would be conveniently situated, near enough to facilitate my eavesdropping, but not near enough to detect my presence. Of course, they’d begin discussing the doge the moment I came within earshot. I anticipated the chef telling his wife all that had happened, explaining the reasons and consequences in clear detail, and signaling the end of the story by going directly to bed. Ha!
I snatched a look into the cheerful dining room and saw that it was warmly lit by at least a dozen chunky beeswax candles. The chef and his family sat around their long chestnut dining table, bathed in mellow candlelight, relaxed and chatting after their evening meal. Pressed against the wall, I listened. Smells of lamb stew and fresh bread wafted out to me, and I remembered that I’d not eaten my own evening meal. My stomach contracted, and I willed it to be quiet.
Signora Ferrero spoke of an altercation with the butcher. She never referred to him by name, but called him il ladro— the thief. She said, “It’s not my imagination. He cheats my sister, too. The man has a fickle scale and a heavy thumb.”
The chef murmured something vaguely agreeable.
The daughters spoke of teachers and school friends. As members of the gentry, the girls would never become fluent in Latin and Greek like aristocratic children, such as the pope’s daughter, Lucrezia Borgia, but they’d learn to read and write and do their sums. Elena said she wanted to study astrology, but the chef said, “Better to study the work of that young teacher from Poland, Copernicus. He has an interesting theory that the earth revolves around the sun, although you shouldn’t bring his name up in public, eh?” The room went silent, and I peeked in. Elena stared at her father with a perplexed look, and little Natalia laid her cheek on the table and yawned. The chef said, “Never mind. We’ll talk about Copernicus when you’re older.”
I listened to the mundane details of the family’s day and waited for the chef to mention that there’d been a murder in the palace, but he only sympathized with his wife’s complaints and listened to his daughters’ reports. After a while, I realized he was, of course, waiting to be alone with his wife. What father would discuss murder in front of his young children? The girls would go to bed, and then he would tell her— everything .
Eventually, I heard the scraping of chairs, the clink of forks, and the clash of dishes as Camilla cleared the table. I pictured the old servant’s bony hands piling up the plates, her long dour face with its humped nose, her thin gray hair twisted into a diminutive knot on top of her head. I’d watched Camilla clear that table many times. Once again, guilt intruded. How could I spy on these people? Apart from La Canterina, they were the only family I’d ever known. Shame on me. If I crept away immediately, it would be as if I’d never come. I started to back away from the window—and that’s when they began to sing.
Spontaneously, the girls launched into a loud,
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