The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel by Elle Newmark Read Free Book Online Page B

me.”
    “It’s God’s will.”
    The chef looked at me and seemed about to say something, but—
    “Amato.” Signora Ferrero’s voice was even and careful.
    “Don’t.” The chef stared at the grape on his plate. “He’s a good boy, Rosa.”
    “I won’t listen to this.” She stood with stiff dignity. “Camilla,” she called. “Clear the dishes.”
    Old Camilla rushed in from the kitchen, alarmed by her mistress’s sharp tone, and began stacking plates. Signora Ferrero spoke with pinched lips. “Amato, I would speak with you, please.”
    As the chef followed his wife into the hallway, he smiled at his daughters and passed his hand over little Natalia’s curls. In her agitation, Signora Ferrero failed to pull the door completely shut behind them, and we could all hear the urgent edge in her voice. Camilla cleared more slowly than usual. Natalia covered her mouth with a dimpled hand, and the girls stole apprehensive looks at each other. We all listened.
    “Amato, you delude yourself.”
    “Rosa, cara , you should see him in the kitchen. He works hard, and he’s smart.”
    “I don’t doubt he’s smart. He’s a street boy who made his way into the palace.”
    “He’s not like other street boys. He has the instinct to be better. Like I did.”
    “ Basta . You pity him, and your wish for a son confuses you.”
    “Rosa, he was stealing a pomegranate . Not moldy bread to cram into his mouth with no thought. A pomegranate must be carefully peeled and eaten seed by seed. It takes time. Attention must be paid to eat a pomegranate.”
    “What are you talking about? He stole a pomegranate because he could. He comes from the street. He has unsavory companions. He’s a conniving thief and you bring him into our home? You introduce him to our daughters? No! I won’t have it. He’ll cause trouble, Amato. I feel it.”
    “ Cara , don’t upset yourself. I simply need an apprentice.”
    “But why a thief? And why is he in our home?” Her voice turned plaintive. “I have a bad feeling about him, Amato. Why him? Why is he here? What are you up to?”
    There was a pause. Then the chef’s voice turned grave and faintly apologetic. “Rosa, my love, I have something to tell you. Long before I met you, there was someone—”
    A hand—whether it was the chef’s or his wife’s I’ll never know—a hand pulled the door until it clicked fully shut, and the chef’s words were reduced to a muffled garble. Was that when he told her his suspicions about me? Was that when he directed her attention to my birthmark? Was that when he gave her reason to think I could threaten the peace of her home? It would explain why that was my last dinner with them. She never even returned to the table that day.
    I was saddened by Signora Ferrero’s low opinion of me, but I was also touched and amazed by the chef’s interpretation of my stolen pomegranate. It was a pleasing notion that anyone might take me for a thoughtful boy who would choose to steal a pomegranate, and then pick out one glistening seed at a time, savor the taste, and fastidiously blot my lips. I imagined myself eating like that—I who crammed food in my mouth as fast as I could—and I had to smile. I wondered whether anyone could change that much. Could there be refined instincts inside me without my knowing it? I had a thrilling moment, thinking I might become the sensitive, genteel boy the chef thought I was, but …
    The moment passed, and the dismal truth asserted itself. If I’d been allowed to keep that pomegranate I would’ve ripped away theskin with my teeth and gorged on the fruit, crunching through full mouthfuls, tasting almost nothing, oblivious to the juices smearing my cheeks and dripping off my chin. I was hungry .
    Still, the chef’s remarks about the pomegranate reminded me of his approach to chopping an onion. Did paying attention to food really change the experience of eating it? I eyed the green grapes and the buttery fontina on the