The Food Taster

by Peter Elbling

  CHAPTER 22

  A week earlier, just outside Cremona, it had rained for three days and three nights without stopping. The carts stuck in the mud and a child of a serving girl wailed so loudly that the knights wanted to kill her. I gave her my amulets to play with and told her stories of poisonings and hangings and other tragedies which befell noisy children. She listened quietly, hiding her face with her hair, so like Miranda when she was that age that I was about to tell her they were just tales when she suddenly snatched up my amulets and threw them into the darkness.

  Although I had lost faith in them long ago, it had not occurred to me to throw them away so I jumped down into the pouring rain to search for them. By then, however, a dozen horses had already passed over that spot and unless the amulets themselves could have spoken I could never have separated them from the hundreds of stones beneath my feet. Since they did not mean anything to me I was not angry and I did not think of them again until the dandy turned my pouch upside down.

  'Where are they?' Onionface said in bewilderment.

  'I do not use them.' I pushed the Fat One off my chest.

  'You do not use talismans?' Onionface repeated. 'But everyone uses them.'

  'Do they?' I brushed the dirt off my new, red velvet jacket.

  They stared at me, waiting for me to explain myself.

  I wanted to tell them that their charms and bones and stones were worthless, but they were too superstitious to give up their little shreds of hope. For the same reason, if I told them I relied only on my wits, they would not believe me and would accuse me of hiding something from them. No, they wanted me to give them a miraculous solution which would banish all their fears. So that is what I gave them.

  'Magic,' I said. 'That is what I use.' I was only half expecting they would believe me. Indeed, if only one of them had laughed I might have told them it was a joke.

  But instead the Fat One said, 'Only witches use magic'

  As one they took a step backward, gaping at me as if I was the devil himself. Christ! What fools! What little respect I had for them vanished in that instant. In the end it did not matter. The word had fallen out of my mouth and I could not put it back.

  'Then he must be a witch,' Onionface said, pointing at me. His stupid bullying face annoyed me and I snapped at his finger with my teeth, catching the tip before he could pull it away. If they did not think I was a witch before, they did now. Some stumbled over themselves to get away from me, others pulled their daggers. I knew I must not show any fear so I bowed my head, wished them all 'Buona notte,' and very calmly walked into the hallway.

  On the way back to Federico's quarters I could not help laughing at Onionface's stupidity. 'Ha il cervello di una gallina!' as the saying goes. No, a chicken had more brains than he did, but as I lay down I was overcome with disappointment. No wonder there was no guild of food tasters. Nor, I saw now, was there any chance of there ever being one.

  The next morning I cursed my mouth for running away with itself. Overnight my victory had become tarnished. I had never given any thought to the Inquisition, but now the word flew into my mind and nested there. I had not only said I knew magic, but also that I was a practitioner of it. If one of the tasters told his master or a priest, I could be hanged. I prayed that the tasters were as stupid as they looked and would believe that I would do them harm if they told anyone. And then, as quickly as my fears arose, they melted away for that evening I saw the woman the tasters had been talking about — Helene, food taster for the archbishop of Nimes.

  It had been nearly three years since the death of Agnese and during that time my heart had lain as dormant as a sleeping squirrel. Now it woke as if it was the first day of spring. O my soul. O blessed saints. The tasters had been far too modest in their praise. Helene was perfection itself. All of summer's flowers blended into one. She was slight of stature, yet there was a sureness about her, like a young tree that bends in the wind but does not break. The French sun had tanned her skin to a light shade of brown, and her blonde hair was cut short in the French style. Everything about her — her hands, her feet, her breasts — was small and in perfect proportion, except for her nose, and her blue eyes, which were large and deep as spring pools. She dressed simply and did not paint her face, but when she smiled, her face seemed to light up from the inside and all the gold and jewelry in the world paled beside her. Not that she did anything to attract attention. And yet for that very reason I could not take my eyes off her.

  Her movements were small and purposeful; she did not so much disturb the air as glide through it like a melody. All night long I repeated her name for it was the most beautiful I had ever heard. I borrowed paper, ink, and quill and wrote it over and over. I formed it out of stones, flowers, and leaves.

  Helene remained closer to the archbishop than his shadow, assisting him in everything he did, whether it was arranging his platters, playing cards, or reading to him. I cursed him for condemning her to such a dangerous task, but it was hard to dislike him. He was filled with good humor and his big, red face creased in laughter when he told stories of the pope and other cardinals. At the serving table, I tried to tell Helene that she had slipped into my heart, but I blushed when she looked at me and could not speak. I imagined her voice would be as musical as that of a thrush, but the sound which came out of her small pink mouth was low like a man's and sent shivers down my back. She caressed each word she spoke as if it was a precious child she hated to lose and, as I listened to her utter the most simple things, I suddenly wanted to hear her say my name more than anything in the world. I tried every trick that would give her reason to do so, but almost as if she knew what I wanted, she found ways of answering me — that is, if she answered me at all — by not saying it. To hear her say my name became my one desire. I could not sleep because of it.

  I wrote her a sonnet. I had never written one before, but if Miranda could write poems to Tommaso why could I not write one to Helene? I rose early to be inspired by the beauty of the sunrise. At night I studied the mysteries of the moon. I remembered poems Septivus had read to Federico. I labored over my creation every waking moment, writing and rewriting it. Each hour I spent with it renewed my love for her. Thus, when at last I completed it I was both pleased and sad. It is as follows:

  When first my eyes your radiance did behold

  No breath, no sound, no movement could I make

  Long had I slept, but now I was awake

  Gazing on wonders no dream had foretold.

  Your hair, ashine like summer's wheaten gold

  Your eyes, twin pools of Como's blue lake

  And oh, your cherried mouth my heart did break -

  So soft it was, so kind, and yet so bold.

  Then when you spoke, such music did cascade

  As would make angels move from their addresses

  To sail for Earth in Heaven's winged ships.

  Life Eternal would I have given in trade

  And all the bliss of Eden's sweet caresses

  To hear my name drop once from your sweet lips.

  I wanted to give it to Helene right away, but I was afraid she might not like it. Then we would never speak and that would drive me to despair. 'Courage,' I said to myself. 'Courage.'

  When at last I did speak with her I did not have the poem with me so all my stored-up questions and desires burst forth in my eagerness to express myself. I spoke of the food, the wine, the ceiling, and then interrupted myself to praise her beauty. I talked of walking up and down the staircase da Vinci had built and of the straight roads in the city. I could not stop talking for I feared that if I did I might never be able to start again. And, when I could think of nothing more to say I told her that, too. She waited until I was out of breath and then said, 'I must serve the archbishop.' I had not realized she was holding a platter of food the whole time.

  In my dream that night, Helene was walking barefoot through a garden of yellow and blue flowers. Her dress was blood red and embroidered with gold. No matter how fas
t I ran I could not catch her. She did not look over her shoulder and yet I knew she wanted me to pursue her. After running through a bower of bushes she descended a flight of steps which led to a small piazza. Fearing she would escape me, I called her name. She stopped on the bottom stair, turned and looked as if she would speak, but instead of words, nightingales flew out of her mouth, all of them singing so sweetly that I was mesmerized by the beauty of their song. When I looked again, Helene had vanished.

  I awoke with such longing and desire that I could not move. I prayed to God that Federico would find a woman so I might stay longer in Milano. I was drunk with love. So drunk that when the Fat One purposely jogged my arm at dinner that night, I nearly dropped the platter of fruits I was carrying.

  This was the second time the tasters had tried to hurt me. After our first meeting they avoided me. If I saw that lout Onionface in the hallways, I lowered my eyes and muttered, pretending to cast a spell. He shouted and pulled his knife, but he was too cowardly to do anything. The Fat One and the dandy were more dangerous. Before the Fat One jogged my arm, the dandy had tripped me and I had fallen into a German knight who beat me round the head for my pains. Now I would make them pay for their cowardice.

  The next day as the dandy reached to pick up a bowl of meats, I poured a boat of steaming hot sauce over his hand. He screamed — not too loudly, for the banquet was starting — and accused me of burning him deliberately. I said he was lucky I was not holding a knife or I would have cut his hand off. After that I snuck up behind the Fat One and whispered, 'If you try anything, I will carve your fat culo into more slices of bacon than you can count.'

  He gave a shriek and waddled away as fast as he could.

  I learned that Helene and the archbishop walked the same path through the gardens every day at noon, so I made it a practice to be there at the same time, my eyes half closed, as if writing poetry or studying the flowers, but all the while conspiring to bump into them as if by accident. Several days later I did just that, but because my eyes were half closed I trod on the archbishop's toe by mistake.

  'A thousand pardons,' I said. 'I was consumed with my own thoughts.'

  'May I ask,' said the archbishop, rubbing his injured foot, 'What thoughts concern you on such a beautiful day?'

  'I was thinking that all man has to do to be aware of God's grace is to look at the beauty around us.' I said this to the archbishop although I was looking at Helene.

  'Perhaps then,' the archbishop snapped, 'it would be better to keep your eyes open so you could see it!'

  I did not mind that he was angry because this would give me reason to address him again. However, when that day came, I was again pretending to be deep in thought and so missed my path and tripped over that oaf Onionface and two other tasters who were hiding behind a bush. They were armed with cudgels and had obviously been waiting for me. It was only because they were as surprised as I that I avoided most of their blows. From then on I stopped walking in the garden and resolved to meet Helene in some other way.

  While all this was going on, Federico was having no better luck than I in his pursuit of women. Every woman in Milano who was young or pretty or wealthy said she was betrothed. A few fat women with mustaches as thick as hairbrushes flounced around in front of him, but one look from Federico, or at him, and they left as quickly as they had come. He was sure the other dukes and princes, particularly Duke Sforza, were laughing behind his back, and so he avenged himself by beating them at cards. He soon amassed a small fortune and delighted in taunting Sforza, claiming the duke owed him enough to pay for his journey three times over. Cecchi pulled at his beard, urging Federico to leave before Duke Sforza regained his losses by force. Federico replied, 'Did Caesar run? Did Marc Anthony run? Did Caligula run?'

  I did not know Caligula played cards. Hell! I did not know who Caligula was. I did not care whether Federico won or lost as long as he stayed in Milano.

  We had been in Milano for almost a month and the castello was again filled with dukes, princes, and rich merchants from Savoy, Piedmont, Genoa, and Bergamo who had come to celebrate Sforza's birthday.

  'New blood,' Federico muttered. His gout was causing him pain and he looked for anything that might take his mind off it.

  I, too, was looking, not only for ways to speak with Helene, but also for ways to avoid the other tasters.

  What a feast we had on Duke Sforza's birthday! Eel, lamprey, sole, trout, capon, quail, pheasant, boiled and roasted pork and veal, lamb, rabbit, venison, meat tart with cooked pears! Caviar and oranges fried with sugar and cinnamon, oysters with pepper and oranges, fried sparrows with oranges, rice with chopped sausage, boiled rice with calves' lungs, bacon, onion, and sage, a wonderful sausage called cervellada made of pork fat, cheese and spices, and pigs' brains. And that is just the food I remember!

  At every banquet there had been a subject for discussion which had been decided upon beforehand. I did not listen to these any more than I listened to the speeches. Every orator thought he was the best in Italy, if not in what he said than in how long he took to say it, so after a few words my ears became deaf. I do remember that honor had been discussed as well as love, beauty, laughter, and wit. At this banquet the subject decided upon was trust.

  There was talk about the treaty Venezia had signed with the emperor and how it would affect Milano. How Venezia could not be trusted any more than Firenze or Roma and that each state could only be concerned with its own interest and that was always changing. Someone said that the only true trust was between a man and his wife. This brought much laughter and everyone told of women who had deceived their husbands and the other way around. This talk went on for quite some time and then the archbishop said the only true trust was between God and man. A German soldier argued that God could not be trusted since no one knew what God was thinking. Someone else said that other than a dog, a prince could only place his trust in a faithful servant.

  I was tasting some gorgonzola, cheese made from cows' milk which Federico loved, when a chill ran through me. It was not the cheese, but the conversation.

  Duke Sforza said, 'Federico places his greatest trust in his food taster, is that not so?'

  Federico slowly moved his aching foot and replied that he did indeed place great trust in me.

  'Would you sell him?' the duke of Savoy asked. 'Sell him? No. I need him. He advises me on the balance of humors and he anticipates poisons.'

  'Anticipates poisons?' said a Genoese merchant. 'You exaggerate.'

  'I do not,' Federico replied.

  'He is the one who survived the poison that was meant for you, is he not, Federico?' Duke Sforza inquired.

  Everyone craned their necks to see me. And that is when I noticed those traitorous, rat-shit dogs, Onionface, the dandy, and the Fat One, smirking and rubbing their greasy hands with glee.

  'Yes,' Federico said, 'I can point to any dish and just by one taste he can tell me the ingredients in it.'

  'Then he must be able to identify every taste that exists,' someone said.

  'Every one I have come across,' Federico answered.

  'That is impossible,' Sforza replied, gobbling a piece of veal shank covered in a gremalada sauce.

  Federico's face turned red. 'It is not,' he said slowly.

  'Well then,' Sforza smiled, and, pointing to an uneaten platter in the middle of the table, said, 'Will you wager he can tell us the ingredients in this dish?'

  I tried to remember who had brought that platter to the table. 'What is it?'

  'I do not know. But if he can identify all of the ingredients, I will double your winnings,' said Duke Sforza. 'If he cannot, you lose everything you have won.'

  My throat closed up.

  'How shall we prove it?' Federico asked.

  'My cook will write down exactly what he used.'

  The cook must have been waiting outside the door because he scuttled in like a cockroach. Someone magically produced some paper and a quill. The cook wrote down the list of ingredients a
nd folded the paper, and it was placed on the table next to the platter. I looked to Cecchi for some guidance, but he was tugging at his beard. Everything had happened so fast we were taken unawares.

  'I will join that wager,' said the duke of Savoy, throwing several rings and medallions onto the table. They were joined quickly by golden earrings, goblets, silver necklaces, headbands and broaches.

  The Fat One poured more wine for the duke of Savoy. Onionface licked his lips and I swore he winked at me. The dandy smiled coyly from behind Duke Sforza's chair. Suddenly, there in the midst of the magnificent paintings, the chandeliers with their thousand candles, the golden platters filled with delicious food, I saw myself writhing on the ground with Duke Sforza standing over me saying, 'You lose, Federico. He guessed everything but the poison.'

  The dish was poisoned! I knew it! I wanted to tell Federico, but how could I? I could see the pile of jewels reflected in his eyes; he already possessed them! His determination spurred me on. If he wanted to win, then so did I! It was a moment in which the spirit of God spoke through me as it had when I rose from my dusty bean patch and said, 'I will take Luca's place.' Now I turned to Duke Sforza, who was sitting at the table opposite Federico, and said, ‘I am willing, if your taster is.'

  'My taster?' said the duke.

  'It would make the bet more exciting, if while I am tasting this dish, your taster could tell us,' and here I pointed to a bowl of ripe blueberries, 'what is in this bowl?'

  Onionface 's mouth dropped open.

  'The bowl of berries?' Duke Sforza frowned.

  I nodded. The dukes, merchants, knights, and princes looked at one another. Onionface looked to the dandy and the Fat One, but they were as stunned as he.

  Duke Sforza laughed. 'Yes, why not?'

  I picked up the bowl and walked slowly toward Onionface. Halfway between the two tables, I stopped. Closing my eyes, I muttered something that sounded like a curse in Arabic just loud enough for Onionface to hear. In truth, I was praying silently to God, imploring Him that if He rewarded those who were righteous, brave, and honorable, to come to my aid.