The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 3-2

“That’s better, we can see what’s what now.”

Our young boy decided Dizier was a decent man, just the type he needed on his arrival in a new city. The bedroom was simple but adequate with a bed, a small table and chair, a wash basin on a stand and a fireplace, as yet without a fire.

“I’ll have my lad lay it for you so the room will soon warm up, and I assume M’sieur will take supper in our humble establishment?”

“Indeed, I will, landlord.”

Removing his pack, he propped his spear up behind the door, as if he might use it, should an unwanted intruder visit him. As he did so, he rebuked himself for such a silly idea. Splashing water on his face, he felt refreshed and returned downstairs. His friendly landlord guided him to a table by the fire.

“Here we are, M’sieur, I kept it special for you.” and he signalled with his truncated arm for the lad to bring ale.

“Just wave when you want more, you can settle the bill at the end of the evening before you retire. Supper is nearly ready, my wife’s been busy all day in the kitchen. It’s bouillabaisse. I bought the fish fresh from the quay today.”

“Thank you, Dizier.” He was reminded of the dangerous man o’ war jellyfish and smiled at the i***t’s jest from earlier in the day.

The blazing fire was hardly necessary as the body heat generated by the crowded tavern would have been sufficient to embrace the room with warmth… Taking a draught of his ale, he was starting to feel pleasantly relaxed after the exertion and emotional stress of the last few days. His eyes roamed from one group of drinkers to the next. From his limited experience of people or places other than Vordan, he was ill-equipped to assign them to one country in particular – he knew only that they were dissimilar to his own kind.

In one corner, he had seen the likes of those men, and not long since. “Striped cassocks, heads bound, arms flailing, as on the quayside, they must be Arabs… yes, that’s what one of them said, Arabs.” Then he watched short, slim men in wide-sleeved silken robes, their skin a yellowish hue, eyes almost closed, although they were not sleeping. Turning around, his breath was taken away on seeing people whose near-black features shone in the light from the fire, their hair a mass of tight dark curls, but close to the scalp like a tight-fitting bonnet. He was almost grateful to find, on an adjacent table, four men and two women playing some sort of game with cards, and dressed in tunics like his own.

“Striped cassocks, heads bound, arms flailing, as on the quayside, they must be Arabs… yes, that’s what one of them said, Arabs.” At that moment, conversations in the room changed to cheering accompanied by everyone banging tankards on tables, creating a raucous noise. Baudet fully expected a brawl to ensue – but not so. Dizier appeared from the kitchen, needing every ounce of his strength to lift an enormous cast-iron pot on to the counter. When he removed the lid, a sweet-smelling aroma rose and began to permeate the air. While his lad moved among the tables, a wicker basket on his arm, placing crusty loaves on each, he ladled the bouillabaisse he had mentioned earlier that evening into bowls for his diminutive wife to serve to the hungry customers.

Baudet leaned over to smell the stew and he was certainly not disappointed. From the first taste, he knew that, indulging in in the comfort of a deeply rich, warmly inviting bowl of bouillabaisse, surrounded by the calming sound of the sea, the sun shining across a watercolour palette of blue and green, was the best way to appreciate the essential Marseilles he was adopting as home. Floating in the broth flavoured with fennel, basil, garlic and tomatoes were pieces of monkfish, red mullet, sea bass and cod, along with mussels still in their shells.

After a few minutes, the crashing of tankards resumed – the acknowledgement of an excellent supper. Madame Dizier gave a broad smile and Dizier waved his famous short right arm. “These folk, without doubt, are from the four corners of the globe, yet they enjoy and are united by food. How strange!”

“These folk, without doubt, are from the four corners of the globe, yet they enjoy and are united by food. How strange!”With every bowl empty, the last vestiges of the meal mopped up with bread, the lad cleared them away and the serious business of drinking and arguing resumed. Baudet’s attention was drawn to the card players, involved with passion, that was plain to see, in an activity he had never seen. He watched, following every positioning of cards on the table but understanding none of it. Moving his chair sideways to obtain a better view, he craned his neck – he saw money being distributed and collected. “I have to find out what this game is about.” And the man holding the pack turned to him, saying: “What are you staring at, boy?” The aggression in his voice was unexpected.

“I have to find out what this game is about.” “Your game, M’sieur, I’d like to know it.”

The man’s attitude softened. “Our game, you say? But everybody plays it. You must have led a sheltered life.” The group sniggered but he continued regardless: “I’ll explain it to you gladly. Come, sit next to me.”

Baudet did as he was told. Now he examined the man at close quarters. “He is, most likely, a stevedore… but those hands… huge and strong as a lobster’s pincers, belie his dextrous manipulation of the cards.”

“He is, most likely, a stevedore… but those hands… huge and strong as a lobster’s pincers, belie his dextrous manipulation of the cards.”This hirsute man with his bewhiskered face was not as frightening as his features might have suggested. He laid out the whole pack for his pupil to peruse, flattered that anyone was requesting, for the first time in his life, his explanation on anything. He was more accustomed to following orders and speaking only when he was spoken to.

“So, young man, as you can see, there are four suits… then four lots of honours… knave… queen…” Baudet’s focus was captured by those beautifully illustrated honours cards.

“Ay, they are special, are they not?”

“Indeed. I’ve not seen anything as wonderful, ever.” He was referring to the intricate hand-painted picture cards. The figures were so lifelike they might talk, he mused, enchanted by such workmanship: vivid colours, eloquence, and finesse in the lettering.

“Let me tell you, M’sieur, this pack cost me two months labouring at the docks, two months when I hardly ate or drank to pay Monsieur Grimaud a commission to produce them for me. His shop is on Rue Papère up in the north side of town and, believe me, his work is bought by royalty, such is his reputation. Each pack is unique, not one the same as another.”

Try as he might, Baudet could not avert his sight from the illustrations. “One day, I will produce designs like those.” He knew not why he suddenly had that idea. The banker, for that was what they called him, coughed to regain his attention. “Would you care to partake in a game with us?”

One day, I will produce designs like those.” “What was it that kind captain said to me..? Ah, yes, trust nobody, suspect everything and watch your back.”

“What was it that kind captain said to me..? Ah, yes, trust nobody, suspect everything and watch your back.”“Perhaps another time, but thank you for your explanation – that is much appreciated. I look forward to your telling me the rules, when we have more time.”

That night, he slept well, although his mind was racing with images of the painted kings and queens and his spirit told him he would, one day, learn how to create work like that he had admired earlier in the tavern.