The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 4-1

The creaking sound from the rickety stairs announced Baudet’s coming down for breakfast. Morning had barely broken and the tavern was empty apart from Madame Dizier, sitting at a table by a roaring fire. An oil lamp on the wall cast eerie shadows around her, lending a spectral quality to her diminutive figure as she hummed a gentle tune to accompany her peeling of vegetables in an enormous bowl. Hearing her guest’s arrival, she looked up from her work,

“Monsieur Baudet, good morning. I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you, Madame.”

“Help yourself.” She pointed to another table. “There’s fruit, milk and fresh bread delivered this very morning by my brother. He’s a baker with a shop a few streets away. I swear he makes the best bread in all Marseilles – it’s still warm from the oven.”

Baudet sat to eat the food, feeling strangely awkward, the two of them alone and neither now speaking.

“There,” she began, “now, come and sit beside me.”

He did as he was instructed and, before she could continue, he chirped: “Madame, I would like to take the room for three months, if it suits.”

“Why of course, my dear boy, your money is as good as the next man’s.”

“Settled then. I’ll pay your husband later.”

“Three months, you say… so, what are your plans in our fair city? Tell me and, if I can be of assistance… but first, a drop of sustenance.” She got up, went behind the counter, and came back with two glasses and a blue bottle. Carefully easing out the cork, she proceeded to pour a golden spirit that, catching its aroma, he recognised as brandy, the same he had been given on the old captain’s boat.

“It’s exceptional,” she whispered, as if there were others in the room who could hear, “and I only serve it to special customers. Your good health.”

They touched glasses in a toast and she waited patiently for Baudet to speak.

He smacked his lips in appreciation of the drink and related, briefly, his life in Vordan and his journey to Marseilles where he intended to better himself.

Madame Dizier took a sip of brandy, distracted for a moment, then began: “Marseilles is my city and it stretches for miles, from the beautiful warm Mediterranean Sea in the south, only stopping its growth in the north and east by mountains. The River Rhône completes our defences – much needed since the ancient city walls crumbled long ago. And we get hot dry summers but chilly winters – not too chilly, mind you.”

too He gazed at this small woman, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, hair tied back in a bun. Her manner of speaking could have been that of a school ma’am, not that he had ever heard such a tone, his education being limited to hearing adults in and around his hometown. He at once warmed to her.

“Is that so?” he answered mechanically.

“Indeed, it is. But to start, my words of advice are to always be on your guard…”

“Trust nobody and suspect everything…” This sentiment, and not for the first time, resounded in his brain.

“Trust nobody and suspect everything…” “There are good and bad people, of course but, until you feel comfortable, take care.” Baudet nodded. “There are parts of Marseilles I’m not familiar with but I suggest you begin your exploration at the old port then go into the Panier district.”

“The basket, Madame?”

The woman leaned back and let out a hearty laugh that echoed around the deserted room: panier was basket, sure enough.

panier basket“Let me explain. There’s a tavern there that goes by the name of Logis du Panier. Over time, it’s been shortened simply to Panier.”

.“Ah, that makes sense. Do you know this quarter?”

“I was born there, 45 years since. I was 20 when I met Monsieur Dizier, who was just establishing the business we run today. We married and I became the landlady of the Auberge Fabien, at his side. The Panier will always be my home, though. I chuckle at people, mainly outsiders, who believe it’s the ‘bread basket of Marseilles’, which it is not. Then, I’ve heard it suggested it’s the basket-weaving centre of the city. Again, this is not true.” She paused, took another sip and added. chortling: “Then, there are so many explanations, anything that could possibly be why it is the Panier – after an old woman never seen without her basket and, best of all, greedy priests who pass round a basket for the offertory rather than a plate! None of this, Le Panier is an inn where you can drink, eat and sleep.”

“I’ll remember that, and you must be well known in the Panier?”

“At one time, yes, but nowadays people come and go, like proverbial ships that pass in the night, as it were. We’ve learned to accept them… strangers, I mean, visitors who come in every colour of the rainbow – whitish, brown, black, yellow…” She screwed up her eyes and Baudet took this facial gesture as an expression of distaste. “…From all ends of the planet, on the boats, usually. Around now it’s the season for the Mistral and we reckon it fair blows them to us.”

“The Mistral?”

“Ay, in our tongue it’s Mistrau that means ‘masterly’, and such it is! It starts way up north and grows into a violent storm as it rushes down the Rhône valley to the sea. Master Baudet, if you are sincere in wanting to live here, you’ll have to contend with the Mistral, like the rest of us. When it blows it can rip off roof tiles even though the houses are built facing south with their backs to the wind, and you will see mighty oak trees that grow bent towards the south, too… they know they could not survive if they were upright. You can still find ruins of the old city defences that were also to protect people’s fires from dying out. Look up at the bell towers of our churches, they vaunt open ironwork frameworks so the gale can pass through without damage.” She noticed Baudet’s grimace and smiled encouragingly. “It’s not all bad, though – it can also drive away dust that descends on us, giving us clear air at nighttime and it’s warm so it can save crops from the frost. Finally, I would warn you the Mistral has the power to render a sane man insane… a madman!” She held her solemn face for as long as possible, then relented, letting out her formidable guffaw. “I jest, Baudet, we don’t need no Mistral to do that here – most of ’em are mad already!”

MistrauThey both burst into ebullient laughter, touching glasses and taking a draught of brandy. Even so early into their relationship, she unknowingly viewed him as the son she had lost to the river; he felt she was a replacement for the beloved mother he had left in Vordan and the lady was, certainly, the driving force behind the Auberge Fabien business.

“It’s time I was off…” he began but was interrupted.

“One moment.” Madame Dizier went to the counter and brought back a small flat-sided glass bottle. Removing the cork, she carefully poured brandy from the one on their table to the other. Replacing the stopper, she handed it to him, saying: “Take this, it will keep out the chill.” He slipped it into a pocket of his tunic, saying: “You are most generous, Madame Dizier.” Pulling his cape tight around his shoulders, he turned and left the landlady to prepare her vegetables.

Outside, he took the Rue Caisserie heading in the direction of the old port. Within the space of half a mile he walked past a mosque, a synagogue and a Christian church, reinforcing the landlady’s description of all sorts of people. A priest, covered from head to toe with a black cassock, stood on the steps of Notre-Dame des Accoules. He nodded, smiled, gave a bonjour or beau temps to any passer-by, whether a member of his congregation, a believer, or not. Popular traditions – many widely regarded as pagan – blended with Christian orthodoxy to create a hybrid view of the world and a very cosmopolitan Marseilles society.

bonjour beau temps If you did not commit to the Good Lord or the Prophet Allah, you could believe in magic that was a special knowledge needed to manipulate nature and only some adepts might attain this status.

In the city’s circus booths and across market stalls, alchemists focused on moving minerals, astrologers on reading the stars and signs of the zodiac and there were witches, who were thought to be particularly good at exploiting animals, including human beings, and blending herbs and other organic substances. Baudet’s experience of Marseilles would be touched by some or all of these practices. Since childhood he had wondered: “Why are witches so feared?” The answer was that almost no one, educated or not, doubted the reality of magic. From their insignificant family priest in Vordan to the Right Reverend Bishop of Marseilles, Christian clergy saw witches and sorcerers as competitors for their authority to assure blessings, healing and good fortune from the verses of the Bible. Witches were regularly attacked with the Church turning a blind eye.

“Why are witches so feared?” Baudet found himself by the Hôtel de Ville, beyond which was the port he sought. Day had well and truly broken, with neither wind nor rain, and he began his exploration in a childishly excited frame of mind. Before him, to the left and right, extended the shiny calm water of the Marseilles Vieux Port. Braziers, glowing with hot red coals, gave off warmth for anybody who chose to pause his work for a moment or two to warm his hands. Moored by taut hawsers tied round bollards and through iron rings on the quayside, narrow river barges, wide-beamed boats, single and double-masted ships, their sails furled, all lay secure with hatches unfastened for their crews to load and unload merchandise; it was an alive and vibrant place.

Baudet removed the bottle Madame Dizier had given to him from his pocket, took a sip and walked slowly up the Quay du Port to the north end where he turned and came back, absorbing the sights and smells that were alien to him, given his previous life. He peered curiously into the mysterious dark warehouses, their huge doors wide open for trade. Acknowledging this and that docker, out of politeness, he did not fail to smile at young girls promenading in pairs, his naive mind unaware of the reason why they were there, in a district not conducive to taking the air but to providing myriad illicit services. He watched children, many too young to be out of the family home alone, dodging in between piles of barrels, bales of fabric, cranes and braziers, chasing each other with games of tag or hide and seek. Some, showing no fear of being apprehended, grabbed an apple or other fruit from flat-back carts, racing away from the owners who cursed and threatened a good beating, should they be caught.

Another person attracted his gaze. A tall frowning man wearing a black floppy hat and casually waving a short wooden truncheon, appeared to possess the ability to make people give him a wide berth. He was accompanied by a colleague who was dressed similarly and who, too, carried a truncheon. King Louis had recently sent out an edict to the authorities of provinces of his kingdom that they should establish a magistracy with officers: “To ensure the peace and quiet of public and private individuals, to purge their city of whatever may cause disturbances, with each and every citizen living according to their station and their duties.” These upholders and enforcers of the law, after the edict, should not be crossed for fear of summary incarceration, which is what Baudet witnessed: a man suspected of burglary, entering a wine merchant’s house one dark night, and making off with two silver candlesticks and several valuable platters. The theft was discovered when the merchant came downstairs the next morning to be faced with an almost empty sideboard.