The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 6-1

The clean, crisp morning air stirred by a gentle breeze and scurrying white cumulus clouds against a pale-blue sky provided the perfect conditions for a leisurely stroll, Baudet concluded as he stepped out of the Auberge Fabien. He had no particular destination in mind, but he found himself drawn, once more, to the Old Port. At the east end of the basin, in front of the Église Saint Ferréol, a low wall was the ideal vantage point to observe the life of the Marseilles maritime populace. He took the ever-present flat-sided bottle from his tunic pocket and drank some of the inn’s best brandy, his gaze captivated by the scene before him; he had an unrestricted panorama.

He started to notice things he had missed on previous visits, his psyche now better prepared to absorb the port’s essence. A multitude of ships, whose sails obscured the horizon, disgorged a frenetic activity that made up the diverse bustling crowds of the waterfront. Merchants on boats from the powerful Levant haggled with indigenous traders from the city and beyond, and inspectors and officers with their black floppy hats and military-style uniforms, twirling their truncheons, oversaw deliveries and mediated in disputes. The absence of a common language posed little obstacle to communication – goods were goods, money was money, and an imaginative wave of the arm replaced a thousand words.

Baudet surveyed a world that could not have been more unlike his previous life. How could so many men and women of so many ethnicities become assembled in and around the Old Port? he asked himself, curious and determined to understand and be involved in its vibrant personality.

Were there any commodities that those giant cranes did not raise from or lower into the cavernous holds of the moored vessels? Taking a sip of brandy from his bottle, he felt a sense of privilege and, strangely, of ownership – for the first time ever, he felt in charge of his own destiny.

He could see barrels, bales, bundles, crates of cloth, sugar, wine, wool, leather, spices, beeswax, and who knew what other merchandises? Grain was welcome after a bad harvest, olive oil if a blight had withered the trees in the groves of Provence and Languedoc.

And, what in heaven was that aroma, so sweet-smelling? Baudet did not know the name for coffee, an exotic bean that arrived in Marseilles only 10 years earlier.

coffeeAs Madame Dizier poured his ale one day, he asked her: “What is this coffee drink?” She was invariably the person who he would turn to when he had questions or sought advice. His landlady, he decided, possessed many of his dear mother’s qualities – kindness, wisdom, honesty, humility and a twinkle in her eyes. To him, she was an oracle. She replied: “It’s a beverage as black as ink, useful against numerous illnesses, particularly those of the stomach – mind you, not as good as what we serve up here!” She winked at him. “Its consumers take it in the morning and in a porcelain cup that’s passed around, from which each one drinks a mouthful… it’s composed of water and the fruit from a bush called bunnu. And that’s as much as I know!”

bunnu.He would, soon enough, savour this novel refreshment and yearn to describe its pleasure to his old mother and sister back home.

Bales of raw cotton fibres piled up in front of one warehouse, the fils blancs of the Levant, cheap and used to make candle wicks; the fils rouges, of a better standard, could be made into handkerchiefs and Siamese-style shawls. Silk, particularly of Italian standard, was easy to sell and wool, destined for the weaving industry in Arles, could not meet the weavers’ demand at an adequate pace. Woollen garments and light woven sheets bearing the “Manufacture du Languedoc” label, of fine quality and colour, earned a premium price. The ruling Grands Viziers of the middle east valued this fabric as highly as others valued saffron.

fils blancs fils rouges, Specialist artisans – dyers – infused colour into the cold grey untreated wool, indigo being the shade of the day. But there were unscrupulous men around who, for their metier, chose deception, and it would not take long for Baudet to understand their modus operandi. For every honest man, it seemed to him, there followed on a thief or fraudster. He had been told the tale of Alexandre Roux, a merchant from Marseilles who diluted barrels of the most sought-after indigo dye with water to boost his profits. But the dyers realised it was “unfit for purpose”. After extensive enquiries by the authorities, via its original port of Sidon in the Lebanon, Roux was identified and his fraud reported to, no less, Minister Maurepas in Paris, who ordered his arrest. The rogue’s stock was confiscated and he was flogged and banned from trading, such was the importance of business between Marseilles and the Levant. When the kingdom’s healthy relationship with the known world was threatened, Roux was held up as an example, pour encourager les autres (to warn off the rest).

dyers modus operandi. pour encourager les autres Baudet observed the same blind beggar, feeling ahead with his white stick, recoiling when he tapped a bollard that told him he was too close to the water’s edge. A coachman driving two ladies, dressed in fine coats and fancy bonnets, rang his bell hard and swore at the beggar for blocking his way.

“Ah, that pair in black wouldn’t lend you the time of day, I’ll wager,” he mused, watching the two officers with their truncheons. But, at that time, he wasn’t to know their standing around the city. They represented the Marseilles port and authority. It was in their gift to resolve commercial disputes, of which there were many, legally; they issued permits to trade in imports and exports; they helped French merchants and captains to avoid unnecessary bureaucracy and even provided interpreters – often needed, given the multilingual nature of the place. They enjoyed prodding goods with their batons to check the quality of certain items, “to uphold the reputation of our beloved France,” they were often heard to pronounce. Needless to say, their function was well rewarded by their superiors.

“Ah, that pair in black wouldn’t lend you the time of day, I’ll wager,” “Time to get on,” he decided, “so much to see in the day ahead.” Making his way along the quayside, weaving left and right to avoid carts, barrows, sailors and heaps of wares, he reminded himself not to stare, much as he was tempted, at folk with complexions as pale as driven snow or others, whose dark skin shone like polished leather. “Mustn’t gawp, they might not take kindly to close scrutiny… but a pot of incense or a flagon of perfume, what price such luxuries?” he wondered.

“Time to get on,” “so much to see in the day ahead.” Mustn’t gawp, they might not take kindly to close scrutiny… but a pot of incense or a flagon of perfume, what price such luxuries?” Nearing the end of the basin, towards the Butte Saint Laurent, he recognised boats similar to those on the Petit Rhône of his childhood – fishing smacks. Their huge masts towards the stern and small jib up forward would support their billowing sails when out of port, the boats tacking to port and starboard to make progress in search of shoals, identified by the squawking of greedy gannets overhead, hovering on thermal currents and preparing to dive and pluck up fish in their insatiable gullets. Laid out on the quay, crates of cod, flounder, herring, swordfish and dogfish packed in salt, to maintain their freshness, were displayed, waiting for any fishmonger to offer a fair price and cart them off to their market stalls.

Next, he felt that the Panier was calling him and he continued in that direction. Before he knew it, he was in the graveyard of Saint Laurent church. He noted that it was well-tended, the weeds between the headstones evidently scythed regularly, the neatness of it serving to emphasise the geometric vertical and horizontal patterns of the layout of the plots. Moving from one grave to another, his gaze fixed on the words, engraved, no doubt, by his acquaintance the stonemason. “Such craftsmanship,” he mused, “and if his chisel had slipped the whole headstone would have been ruined… he couldn’t afford to lose such valuable work… no second chances.”

Such craftsmanship,” and if his chisel had slipped the whole headstone would have been ruined… he couldn’t afford to lose such valuable work… no second chances.”Although he had no real conception of how letters constituted words, or words sentences, he could discriminate letters from the Roman numerals and, recalling the stonemason’s explanation, traced one commemoration with his finger, and with profound envy: “D… U… V… A… L. Ah, that must be his family name.” He moved to a smaller word: “J… e… a… n. And that’s his other name, like mine is Baudet. The numerals underneath have to be,” he reasoned, “when he was born and died.”

D… U… V… A… L. Ah, that must behis family name.” J… e… a… n. And that’s his other name, like mine is Baudet. The numerals underneath have to be “when he was born and died.”Some stones bore a final inscription that, probably, only a priest would understand – phrases in Latin: “Semper Desiderari” (Missed For Ever); “Requiescat In Pace” (Rest In Peace)

Semper Desiderari” (Missed For Ever); “Requiescat In Pace” (Rest In Peace)“Deus Vobiscum” (God Be With You) and more.

“Deus Vobiscum” (God Be With You) “It’s the work of a true master,” a voice behind him said. “He works on stone better than I write on vellum!”

Baudet looked up: “Father Philippe, good day to you. Yes, they are miniature marvels. I’m jealous.”

“Jealousy is not an emotion that we view in a positive light, unless you mean that it is something you would like to do yourself. That would please the Lord.”

That “We?” Baudet picked up on the priest’s use of that particular pronoun.

We“Yes… myself, the bishop, the Church… we. The Holy Bible says: ‘A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.’”

we.‘A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.’“Is that so?” Baudet asked in a dismissive tone.

“It is so. And I sense you would benefit from prayer. Come into the church with me.”

He placed an arm on the young man’s shoulder and led him from the cemetery. At that moment, an almost subliminal idea, below the threshold of consciousness and intense enough to influence his thinking became apparent: he was hearing and comprehending popular Occitan dialect effortlessly. “The man up in the clouds has been busy on my behalf!” He chuckled, but inwardly.

and comprehendingThe man up in the clouds has been busy on my behalf!” Built in the 12th century, within the walls of a former fortress, the church was a Provençal Romanesque edifice of pink limestone and one of the oldest buildings in the city, a sandcastle-like church that served as a parish church to mariners and immigrants – named Néapolitans. It was of a quite simple structure: stone buttresses on its exterior and a 13th-century octagonal bell tower with an external stairway. Reaching the steps to the main wooden entrance doors, Philippe stopped.

“You see the steps? Seven – and that holds significance for the Christian faith.”