Marseilles
Marseilles
The
sidewalks of Marseilles murmured murder.
Malevolent hawk-eyed haggards brushed too near. The dank streets were awash with hatred.
Below garish signs, storefronts stood dark.
Behind grimy windows were old vacuum cleaners, rusty tools, dusty
manuals. Ollie picked up his pace, easy
enough on the steep incline. The climb
back to the train station would be arduous though. He looked nervously before he crossed the
broad intersection with its numerous streetcar tracks. And sure enough, a screeching trolley,
wobbling wildly, whipped around the sharp corner, barreling straight toward him. Ollie’s shoelace caught in the track; he
jerked hard, only just reaching the curb in time, sweat dripping as he caught
his lunge before slamming into the pavement.
A blind man stood, grinning. Before Oliver could completely regain his
balance, the organ grinder monkey on the blind man’s shoulder reached out and
grabbed Ollie’s shoulder with his deep claw. Ollie slipped his free hand into
his pocket and dropped a coin in the old man’s cup. The monkey grinned, curling his lips above his
expansive yellow teeth as he disdainfully released Ollie’s shirt.
Further
down the street, small hordes of beady-eyed beggars lingered under the awnings
of two-bit businesses selling lottery tickets and liquor. By the time Ollie reached the port at the
bottom of the slope, his preconceptions of movie stars sauntering about in
smart sailing attire and dark sunglasses had vanished. The port confirmed this dashing of illusions. It was a hardened sailor’s port, not a French
Riviera beach. Shysters held out
cups. When Ollie looked the other way
from a cloaked man with a midget on his shoulder, the burly man flashed a
dagger at Ollie as the midget thrust the cup in his face. Ollie moved away, heading down to the seaside
where the fishermen had hitched their small boats and were filling large blue
plastic bins with their catch to show the housewives and chefs who had gathered
there with buckets of sea water. These
were surely the ugliest, most unappetizing living creatures Oliver had ever
seen. Bulging, bleary eyes scrutinized
him from blobs of slimy tentacles. Bodies pressed in. Killers and loathing victims. An octopus
eyeing Ollie reached over the side of his bin, quickly touched the pavement,
shifted his weight down and slid deftly toward him. Oliver was too terrified to move. He could feel the slippery arm slithering up
his leg when the fisherman grabbed him and tossed him back in the center of the
tray. Ollie moved on, shaken and with a
radically changed attitude about experimenting French culinary offerings from
the sea. He walked briskly into the open
space under the mirrored dome covering the subway entrance. He steered clear of its foot traffic and
headed up the narrow broken street toward his hostel.
The
sidewalk was too cramped to walk two abreast, so each time someone approached,
Ollie had to weave out between the iron posts lining the walk into the heavily
trafficked-street. The iron projectiles
were groin level and spaced evenly, a few meters apart. Whether old hitching posts for horses or
serving as a division between vehicle and pedestrian, Ollie wasn’t sure, but
they added to the treacherous feel of the steep, cracked sidewalk. Ollie peered into the dark doorways searching
for a street number, but on high alert for shady characters that might emerge
from their shadows. He was stealing a
glance across the street at a neon sign advertising a bar when a hard thud, a spray
of blood and a horrifying moan from the mangled body of a woman directly in
front of his boots stopped him. He
looked up in time to see a shadow retreat from the open third floor
window. The door of the bar across the
street slammed and two bikers, dressed in black leather, bandana headscarves
with skulls and steel-toed boots were on the scene in seconds. Ollie watched the tattoo bulge on the biceps
of the monster angrily unhooking the heavy chain from his belt loop. The other was staring down at the woman whose
face was bursting blood and whose leg was twisted entirely backward. Her eyes rolled from one to another. “Non, non!” she moaned. Then she said something in French to cause
his attacker to retreat and head up the fire escape to the third floor. The other broke through the doorway and
disappeared. Now Ollie was across from
two nuns in long black habits peering down at the woman. One whipped out a cell phone from under her
cloak and spoke in rapid staccato. The
other leaned over using her crucifix like a wand across the woman’s injuries as
she murmured healing prayers. Ollie looked longingly at the bar across the
street, but decided instead to get farther from the scene. He stepped cagily around the woman, hedging
the crowd that had begun to gather and walked steadfastly up the street, hoping
he had not passed his hostel.
“European
City of Culture?” he muttered under his breath.
“Seriously?”
“It
said online this place was twenty-two euros,” he told her flatly. “If there is an issue, I will email
hostels.com right now.”
“We
don’t book with them. Are you a member
of scnfa?”
“What?”
“Are
you a member of sncfa?” she demanded.
“I
don’t know what you are talking about.”
“All
French hostels and most European hostels book only through them. They give a ten percent discount. Write don your information and you can buy a
membership now. It will save you money
now and in the future. It is good all year.
I cannot give you a room unless you book through them.”
“Fine,”
said Ollie, turning on his heels and not knowing of another hostel in
Marseilles.
“It
will be twenty-nine euros without the membership,” she called after him. You can buy a membership for fifteen and then
it will cost you only twenty-two.”
She
was busy pulling a membership card from her top drawer and writing a receipt
adding up to thirty-seven euros.
Disgusted, Ollie provided the information and his credit card. Her French accent was thick, but her skin was
dark and oily and she had a thick mustache.
“This city is filled with the descendants of the barbarians who
plundered and raped during bloody conquests over the centuries,” thought Ollie
as he thrust the meaningless card into his wallet.
“No
one in the living room after 2200,” she scolded. “The person who works here sleeps there. And whisper only in the kitchen.”
The
door to the room I front of him was open though he saw no one in it. His was down the hall. There was no handle and the door was ajar.
Ollie was still holding his wallet, so he shoved the door open with his
shoulder, bumping over a young woman who ha been standing on one leg on the
other side of the door as she pulled a pair of panties up under her short white
dress.
“Excusez
moi.”
She
eyed him up and down and answered, “No problem. I can hardly expect privacy if
the door doesn’t even close.”
“You’re
from America then?” he asked, dismissing the thought that his French accent was
so poor that he was busted after only two words, determining instead that it
was his rugged cowboy demeanor that gave him away.
“Portland. Though I feel I belong here. I just graduated from the University in Paris
and am traveling before I must return. I
would do anything to stay.”
He
contemplated that a moment.
“Well,
not anything, “ she giggled. “But just about.”
She
reached over to her bunk and picked up a pair of glasses which she donned and a
book. “Uglifying myself so no one
bothers me,” she commented casually.
“Do
you trust leaving your things out?” he asked. A few backpacks were strewn
about.
“Oh,
no,” she answered curtly. “Those are not
mine. The locker is small, but I managed
to pack my things in it.”
“Where
are you headed?” Ollie was quickly
thinking of ways to delay her. She was pretty, in a bookish way. She held herself elegantly. She probably did belong in France.
“To
a café to read,” she said lazily. She
began to pry at the handleless door that was now vacuum-sealed shut. Ollie did not make any move to help her.
“A
café?” he asked, a bit astonished. Was
she not in the same neighborhood he was?
“Do you know of one? This area
seems a bit rough. I can’t imagine a
café here where I wasn’t wishing for eyes in the back of my head.”
She
laughed, still clawing at the door. “I
know what you mean. It is different than
I anticipated. I thought I would be
reading in a slingback beach chair among move stars on a crystalline beach with
a backdrop of the tide rolling in and out.”
“Crystalline
sand or water?”
She
smiled as the door pulled open, pushing her into Ollie. “Ooops, sorry,” she
mumbled, a bit flustered at landing in his arms, but deftly pulling away. “Both of course,” she answered as though she
hadn’t just been in his arms.
“Have
you looked eye to eye with the creatures who swim in these waters?”
She
looked confused.
She
lingered, holding the door.
“Here,
let me show you.” Ollie opened the
photos on his phone and tapped. “I met these guys down at the port.”
She
peered into his phone. “Oh, god. Oooooh.
Oh, my. They are horrid. That one looks like a leering pedophile. And that one, a true sea ogre.”
“Well,
maybe it’s better I can’t find a swanky beach,” she acquiesced. “Besides, I’ve enjoyed so many ridiculously
sublime pastries this past winter I would doubtless spill out of my bikini.”
Ollie
smiled. Her sundress was short and
low-cut and he liked what he saw. “I
can’t see any harm in that.”
“Haha. You are behaving very much like a French
man.”
“I
am guessing since you want to stay so badly that is a compliment?”
“Haha.
I said that I like Paris, not that I like the way French men behave toward French
women.”
“Well,
do you like the way the French
interact? The overt sexuality certainly
seems to be a defining ingredient of the culture here.”
“Haha. I suppose that I do like it. I like it very
much. You have caught me in my own game, you clever American.” She turned to leave.
“Wait!”
he called behind her. “Seriously, where
are you going? I am afraid to go either left of right when I leave here. Do you know of a more inviting part of town?”
“I
do not. I have only been to the
cathedral. I can recommend that.”
“You
mean that behemoth on top of the hill?”
“Yes,
the basilica of the Blessed Virgin Mary who watches over the sea. It’s called the Notre Dame de la Garde. It was once a fort and has a fabulous
view. The sculptures are cool, the bell
is quite impressive and the ex-votos are pretty wild.”
“Ex-votos?”
“You
know, gee-gaws people leave for the Virgin Mary in gratitude for her saving
their lives or healing them? You know, like all of the crutches in that church
in Canada? So there are a lot of fishing
boats and nets and some war memorabilia, a shot-up helmet and some medals, even
some sports jerseys. I really like that
sort of thing,” she added more softly.
“You know there’s a story behind it.
Something that really means something to someone. And someone intensely believed She saved
him. I have to say though that I was
disturbed by the picture of the slave ship. I mean, I’m glad it survived a bad
storm, but it doesn’t seem right that a sea captain of a slave ship should feel
okay about asking for the Blessed Mary’s protection without showing some
repentance for his evil deeds.”
“Maybe
he did,” suggested Ollie. “Maybe he
freed them.”
“Mmmmm.” She sounded doubtful.
Ollie
looked her curiously.
“Well
anyway, you should go. It’s a hike to
get there,” she cautioned as she turned again to leave. “Your legs will burn. And when you see
the size of that bell you will totally get why it took two days to get it up
the hill. And I have no idea how they
possibly got that gold statue of the Mother and Child on top of the belfry. Legends are unanimous: it was a miracle!
“Au
revoir!” She breezed out.
Ollie
fished through the compartments of his backpack
“Ah, there was the compass. And
there were the aspirin powders.” He knew
he shouldn’t take them on an empty stomach, but he was still unnerved by the
suddenness of the bloody body thumping down.
He noticed the dried blood on his knuckles and pulled out his towel for
a shower. The bathroom across from the
check-in was cordoned off. A bad aroma
drifted down the hall. “Autre toilette?”
Ollie inquired of the girl working there.
“Non,”
she shook her head.
“Ce
qui? Pas un autre?”
“Non.”
How
many people were here? Had to be between
a dozen and two dozen. He did a quick
scan. Surely twenty-five. His stomach was tenuous. He washed his face and hands in the kitchen
sink much to the dissatisfaction of the young woman preparing a salad on the
counter next to him. He returned his
towel to the locker, loaded up his daypack, crammed the rest of his stuff in,
locked it up and headed out, opting to go back down to the port to get his
bearings before tackling the hill.
Warily,
he crossed the street to avoid the crime scene, but couldn’t help looking
toward it when a door slammed in front of him and a leather-clad man stumbled
out onto the sidewalk. When he saw
Ollie, he flashed a toothy grin, slung his arm over Ollie’s shoulder and
dragged him into the dark cave. Oliver
had barely recovered his balance when the bartender handed him a pastis. He made out the silhouette of a jukebox and
three burly bikers who had circled him and were holding up their glasses to
toast him. He nodded and downed the
yellow syrup. Before it could fully
slide down his throat, he was holding two more.
His stomach lurched with each new splash. His legs seemed numb and the creased
broken-toothed faces in front of him were morphing into rodent faces. Ollie
commanded his deepest voice and firmest resolve. “Cheers, fine gentlemen!” he declared and
left. He marched straight out and into
one of the iron hitching posts, deeply bruising his abdomen. He groaned and turned toward the port,
determined, despite the doubling-over pain to make a resolute, yet speedy
exit. He took a deep breath and quelled
the rising vomit. The street reeked of garbage.
He staggered forth, at last emerging from the dark labyrinth to the open
port where the sun was blinding and mercilessly hot. Wandering about trying to
find that view of the basilica he had seen that morning, he came upon an
expanse of cafes in a long courtyard. He
scanned the tables for her. She was not
to be seen. He approached each of the menus, dismissing any options he did not
know as possibly containing fresh seafood, a/k/a his friends from earlier in
the day. Interesting fare, but too
pricey for his budget. He’d find
something along the way.
He
approached an old fisherwoman sitting on a bench just watching the catamarans
bob in the sea, her head bobbing along with them.
“Donde
la Notre Dame de la Garde?” he asked sweetly, nodding toward the top of the
hill.
She
looked perplexed. “Non.” She shook her head.
“La
Notre Dame de la Garde?” he repeated.
“La basilica?”
She
squinted and tilted her old head quizzically, her babushka slipping from her
matted and knotty grey hair. She began
mumbling.
Ollie
reached for his evil eye and was turning to bolt, muttering, “Help me Blessed Virgin Marie de la Mer.”
“Ahhhh! La bonne mere! Oui, oui!”
She laughed, now pointing to the sprawling cathedral at the top of the
hill.
“Ah,
silly me,” laughed Ollie. “Merci,
Mademoiselle. Merci beaucoup.” He rewarded her with his most charming smile,
wondering if he had washed all of the blood from his face and hands and strode
quickly away, letting the city absorb him.
As soon as he was at a safe distance, he lined his compass with the
church, knowing that once he was swallowed up in the neighborhoods he could
easily lose direction and this was not a city whose byways he wanted to
traverse unnecessarily.
The
neighborhoods were vastly uninteresting.
Ollie wasn’t sure what the businesses were below the apartments, but
they mostly had the border town ambience of stolen car stereo outlets and shoe
repair businesses cluttered with years of unclaimed shoes. He couldn’t make out a restaurant and there
were no street vendors. In fact, the
only people on the street were weathered old women carrying totes, looking down
at the ground as they walked and shifty-eyed men of all ages who appeared and
disappeared, leaving their shadows in the doorways. At every intersection, Ollie discreetly
checked his compass. An hour
passed. He had to eat something. Anything.
His daypack was getting heavier.
There were no benches. He sat on a curb, not caring if a car ran over
his feet. He opened his pack. Maybe some crackers?
“Oh,
that’s why it was so heavy!” He pulled
out a bottle of wine, half full, a chunk of cheese and a bag of olives. The cheese had not fared especially well in
the heat, but what was bleu cheese anyway?
It probably wouldn’t kill him.
And in fact it was quite delectable.
As were the olives. And he gave deep
thanks to the Blessed Mary for the Cotes du Rhone. When he finished, he discarded the empty
containers in the garbage bins halfway down an alley. In another town, he would have explored the
alleyways, but not here. He doubted
opera arias would be spilling from open windows.
At
the next intersection, against his intuition but in accordance with the
compass, he turned left. The last block
must have angled. The street was short,
ending abruptly into a wall. He had to
go back downhill to find an opening. But
at last, there she was. The number of
stairs to reach her was dizzying and the serpentine path through scrub brush
was less than inviting. Ollie wondered
about snakes. Still, he could see his target.
She
was right. A hundred stairs into it, his
thighs were burning and his lower back hurt.
He couldn’t make out the bell, but above its belfry the gold baby Jesus
stretched out his arms and the Mother Mary beckoned seafarers with her
warmth. He wondered how it was possible
to get the heavy gold statue up there.
“A miracle,” the girl had pronounced.
He
needed shade and water badly. Fewer than
a couple hundred more stairs. Sweat was
dripping from his forehead. He wiped it
from his forearm. He wished he’d worn
shorts. Heat was rising in waves from
the scraggly hillside. Ollie saw a cool,
rushing stream along a green bank and
reached to untie his heavy boots. Losing
his balance, he looked up in alarm, realizing that he was succumbing to a
mirage. The cheese was no longer agreeing with him and he was hopelessly dehydrated. His head was pounding. He tasted the pastis rising. He was going to die on this hillside.
He
looked up and his eyes met the Mother Mary’s.
She was looking directly at him, deep into his eyes with a knowing
compassion. She knew how he felt. She would help. The baby’s arms reached out for him. In that moment, Ollie understood her power.
When
he reached the top, a tour group from India was leaving. The guide looked at
him with the Mother Mary’s eyes and wordlessly handed him a bottle of water. He nodded.
It
was late in the day by then and the basilica was nearly empty as Ollie explored
the ex-votos. He thought of the healing
miracles he had heard, the church with the crutches, the blind gaining sight
and wondered how belief alone could alter a well-defined physical reality.
Searching
for a toilette down the stairs, Ollie wandered into the dark, cool crypt filled
with the wavering flames of votives. It
was a little creepy, but he welcomed the chill and sat down. He was alone, but he did not feel alone. Tentatively, Ollie looked over at a shadowy
recess. Two grand figures stood
there. Eight feet tall at least, with
wings by their side. Iron sculptures?
At
that moment, they turned toward him. “We
are angels,” they told him soundlessly.
Ollie
froze. They turned back around. Ollie mustered the courage to slip out.
When
Ollie arrived back at the hostel, someone was using the shower. He took a bandana and soap to the kitchen
sink for a sponge bath. Several people
were mulling about preparing their dinners, but thankfully, no one spoke
English, so he pretended he had no idea what they were saying to him. The receptionist came in upon a complaint to
tell him that his behavior was unacceptable, but by then he was done, so he
just shrugged at her and went back to his bunk to lie down, relieved that he
had a morning train and grateful that one grim February day he had come across
a great deal and booked a seaside hotel in Barcelona for four nights, starting
tomorrow night.
He
was barely dreaming when she tapped him on the shoulder. “Robert and I are
going to dinner. Would you like to
come?”
Robert
piped up just then. “Hullo, Mate!” Ollie cringed, recalling the jerk in
Istanbul.
“Robert,”
she laughed in a scolding voice. “Don’t
mind him,” she told Ollie. “He’s just a goofball from Chicago. He does that so people don’t know he’s from
America and don’t hate him for starting wars and destroying their culture just
for oil and money. We thought you might
like some authentic French cuisine at a place where the only English spoken
will be at our table. And you wouldn’t be feeling lonely and wistful because
the women at all of the other tables are murmuring dirty nothings in their
partner’s ears.” She giggled.
“Does
that mean you won’t then?” asked Ollie.
“Well,
she’ll have one up on those French women then, seducing both of us.”
“In
your dreams, boys.”
Ollie
welcomed the immediacy. “Sure, that’d be
great. How soon?”
“How
about now?”
A
couple hours into the dinner, she began laughing. “Look how long we have been sitting here,
just eating slowly and talking, and no one is trying to rush us out.
“Even
though it’s late on a Wednesday night,” she added.
I
ran into Robert today at the café. She
looked at him and they both began grinning.
“How long were we there, Robert?
Four hours? And we’d only ordered coffee, no meal at all, which is
probably unheard of here. And yet, no
one batted an eye. We talked about it
and we both felt totally comfortable. It
was so strange not to be hypersensitive that the waiter glaring at you wanted
you to leave. Everyone seemed on the
same page; they didn’t care at all. If
you wanted something, you’d let them know.”
“I
think I’d like to try the tiramisu,” offered Oliver. “I know this isn’t Italy, but there was
something about the way the waitress rolled here eyes when I asked her if she’d
had it - that made me think I wouldn’t mind feeling that way. We may be wanting to save our cash to make
our adventures last longer, but four euros to go there….”
They
shared three desserts.