Treasures of Egypt
by HDKingsbury
Copyright © 2008

Chapter 4
On to Marseille

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If one tries to navigate unknown waters one runs the risk of shipwreck.
Ancient Egyptian Proverb

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"Hey, Jean. You gonna join the rest of us?"

Erik caught himself before he started looking around for whoever this Jean person was.

Fool, they're talking to you, or have you forgotten the name you've been using?

"I'll be right there," he said.

An older man, the most senior member of the crew of the Bonne Amie, was the one who had called. He was a boisterous man named Luc, big boned and heavy muscled. Luc motioned to a vacant spot in amongst the rest of the crew who had gathered on deck for their supper, giving Erik a hearty slap on the back as he took his place.

The cook ladled out some stew and handed the tin dish to Erik. Someone else tore off a heel of bread and passed it down. As the men ate, there was joking and laughter. There was reason to celebrate.

The Bonne Amie had made the trip south without incident—there had been no injuries, and their cargo had been safely delivered. Erik looked around at the faces of the crew. Some would make the return trip north, while others would collect their pay and move on. Erik, or Jean as he had been calling himself, was among the latter. His plans were to disappear into the night, leaving behind no trace that he had ever been aboard, letting his presence linger only as a memory.

After everyone ate, the dishes and utensils were collected, washed and stowed away. One of the men, Aldric, brought out his fiddle and played a few tunes. Erik gazed longingly at the instrument, becoming mindful of how much he missed music. He closed his eyes as Aldric played, a bittersweet song of love found and lost, and allowed his mind to drift back to the opera house, to the music he used to listen to, that he used to compose for Christine….

"Do you play?"

Aldric's question broke into Erik's thought and brought him back to the present. "Did you say something?"

"I was asking if you played. You had that look on your face, the kind a fiddler gets when he's itchin' to make some music."

"A little," Erik replied, ill at ease as he often was when the center of attention.

"Would you like to play something?" Aldric asked, offering Erik the fiddle.

Erik tentatively accepted the instrument. There was nothing fancy about it, nothing the least bit extraordinary. It was a common fiddle, the kind used by itinerant musicians everywhere, but the lure to create music with it was great. He held it lovingly, amused at how such an ordinary little fiddle could bring these feelings out in him. At last, he tucked the instrument under his chin and considered what to play.

He gazed at the faces of the crew. These were coarse, working men, men who probably weren't interested in something from the classical repertoire. He chuckled to himself as he imagined how they'd react if he played one of his more complex compositions. In the end, he decided upon some lively folk songs. He started by playing "Sur Le Pont D'Avignon."

Sur le pont d'Avignon,
L'on y danse, l'on y danse,
Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse tout en rond.

Erik allowed himself to be swept up in the pure joy of the song, improvising and embellishing as he played. The crew enjoyed the performance, too. Some of them clapped in time to the music, while others sang along. A few of the braver ones got up and danced a lively jig, and Erik experienced, for a brief time, a feeling of being at peace with himself, and the world. He looked at these men with admiration—singing, laughing, dancing, enjoying each other's company, and freely admitting Erik into their brotherhood.

Maybe these men are not of the better classes, but in their own way, they are more real, more honest than many another I have known.

A little sigh escaped his lips and he broke into a smile.

If only life could remain like this—free from care and worry.

He laughed at himself for having such prosaic thoughts.

Admit it. You're interested in living again, that's what it is. No matter how insignificant, you're a member of society now, even if it is the society of bargemen.

After several more songs, Erik reluctantly returned the instrument.

"No, my friend," said Aldric. "You keep it. You put my poor playing to shame. The instrument, she needs someone like you to make her sing."

"I cannot accept this," Erik said, stunned by the man's generosity. "At least allow me to pay you for it."

"Pah! One does not pay for a gift. Take it, I insist."

Erik gave in. "You know I'm leaving tomorrow. I won't be around to play. No, you'd better keep it."

Aldric made a face. "What? Not good enough for you?" he said jokingly.

"It isn't that. It's only…" Erik hesitated. What was he going to say, that no one had ever given him a gift before? Now that would put a damper on things, make him sound pathetic. No, he should just say thank you and shut up. "I don't understand. Why would you give this to me?"

"Because, I want you to have it!"

"I don't understand." Erik said.

"I like you, Jean!" Aldric slapped Erik on the back. "You're a good man, mon ami. You don't get drunk, you don't talk too much...and you know how to make her sing." Aldric nodded at the violin.

"I'll take care of it," Erik said as he ran his fingers lovingly across the f holes. As far as he was concerned, this common fiddle was more precious than any Stradivarius. "Thank you."

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Later, the men broke up into smaller groups—some talking, some napping. Erik walked to the stern and watched the sun as it set, the sky aglow with golds, and oranges, and reds. He needed be alone—to come to terms with what was happening around him, to him. These little friendships, small though they were, were a new experience. He wanted these memories to last forever. He started thinking of another former friend and pulled the ring out of his pocket, wondering what Christine was doing. He turned the ring in his fingers, watching the facets of the diamonds sparkle and they caught the fading light of the sun.

I wonder if they're married yet. Do they live in town? Is she preparing for bed at this very moment? Is her young man brushing her hair, running his fingers through those chestnut curls, caressing her shoulders, her—

"She dump you for some pretty boy?"

Erik turned, startled out of his reverie. He hadn't heard Captain Theudebert come up behind him, and he certainly wasn't in any mood to discuss Christine. He closed his hand around the ring and responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Want some advice?" Theudebert offered. "Forget about her. If all she worries about is a handsome face, she's not worth having. Look here, Jean—or whatever your name really is—the world's a big place. Not every woman is looking for an easy ride. Some actually want a man. A real man, if you get my drift."

Erik didn't know whether to thank the man for his well-meant advice or to cold-cock him for butting into private thoughts. "You worry me, Captain Theudebert. I'm beginning to wonder if you've been on board the boat too long."

Theudebert erupted into hearty guffaws as he caught Erik's meaning. "Stickin' my nose where it doesn't belong, eh?"

"No big deal," Erik said. "I made a mess of things. She chose the better man."

"If you say so."

Erik slipped the ring back into his pocket. "So, mon capitaine, what is it you came to see me about?"

"I want to know if there's any way I can change your mind about leaving. You're an asset to this crew. You're a quick learner; you're dependable and carry your load. And most of all, you keep your nose clean. Besides, I hate training new men. Any chance at all I can talk you into making another trip?"

"No," Erik said, shaking his head slowly. "I think it's time I moved on."

"Well, then, maybe I can help. If you ever find yourself in Marseille and in need of work, look up my old friend, Jacob Englehorn. Yes, he's a boche, a thickheaded German, but I don't hold that against him. He usually sails from Marseille to North Africa—Algiers, mainly—on a tramp steamer called The Venture. Tell him I sent you."

"Will that assure me of a job?"

Theudebert scratched his stubble-covered chin. "Hmm, perhaps you're right. Maybe you shouldn't mention my name."

That made both men laugh.

"Well, goodnight then," the captain said, turning to leave. "Stop by and see me tomorrow. I'll have your pay by then and you can be on your way."

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In spite of the distraction from his problems that the hard work had given him, Erik knew there was no future for him on the canals. It was time to move on. And so, while the rest of the crew prepared the Bonne Amie for its return trip north, Erik collected his pay, said his good-byes, packed up his few belongings, and left. He followed no specific path, but headed in a generally southerly direction, following the river. He considered Theudebert's recommendation of looking up Jacob Englehorn . Maybe he would.

The days grew shorter as summer slowly faded into autumn. The weeks went by, but the weather remained warm. There was no sense of urgency, no need to hurry. The authorities no longer were searching for him, and so he permitted himself to enjoy the countryside. It had been many years since he'd been in southern France, not since…not since the years he'd lived with the gypsies. In those years, he didn't have time to look at the scenery. It was all he could do to survive. But today? Today, things were different.

He traveled through Burgundy, noticing the brightly colored toits bourguignons, the roofs made of glazed tiles of terra cotta, green, yellow and black and arranged in geometric patterns, a trademark of the region. His path took past woods and fields. He listened to the songbirds in the trees, and could hear the faint sounds of the barking of a dog on a distant farm. His artist's eye took note of the colors of the landscape—the greens of trees and vegetation, the yellows of fields of mustard, and the golds of ripening wheat. He took pleasure in the rustling of undergrowth when he walked through wooded or semi-wooded areas, and smiled when serenaded by the chorus of cicadas on late summer afternoons. The weather held up, and on most days, there were blue skies punctuated with cumulus clouds. But occasionally the winds picked up, annoucing an incoming storm, and Erik would take whatever shelter he could find.

The further south he went, Erik could hear the changes in the dialects spoken, especially in the rural areas. Although the cities were quite "Frenchified," many of the country folk still spoke the langue d'Oc, the old tongue of the Occitan that was more closely related to Catalan than to the French of the north. The region he was going through now had a long standing tradition of heresy and steadfast rebellion.

Centuries ago, this land did not belong to the French. It was the land of the Cathars, people branded as heretics by the kings of the langue d'oïl, the northern part of France, and the Roman Catholic Popes in the 13th century. Long and bloody crusades were carried out against these people, subjugating them to the will of the North. But its occupants had long memories, helped by the remoteness of many of the villages with their little-travelled byways. With this history of occupation and resistance to submission to the "modern" France of Paris and the north, these people were often distrustful of Parisiens or Nordistes, as they derisively refer to the French.

They seldom spole their own language in the presence of "foreigners," but sometimes Erik heard them talking to each other in Occitan when they thought he couldn't hear, or understand. Erik wasn't fluent in the language of the South, but knew enough words to have a general idea of what was being said, and found it ironic to be looked upon with suspicion more because of his Frenchness than for his appearance. He allowed the locals to think him ignorant of what was being said, and moved on.

He continued south, always south, towards the coast, with the landscape gradually rising from scrubby hills to cool, wooded highlands. Off to the west were the forbidding peaks of the Montagne Noir, with great rivers cutting their way through the hills. Erik avoided them, and instead passed through vineyards and grain fields, groves of olive trees and openings of oak trees. Often in the distance, he could hear the bells of villages as the winds of Provence, which marked the changing of seasons, passed through the bell towers.

Eventually, Erik approached the coast line. He journeyed past the Calanques, a series of narrow fjords carved out of the limestone massif, and turned southwest toward Marseille, with its stretches of beaches and harborage.

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Marseille was a busy port city, a bustling place of industry and manufacturing. It was in this city in 1798 that Napoleon had gathered his troops—38,000 crewmen and 167 scientists—for a mission that was to unveil Egypt's mysteries. Once the Barbary pirates had been eliminated in the 1830s, maritime trade had opened with northern Africa, mainly Algiers, and this had help raise the prosperity of the city. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 had only increased the wealth of Marseille. Marseille's importance was reflected in many of its monuments, such as the obelisk, originally from Luxor in Egypt and now at the Palace of Mazargues, the Porte d'Aix, a triumphal arch marking the old entry point to the city on the road from Aix-en-Provence, and the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, high atop the signal hill, its statue of Our Lady looking down upon all of the city.

Erik avoided the higher class parts of the city, and instead rented a room near the Vieux Port, the Old Port, above a seedy-looking tavern. Here, near the old port, shabby characters were not out of the ordinary. It was the perfect place to hide in plain site. He made several inquiries for the Venture, but found that she was not due back for another month. So he found work as a stevedore, turning up at the docks in the morning, almost always finding someone willing to employ him for the day.

He considered where he would go. That is, if he actually signed on as a member of the Venture's crew. His thoughts kept taking him back to the Middle East, and if he had been a believer in signs, he might have taken more notice to portents that kept pointing east—a visit to a used book stall where he spied a book about Egypt, or a poster from a production of Verdi's Aida that fluttered by in the wind.

When Englehorn and the Venture finally put into port, Erik already had a good idea where he wanted to go.

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"Imbécile!" the man on deck shouted, waving a piece of paper in his hand. "Dummkopf!Arschloch!"

Erik looked up and saw Jacob Engelhorn frantically pace to and fro on the deck of the Venture. He had been checking out the Venture ever since she put into harbor, learning who the crewmembers were, and making sure he got work with the other stevedores handling the goods on this ship. They'd spent the better part of yesterday working the pulleys and wenches to unload the goods brought back from Northern Africa—baskets, rugs, pottery, dates, grains, fruits, vegetables, brass and copper goods, olives, and wool. Today, they were lashing together the parcels of goods the teamsters had been bringing throughout the day and waiting on the docks to be loaded—casks of wines and liqueurs, silks, other textiles, and an assortment of unmarked crates.

Erik had spoken to the first mate earlier that day, an American named Driscoll, and expressed an interest in the ship's intinerary.

"We don't follow any particular schedule, but usually go to Algeria, Libya and Egypt before returning to Marseille," Driscoll explained. When he asked why the interest, Erik mentioned he'd been thinking of hiring onto a ship like the Venture. Driscoll said he'd keep him in mind should there be a need for a new crewman.

Right now, Erik watched as the first mate stood out of the captain's way, amazed at the man's ability to swear fluently in both French and English.

"What is it this time?" Driscoll finally asked, once Englehorn paused to take a breath.

The wiry captain ceased his pacing and waved the paper in his mate's face. "Can't you read?"

"Not when you do that."

The captain gave a snort of disgust and handed the note to the mate. "It's from that schweinhund Benoit, wanting me to bail his ass out of jail. Seems he went and got himself drunk last night. Started a brawl over at that whorehouse he's always talking about and got thrown in the hoosegow." He began pacing again.

"The what-gow?"

"Was ist los?" Englehorn growled. "What don't you understand? Hoosegow. Jail."

"Why is this a problem?"

"Because this leaves me shorthanded, and I can't wait for that arschgesicht to get out. Gott im Himmel! I've got a schedule to meet and cargo to move!"

The first mate nodded towards the stevedores working on the docks below and gave Erik a nod. "Why not hire one of them? I betcha good money at least one of 'em would be interested in sailing with us."

"We don't know anything about any of them. What makes you think we can trust any of them?"

"What made you think you could trust Benoit?"

Englehorn nodded. "Good point."

They walked over to the railing, scanning the dockworkers. "That one's been asking about the Venture."

"He has? Did he say why?"

"Said somebody named Theudebert told him to look you up."

"That ugly cuss?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Erik's mouth. He'd been called much worse in his life.

"This might work out after all." He shouted down to Erik. "Hey, you! My mate here tells me you've been asking about signing on, that my old friend Theudebert sent you my way. Turns out, I'm short a crewmember. The work's hard and we'll be at sea for several months, but the pay's good. You interested or not?"

Erik set aside the load he was carrying and stepped closer to the Venture. "I might be. Your first mate tells me you're sailing to Africa. That true?"

"Ja, we'll be stopping at ports in Algeria, Libya and Egypt."

His mind was already made up, but Erik made a show of considering the offer. "Anything else I need to know, other than how to do a day's work?"

"Nein." Englehorn invited Erik aboard the Venture. The two men discussed pay, and an agreement was quickly reached. "You got family, maybe a lady in town you need to say good-bye to?"

"No, no attachments."

"Das ist gut. Any other questions?" Erik shook his head no. The captain laughed. "Good man. The fewer the questions, the better for all involved. Report here tonight at six. We leave tomorrow at dawn."

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