OH MARSEILLES, MARSEILLES!

I don't know how it came about but the name of the French city of Marseilles is usually associated with the castle of If and the Count of Monte Cristo. But until you go and see the city…

The legend of Marseilles

It lies among tall hills around an old bay, and from above it looks like a page of a ruled exercise book: the residential areas are intersected rigidly by the straight lines of streets and avenues, most of which lead down to the Old Port.

The people of Marseilles say that the history of their city can be traced back to ancient times, so ancient that the first settlements here have been linked with the Bronze Age, i.e. 2,000 years BC! The woods surrounding these hills are abundant in deer and wild boar, numerous springs sprung up here and, of course, people were happy to settle in these parts. However, the founding of Marseilles is associated with 600 BC and a beautiful legend of love. A Greek expedition, led by the military commander Protis, set off in search of new lands. In the south-east they found a picturesque spot and moored in a bay surrounded by hills. This was Massalia, which belonged to the Ligurians. To win the friendship of the king of this tribe, the Greek accepted an invitation and set off on a courtesy visit. However, the stranger was not aware at that moment how kindly his stars were disposed towards him! It turned out that during the banquet the king's daughter had to choose a husband for herself. Her choice fell on Protis and it was he to whom the king's daughter handed a cup full of water. The guest, having become a son-in-law, was given land by his father-in-law to build a city. The Greek was not a lazy man and soon, thanks to his energy and its favourable geographical position, Marseilles became a large and important city. 

The main source of wealth was trade and fishing. But the Greek would not have been a Greek if he did not teach the Ligurians how to tend their olive trees and make high-quality wine. However, since its romantic beginnings up to the present day Marseilles has gone through a great deal: numerous wars, friendship with Rome and the times of republican rule and the minting of its own coins and annexation to the Anjou and later the French kingdoms, the plague, the revolution at the end of the 18th century, the Second World War… Incidentally, it was here that the "Marseillaise", which is known all over the world, was born. A battalion of voluntary patriots, who set off from Marseilles to Paris, sang the song composed by Rouget de Lisle for the Army of the Rhine. The song, and then the hymn, became known as "La Marseillaise".

Enigmatic Marseilles

Marseilles today is an eclectic mix of many centuries, not just in the artistic but also in the social sense. The port city was populated mainly by traders. The wealthy bourgeoisie made sure that private houses and municipal buildings were, by and large, well constructed, so they have none of the floridity and pretentiousness of Parisian architecture. But they also have a kind of solidity and reliability.

What is it that draws tourists to this city today? It's not obvious straightaway. At first, it doesn't create any impression at all - it's grey, sombre and somehow not very homely. The wind from the backstreets blows plastic bags and pages of newspapers, destroying the illusion of a squeaky-clean Europe. And you start to get annoyed with those who spoke so enthusiastically of Marseilles when they visited it. Not to mention the writers, like Alexandre Dumas, who have immortalized the city a hundred times in their books!

I want to leave this drab greyness and go back to Paris: to the Champs-Elysees, Montmartre, the Tuileries Garden…to the architectural grandiloquence of the residential quarters. But one early Sunday morning I am suddenly woken by strange sounds, rather like shrieks. They turn out to be seagulls: the sea is quite close. Here is the quay of the Old Port. The smell of freshly caught sea fish is not at all like the aroma of Chanel. It occurs to me that there is no way you could get through here most of the day: I had this picture of traders' stands in a market. But two hours' later not a trace remains of fishermen having been here trading their own catch! Small tables are put up covered with thick, waterproof cellophane, and then the fish are laid out from special tanks. There are huge shrimps and fish that look like herring and perch. As well as familiar species, there are exotic ones, too. And knowing the passion of the French for a 

fish stew called Bouillabaisse, for some reason I keep thinking: do they put this terrifying looking fish into their famous stew or not? However, when you try it (it costs 16 and a half euros!), you don't think about it anymore. It really is incredibly tasty. Besides, French food doesn't leave you with a heavy feeling in your stomach. I wonder why this is? It must be the seasoning… 

My attention is drawn to an elderly woman who puts on a plastic glove, meticulously examines the fish and quietly asks the dealer questions. This goes on for quite some time and I wait for the fishmonger to lose his patience and fly off the handle. But nothing of the kind happens. There is no hustling and arguing. Everything is quick, smooth and businesslike as usual. The owners and chefs from the restaurants close by, of which there are a great many, buy their fish for dinner. A few tourists watch all this with fascination. And only the seagulls, practically over our heads, constantly bicker with one another, probably considering the possibilities of easy meat. I raise my head and they seem to be just at arms' length. Their taut, white breasts, the springy frequent beat of their wings and even their tiny black eyes are so visible that I want to reach out and touch them. I've never seen anything like it. It seems the sky consists of nothing but these vociferous birds who, goodness knows how, as they circle above our heads with such intensity, contrive not to crash into one another. It is such a fascinating spectacle that you can't take your eyes off it. You don't want them to fly away. And you suddenly get a feeling like the pain of a relative and friend. It's as if you are back home in Baku. And this feeling will crop up more than once, but then you realize why everyone who comes to this city cries: "Oh, Marseilles!" and at the same time their smile is so enigmatic - their look changes, going back to memories which belong only to them.

The wonders of Marseilles

Oh, Marseilles! - and one is reminded of these seagulls, the small road train taking tourists along the narrow streets up to the Notre Dame de la Garde and the cafes and restaurants on the embankment which have strict opening hours: 0900 to 1500, and 1900 to 2200. The restaurants there are not places where you meet and have a chat like ours, they are places where you eat. Pragmatic Europe knows that time means money. We like to combine the pleasant with the even more pleasant. And we happily indulge in gourmet delights, mingled with casual conversation.

The bay of the Old Port cuts into the heart of the city forming a modest square surrounded on all sides by attractive houses and the masts of a plethora of yachts.  Heavy-tonnage freighters can no longer enter this harbour. The authorities decided that they would destroy this jewel of a city (that is what they call the Old Port!), even though the bed of the harbour is dredged every year and the harbour basin is maintained in an environmentally friendly state. That is why only the ferries taking tourists to the forts of Saint Jean and Saint Nicholas and the Castle of If and small yachts are allowed to use it. It really is stunning: the plethora of masts reaching up to the sky against a background of colourful houses blends beautifully into the tableau of this part of the Old Port and sets off the white and blue of the aft against the changing colours of the surrounding landscape.

As you leave port, the Marseilles estuary is protected by three small islands. On the smallest of these is the Castle of If, which has been an historical monument since 1926. Built in the fifteenth century as a defensive construction, it was turned into a state prison in the sixteenth. Its first prisoner was Chevalier Anselm, who was accused of plotting to overthrow the monarchy. Then came the brother of the Polish king. Even "young people from good families", who had received a "sealed letter" (a letter bearing the king's seal with an order of imprisonment without trial) quite often served time here. 

But it was the Count of Monte Cristo who brought world fame to the castle. The wardens at the fortress claim that this is not a fable but a true story. And they show us the cell where the celebrated prisoner was confined. They even show us the path dug between the cells! We tried to figure out for ourselves the place from where bodies were thrown into the sea, but one doubts that anyone could survive such a drop. But don't miracles happen? One likes to believe they do. Just as one wants to believe that Edmund Dantes was a real person and that he was the only escaper who managed to survive.

There is nothing particularly attractive about the architecture of the castle, which was built as a defensive construction. It is said that even in the old days no-one attacked the fortress because of its unattractive and terrifying appearance. The highest tower - of Saint Christophe - is 22m high and situated in the north-west. It is an excellent viewing area for tourists. From the top there is a fantastic view of the sea, the forts of St. Joan and St. Nicholas, and the city. And on a sunny day, if it's not too hazy, there opens up a panorama of Marseilles and its architectural wonder, the basilica of Notre Dame de la Garde. The temple, in the form of an elongated rectangle with two oblong rows of columns within, separating the area into three compartments (which were architecturally improved right up to the second half of the 19th century), was once conceived by a hermit, Master Peter, as a watch-tower. That is why it is situated on the highest point of the soaring hill in Marseilles. From here there is a splendid view of the Old Port and the Marseilles estuary and the city itself, laid out like the palm of your hand, or rather its roofs.

A feeling of kinship

However, all this is an architectural, or cinematic, but absolutely attractive story in its own right. Just a glance is all one needs to be aware of this. The almost 10-metre high statue of the Madonna, weighing 4,500 kg, crowns the basilica. They say that 29,400 gold leaves were used during its reconstruction and that is why it always glistens in the rays of the rising and setting sun. Under its gaze the city sleeps peacefully, uniting under its roofs thousands of new visitors who have found a home for themselves. Here Marseilles resembles the Baku of quite recent past. And you sense this elusive community spirit and a kind of kinship when you look at the seagulls in the port shrieking overhead. Does that seem strange? Yes, there are some amazing things we don't understand and for which have no explanation. 

However, you won't find the answer even to a much easier question which arises when we see the Church of St. Vincent de Paul. How did this Gothic extravaganza with its two crowning steeples suddenly find its way here, among such solid bourgeois architecture? Soaring above the roofs of houses they can be seen from the shores of the bay of the Old Port. If you stand with your back to it you can get a perspective of the street of La Canebiere, although in Baku it would be called an avenue. It is about a kilometre long. Starting from the foot of the temple, it links it with the bay of the Old Port. A walk along this street is particularly pleasant during the flower market and in the run up to Christmas when the Santons Fair (Christmas figurines) is on. All this is very beautiful and creates a mood of joyous expectation of something good. As you wander around the market stalls with their Christmas goodies you think…about the first wave of ?migr?s, Lisa Tuganova, an Ossetian from Baku and the wife of Murtuza Mukhtarov, traces of whom have been lost somewhere here in Marseilles. One would love to find these traces somehow.  But how, and why? It's anyone's guess. Perhaps it will be a reason to come back here - to Marseilles, the city whose name now sounds wistful when you spell it out: "Oh, Marseilles!" And one smiles enigmatically. After all, it sounds like a man's name. Incidentally, if you shift the stress to the first syllable we get a word [marsel in Russian] which means a topsail on a boat situated above the lower mainsail. Honestly, there is something in this. Just as there is in the city itself, which now resembles a sailing ship with its sails blowing in the wind…