A Priest with a Dark Past

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;When I was first invited to Paris, I refused—imagine that…
But it wasn't because I didn't want to go. "There are different ways of 'wanting to go to Paris,'" as Mikhail Veller once said.
It is hard to dream of the impossible. It’s like dreaming of flying into space—what’s the point!
As a result, when Shurik and I were invited to France back in 1998, I simply found myself unprepared for it. I didn’t believe it was real, so just to be safe, I said "no."
Fortunately, our friends from the Emmanuel Community proved to be persistent.
;"Emmanuel" translates to "God with us."
This is the name of an international Catholic community that includes not only priests but also single consecrated laypeople and married couples.
In the community, it is customary not just to attend church on Sundays, but also to gather during the week at people's homes in small groups called maisonn;es—to pray for one another and to sing special community songs.
To a traditional believer, the style of a charismatic community might seem somewhat extravagant: here, they pray "in tongues" and make yourself-at-home use of all the gifts of the Holy Spirit—the gift of prophecy, the gift of healing, the gift of tongues. The community's headquarters is located in Paris, but not in a building... it's on a ship. Yes, indeed, on a real ship, though it doesn't sail; it is permanently moored on the River Seine in the very heart of Paris.
It seems that in this community, the gravest sin is ordinariness.
We were convinced of this by a documentary film we watched back in Russia, having no inkling that we would one day see it all with our own eyes.
…In that movie, we particularly liked a segment featuring a Christian caf; on Place Pigalle.
Yes, right there, in the seediest red-light district of Paris, on Montmartre, right among the brothels and sex shops, the Emmanuel Community had opened a caf;. And the waiters working there were actual priests. And what priests they were!
On the screen, a slender, blue-eyed handsome man wearing a gray uniform shirt with a Roman collar—so that no one would have any doubts about his priesthood—was smilingly serving customers behind the bar and then bringing wine to patrons at the tables.
As it was explained to us, the Christian purpose here was that these sommeliers in clerical collars had a unique opportunity to converse with people. Meanwhile, on the second floor, community members prayed continuously, not only for the patrons of the Emmanuel Caf; but for everyone whom providence had tossed into the most depraved district of Paris.
I remember we were highly amused by this unconventional method of evangelization.
“We wouldn’t mind undergoing catechism in a caf; like that either!” we giggled, cynical Siberian Catholics that we were.
;…Our little Russian community of eight people—four married couples—was already in Moscow, standing by the walls of the French embassy.
The Izranovs, who had flown in from Siberia ahead of time and had already secured visas for everyone, were handing out our passports with their beautiful, iridescent stamps. "Paris" was gradually materializing.
"It didn’t turn out to be that simple," Volodya reported. "They had a lot of different questions for us."
"But didn't Patrick say that a friend of his, a community member, works at the embassy and there wouldn't be any problems?" Natasha asked in surprise.
"She was the very one asking the hardest questions. For instance, she asked, 'Are you familiar with the person who sent you the invitations to France? Do you even realize who it is?'"
"And what did you tell her?"
"I said he was our spiritual brother," Volodya smiled smugly, proud of his resourcefulness: he hadn’t exactly lied, but he had dodged a direct answer.
"By the way, who is this darling who was kind enough to invite us?" I asked.
"All I know is that his last name is Bordeaux."
"Are you joking? Bordeaux is a wine!"
Volodya unfolded the paperwork and pointed to the name:
"Here, read it yourself!"
"Yes, that's correct: his name is Bordeaux," Kotov assured us. He was the most fluent French speaker among us.
That’s what it means to be born in Akademgorodok—they teach you French from childhood there.
;What do we know about Bordeaux? It’s a city in Gascony, the homeland of D’Artagnan, and also home to Griboyedov’s "little Frenchman from Bordeaux," who "straining his chest, gathered a sort of council around himself."
But to the rest of the world, Bordeaux is the personification of wine.
They say that the Romans introduced this drink to the local inhabitants in the first century BC. After that, the locals enthusiastically threw themselves into cultivating vineyards, as one couldn't imagine a climate more favorable for the endeavor than that of Bordeaux.
The local winemaking reached a global scale in the 12th century, following the wedding of Eleanor of Aquitaine and the future King of England, Henry Plantagenet. The red wines of Bordeaux ("clarets") began to be exported to Britain for the Christmas holidays.
The red wines of Bordeaux are born from the Merlot and Cabernet grape varieties. Although white Bordeaux does exist, it is the red "Bordeaux" that is so popular it even gave its name to the color burgundy in Russian.
And we had also heard that more than a quarter of the total volume of French wine production is grown right here.
But that's not what this is about right now.
;…And so, we were in Paris. I wanted to pinch myself.
"…Wow, look at all the foreign cars they have!" Gosha marveled.
"…Can you believe it, they called me 'Madame'!" Zhenya rejoiced.
She had parked in a forbidden spot, and a security guard addressed her: "Madame, could you please park elsewhere?"
"…Check it out, they wash the sidewalks with shampoo!"
Oh, the many wondrous discoveries awaiting us…
"It would be nice to meet this Monsieur Bordeaux, our wine namesake, our good genius," I remarked.
"But that was the priest who drove us from the station," they explained to me.
"Ah, what a pity, I didn't pay attention," I lamented.
"Don't worry, Marise said this Bordeaux is coming to meet with us in a few days. By the way, you’ve already seen him in the movie. He was the one pouring wine on Montmartre!"
"Really?! That was him? Well, how about that…"
;The Emmanuel Spiritual Center is located in the small town of Paray-le-Monial. That was where our meeting with the namesake of the Red Wine took place.
As usual, we all received our packed dry rations at the distribution point, but we chose not to have lunch in the communal tent.
Marise led us to a green lawn, and we settled on the grass with our food, like a picnic. A proper Renoir painting, in living color!
This was where this mysterious "little Frenchman from Bordeaux," D'Artagnan's compatriot, tracked us down.
Compared to his cinematic image, he had aged slightly, yet he was still handsome—perhaps even too handsome for a priest: the aristocratic, sharp features of a dark-complexioned face; a certain masculine allure that contrasted strangely with his white Roman collar; and large, striking sky-blue eyes that commanded attention.
He immediately announced that he had come, in the favorite phrasing of the community, to give us his testimony of faith. The belief goes: if Jesus is active in your life, share it with others.
"I was born into a very wealthy family in Bordeaux," the blue-eyed priest began his life story. "My ancestors have been engaged in winemaking and the wine trade for generations…"
"So it's your family that produces Bordeaux wine?! That's where the name 'Bordeaux' comes from!"
"Yes, of course," the priest smiled. "It was assumed that in time, I would inherit and head the family business. I began to prepare for the work thoroughly: I deeply studied winemaking, the wine trade, and marketing. After a few years, I knew everything there was to know about winemaking and was an expert in wine varieties. I even felt like I was in my element. Although the Bordeaux family is so wealthy that I didn't have to work at all.
With my money, I could afford any whim. Alas, I cannot say that I led a virtuous life in my youth… It involved not just wine, but also women and casinos. From all this indulgence, I even began to feel a sense of satiety at one point. I started to be drawn to other things—mysterious, unknown things.
Thus, one day a friend of mine took me to see a blind woman who was said to possess the gift of prophecy. I agreed to go out of pure curiosity.
I was immediately struck by the fact that, despite her blindness and poverty, this poor woman looked completely happy, and her face shone with kindness. Stretching out her hand and squeezing mine, she suddenly said: 'Why are you not following your calling? Why are you wasting your time in vain? Enough, you've had your fun. Drop everything and become a priest!'
I was stunned. Could it be?.. And why not!
Without a second thought, I made the decision to radically change my life. I got into my private plane and flew to the Vatican to see the Pope.
However, to my indignation, the Pope did not want to grant me an audience. I was offended: How can this be? I'm about to take holy orders, I've already flown here! Everyone should be meeting me halfway, and here I am simply being ignored.
In the heat of the moment, I wanted to return to my old life and forget about my noble impulse, but then I remembered the words of the clairvoyant. I decided that, to spite everyone, I would get my way and become a priest.
To begin with, I entered a monastery. Mind you, I arrived there in a luxury car, arrogant and expensively dressed. Of course, in the monastery, things were far from sweet for a spoiled rich man like me. But in due time, as required, I took the vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity.
I have been a priest for many years now, serving the people.
I am no longer involved in winemaking, and the family wine business no longer belongs to me. Yet I am very happy—much happier than when I was a wealthy fool," thus concluded the stunning testimony of the blue-eyed man with the famous surname and the unbelievable destiny.
;After the spiritual exercises, we spent three whole days roaming around Paris.
Naturally, we headed straight for Place Pigalle. There it was—the legendary red windmill towering above the world-famous cabaret, the Moulin Rouge.
In an alleyway, we spotted a real, live French prostitute. Dark-haired, wearing a miniskirt and black stockings, she stood leaning against a stone wall with one leg propped up high. Drawing closer, we saw that her long dyed locks looked unnatural, her makeup was harsh, and the lady was no longer young, possessing a plain, horse-like face.
Shocked by the discovery, we quietly, almost on tiptoe, slipped past. Finding his tongue, Shurik muttered:
"Well, if someone paid me a hundred francs—no, two hundred—I might just kiss her…"
It seemed this woman was just as much a piece of folklore as the living statues. No one had been picking up women for pleasure off the streets for a long time. Look at how many fashionable brothels there were around the "red-light square"—you could walk into any of them, flip through a portfolio, pick a photograph, and sign up with the pimp. And between these establishments were sex shops, with gigantic phalluses in the display windows.
Whoa—tucked right between two phalluses was a statue of the Virgin Mary behind glass! What kind of illusion was this…
Why, that was the very same Emmanuel Caf; we had seen in the movie about the community! The one where Father Bordeaux worked! Ah, what a shame that on a Sunday, the caf; was closed. And how we would have loved to try some red French Bordeaux wine straight from the source!
And suddenly, I realized whose progressive idea it had been to establish a Christian caf; on Place Pigalle…
The idea belonged to the one who, in his own time, had known its atmosphere of vice and ostentatious luxury only too well. Yes, I imagine Father Bordeaux has plenty to say to the people of Montmartre…